Really?

I don't know. Maybe I need to watch it a few more times over the years before I pass judgement. I mean, it took awhile for Hudsucker Proxy to really work for me. But seriously? No Country for Old Men was the best picture this year? There had to be one better than that. I guess the speech at the end about the dream where the Sheriff's father goes on ahead and lights a fire in the cold and the dark, it was probably supposed to be meaningful and tie it all together. It seemed like a lot of pointless deaths to me. Did they decide the story would be for Llewelyn to strike Anton down and escape with the money, with the Sheriff maybe catching up with him and letting him go, letting the good guy get away with one to balance out all the times the bad guys get away? So they decided instead to make the anti-story? Or something? I don't get it. Somebody, please, make like Lucy and do some 'splainin'.

Ah, Kids

I worked two events today. For the first one, I guarded access to an off-limits area that no one tried to enter. I stood in a dusty, low traffic area with a cold breeze blowing down my neck for 4 1/2 hours. It kind of sucked, except for the one four- or five-year-old kid who was beyond thrilled to return my "Hook 'Em" sign when I flashed it at him. By the way, did you know that this sign proves that the entire Bush family are Satanists? Now you know.

For the second event I guarded a piece of equipment that I thought no one would try to touch. To my delight, near the end of the event, a nine- or ten-year-old boy touched it. I got to scare the crap out of him. Because of all the noise, he didn't hear me come up behind him. I didn't yell. I didn't threaten. I simply said, "Don't touch that, please." He jumped out of his skin. And he stopped touching it. And he didn't come back to touch it again. It was quite satisfying.

And Jason Dick was in my section. Pretty sure. He had a black wedding ring. Looked just like him, anyway. And two of the suit-wearing event sponsors came and shook his hand and asked him if the seats were okay. They don't usually do that for your average local pseudo-celebrity look-a-like, so it must've been him. And the black wedding ring. Who gets a black wedding ring? I'm not sure if I'll label this as a Brush with Greatness or not. I mean, he's a local radio D.J. That barely counts as famous, right? But he is drive time, you've got to give him that. And morning drive time. He doesn't exude greatness, though.

The best part of the evening was at the end of the night, when the fans were invited down onto the floor to get players' autographs and allow their children to run all over the place and throw footballs around and just generally wear themselves out before the car ride home. I saw Thumper out there on that floor. Thumper as he will look in about 3 1/2 years. His parents didn't look anything like the Mrs. and me, but he was the spittin' image. He was running, up and down, up and down, his still-toddler-chubby cheeks jiggling with the impact of each step. He was as perpendicular to the floor as a telephone pole. He took tiny steps. He pumped his arms furiously. And the way his brow was furrowed in concentration, I could tell he thought he was running faster than any human being had ever run before. I mean, he was practically airborn. I almost wept to see him. But then I snapped back into my black-shirted Security mindset and pretended to be stern.

Fantasy Band

suttonhoo wants to know what 5 musicians I'd want in my dream jam session. The two times I participated in Fantasy Football, I got my ass kicked, so I hope I fare better at Fantasy Band. But my bassist will probably do me like Terrell Owens and get suspended halfway through the season. Bastard.

Anyway, I smart-assed my way through my Twitter response, as I'm wont to do. I gave her this little gem:

Is it me or is the band getting bigger?
Okay.
On trumpet, Peter O'Toole! (just having a little rest between bars...)
On drums.....The Pope!
On baseline, Martina Nav, Nav... She should get married...
And on mic, the lovely....Cher!

Of course, everyone knows that's Max Headroom doing guest vocals on the 12" single of the Art of Noise's "Paranoimia." It's on the blue version of The Best of The Art of Noise. I think it's also on the pink version, but who cares? Screw the pink version. I mean, leaving off "Moments in Love" is a travesty. That's some bullshit right there. The pink version doesn't deserve to lick the blue version's boots.

Wait, what was I talking about again? Oh, yeah. My Fantasy Band. Well, OK, I'll pick my players, but I'm not tracking it through the season. It causes me too much stress, watching the stats and making substitutions, then finding out I should've kept my original musician because as soon as I bench him, he has a breakout session and... Ah, well. I'm bitter. Let's move on.

First, on bass: Flea. Or maybe John Norwood Fischer. Yes, definitely Fischer. He's slightly more obscure, and therefore cooler.

Next, on guitar, either David Gilmour, or the dude from Rage Against the Machine whose name I can't remember. They both have unmistakable styles that, even when they're playing on crappy solo projects or with that god-awful Chris Cornell, you can still tell it's them. No doubt. I guess I'll go with the Rage Against the Machine dude. He rocks out harder.

On drums, I guess it'd have to be Keith Moon. Or John Bonham. Probably John Bonham. Everybody knows the drummer is the coolest guy in the band, so you definitely need either the one who OD'd on the drug he was taking to help curtail his drinking or the one who drowned in his own boozy vomit. There's nothing cooler than a belligerent alcoholic.

On keyboards, either one of those Norwegian dudes from Röyksopp, because Melody A.M. is so cool, I don't even mind that "Remind Me" is a Geico caveman commercial.

For vocals, I'm not sure. I'm thinking M. Doughty, back before he became Mike Doughty, but I think it's just because he's been on my mind lately. Maybe James Hetfield. Maybe I'm torn between these two because I like singers who throw an extra syllable at the end of as many words as possible. I don't know. I'll get back to you on that one.

Unvoiced Bilabial Plosives

Twitter's kind of fun, but it's probably better for people who live beautiful, artistic, fascinating lives, like suttonhoo and martingruner. And for people who have text-friendly phones and text-friendly cellular plans. Does anyone want hour-by-hour snapshots into the life of a guy who spends much of his time in contemplation of the poop, the pee, and the puke? I ponder the color, the texture, the consistency, in all its variegated glory. For instance:

Was the cat pee on the carpet a dark enough orangey color to indicate possible blood in the urine and therefore yet another bladder infection?

How can the baby poop out neat little brown balls of clay that fall cleanly out of the diaper and into the toilet, and then a mere two hours later fill his diaper with a wet, sticky, multi-colored extravaganza that takes me fifteen minutes to clean up?

Could I have guessed a year-and-a-half ago, when Pops and I screened in the back deck, that the best part of the kitties spending so much time out there is that it catches most of the puke? Trex is much more stain-resistant than beige carpet.

Speaking of beige carpet, when I see that the boy's spit up somewhere because he has it on his chin and the front of his onesie, how is it that I can search and search and search for beige puke on a beige carpet without finding it, but a half-hour later when I walk barefoot across that same carpet, I'll unerringly step right in it?

Somehow it doesn't live up to suttonhoo's jet-setting, tours of the Field Museum and catching up with her friend in Singapore, or martingruner's bilingual cross-country skiing. I can only attempt to elevate my philosophical musings by using words like "unvoiced bilabial plosives."

I Could Do This All Day

I know this isn't very exciting, but blame suttonhoo. She selected me as her champion in a wpm joust with her friend martingruner.

Is it just me, or does martingruner look exactly like Daniel Faraday?

298 words

Speedtest

1255 points, so you achieved position 47 of 1361766 on the ranking list

You type 1621 characters per minute
You have 298 correct words and
you have 1 wrong words



That one wrong word is starting to bug me...

These Eyes

I've been trying to figure out what color the boy's eyes are. At first glance, under incandescent or compact flourescent bulbs, they appear to be blue. Not the same blue as mine, but a darker slate gray kind of blue. Until you take him outside in the sunlight or stick him under institutional flourescent tubes. Then a brownish core appears, still surrounded by the dark blue-gray.

This weekend, Pops said they were hazel, and I realized, as I have from time to time in my life, that I have no idea what that means. People say it, and I nod, but what the hell color is hazel, anyway? I would think it's some kind of brown, like hazelnuts. Oh, wait a minute. That's what hazelnuts look like? I thought those were filberts. Then what the hell are filberts? Oh. A filbert is a hazelnut is a filbert. Who knew? I guess filbert coffee wouldn't sell as well as hazelnut.

Wait, what was I talking about again? Oh, yeah. Hazel eyes. Hmmm. I guess they're a sort of greenish, brownish, amberish kind of color? That's not the boy. I guess I'll stick with blue. You know, if I have to fill out any forms or whatever. I don't think there's usually enough space to write, "Kind of bluish-gray, unless you're talking about in sunlight, in which case they have more of a brown core with a bluish-gray mantle."

Do you think I get extra points for metaphoring the boy's eyes into a cross-section of the earth and properly using the geological term "mantle?" To be honest, I looked it up. It's a good thing it's safe to rely on all information you find on the internet. It would take me days to write a post if I had to go to the library.

Sitting Bull

Thumper sat himself up today! I don't know how he did it, because I was... uh... Well, I was trying to beat Mrs. Rodius' score at Soda Pipes while he scooted around on the living room floor and played. There, I said it. I was playing Soda Pipes. But when I looked around, there he was, sitting up and smiling at me. On the hard tile of the entryway. Where if he'd fallen backwards, he would have cracked his skull and died. Because I wasn't watching. Lord, I'm a horrible father. But at least I have the bottom two scores on Arcade Mode now. Hee hee!