Is blogging dead?

It is for me, or so it seems.

It’s been a long time since I seriously sat with the intent of writing a post, be it poetry/prose or the non-writing blog content. For a long time I’ve thought about splitting this blog in two in order to keep those two seemingly different content types apart, mostly out of respect for each audience type.

And then there’s Twitter. And my iPad. And food. And alcohol. And life. And school (again). They all get in the way and take away attention and interest from this. From here. From you.

But honestly, I’d like to reconnect with you. See if we can’t re-light the flame that has seemingly extinguished.

So hello again, again, and probably another again. Here we are: face to face.

What do you think? What do you think about the content split? What are your thoughts?

Who am I kidding… I’m the only one who’s reading this. (Except for you, you’re apparently reading this as well.)

Back on point: is blogging dead? I guess we all face this question at some point or another if we’ve ever associated with blogging in any way. But I think I have the answer:

Blogging dies or lives for each one of us; it never dies as a whole. Blogging dies if you ignore it or don’t partake – it lives so long as you pay attention to it. But, know that so long as one person pays attention to it, it will always be alive.

And at last check of my Google Reader, quite a few people pay attention on one side or the other. So no – blogging is not dead.

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The Decibel Rule (I’ll just say sorry now)

I’m going to talk about the decibel rule. It’s a rule you’re all aware of, but probably haven’t noticed.

You see, the decibel rule comes into play when a speaker, presenter, teacher, or other officiating entity is in front of a crowd and asks the audience to perform a task amongst the group, ie: talking to each other for some stupid reason that no one in the crowd really wants to do or cares about.

What happens then is the officiating entity will let the crowd go on for so long – and this ‘so long’ is measured in one of three ways: counting to him/herself until a set limit is reached, waiting for a timepiece to reach a set limited amount of time, or they will go by the decibel rule.

What, pray tell, is the decibel rule? It’s when the officiating entity hears the crowd grow to such a level of volume that they know, for sure, that it’s time to end the activity.

What have I just done here?

I have rambled on about nothing of value whatsoever. But I’m not sorry for that.

What I’m sorry for is actually posting this for you to read.

So… “sorry.”

And also hello.

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Follow me on Twitter!

If you follow the blog, you should follow the Twitter, because really – my life is that much more exciting than yours. (Not really, but you should still follow the Twitter.)
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Now every day is a vacation day. Good.

I remember like it was yesterday:

One day last April, I walked into Tarzjay with little direction (just made up that spelling, because quite frankly I have no idea how else you would spell it, other than ‘Target’. Stfu.). (Great, now I’ve gone off storyline and the entire flow of this is wrong. I need to start over. *Ahem*)

I remember like it was yesterday:

One day last April, I walked into Tarzjay with little direction, and walked out with freedom.

Freedom from The Man. Freedom from responsibility. Freedom from everything life sucks at.

Dear, friends - I walked out with the v-neck undershirt, and I’ve never felt better.

Long gone are the days of crew-neck undershirts while at work. Long gone are the wantings to rip off my shirt Hulk-style and smash it to bits while screaming loudly.

Long gone is the shackle around my neck.

Hooray, I say. Hooray – hooray – hooray.

I am free… I am free… I am free.

(Now work is more like a non-work day, except that I still have to go into the office, but still do similar things to when it’s a non-work day, per usual. Good.)

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(If you follow the blog, you should follow the Twitter, because really – my life is that much more exciting than yours.)
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An uncommon conversation about a Twitter

Me: do you know what a twitter is?

Him: is this a trick question?

Me: no

Him: you can’t have ‘a twitter’… you can only have ‘a tweet’

Me: But. What is a twitter?

Him: a verb

Me: not a noun?

Him: the noun would be tweet

Me: isn’t twitter a thing?

Him: the website is a thing

Me: do you twitter?

Him: I follow a few people, but that’s about it.

Me: so you twitter

Him: if you run from a chasing lion, does that make you a runner?

Me: it’s safe to say you have some level of twitter.

Him: ok, I’ll accept that.

Me: so you twitter.

Him: I twitter.

Me: you have a level of twitter in your life.

Him: a small level, yes.

Me: but a twitter nonetheless.

Him: quite.

Me: and it’s an official twitter?

Him: as official as a twittered tweet can be twittered.

Me: so you know what a twitter is then?

Him: I do.

Me: and you twitter then.

Him: I twitter. I do not produce tweets.

Him: I partake in the tweets of others.

Me: so you know what a twitter is.

Him: I do.

Me: good.

Me: time for lunch.

Him: Enjoy!

Me: Twitter.

Him: Tweet.

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Follow the feed!
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Eff you, shirt collar!

I think I might be allergic to shirt collars, and I think it’s getting worse each day.

Some days all I want is to rip off my shirt, throw it in the air, kick it down, pick it up, throw it down, stomp on it, rip it, tear it, and move on with my life, happy that I no longer have a shirt collar around my neck.

Some days I think of how this must be some sort of sign that I’m meant to wear other clothing with less restrictive collars and be in a profession where it is suitable to have other options for shirt collars.

I bet you never thought you’d read a blog post about shirt collars – or maybe you have – or maybe you’ve even written your own – or thought the same… either way.

Just thought you should know.

Welcome to my life.

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Annoying 21st century communication

So I’m thinking about trying to stop using “haha” in typed conversation because it’s starting to annoy me. We need to come up with a more better way to express a laugh which does not include the dreaded LOL. (Yes, I said more better. Move on.)

I type “haha” like the rest of you when I laugh at something or find it mildly amusing. The problem is that when I read someone else’s “haha” I actually read it “Ha. Ha.”, meaning, it doesn’t read like a laugh actually sounds. And drawing out a “haha” into “hahahahahahaha” just seems misguided and annoying.

Since all this bothers me, maybe I’ll start a movement onto something better.

How about… “H”… or… {laughing}… or… hmm… you know what? No. No, this isn’t going to work. At all. Fuck.

Way to save the world from annoying parts of 21st century communication, me. Good job.

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Thanks in advance for the Russian Banyas

Dear, Russia –

I hear you have some Banyas. I would like to purchase two (2) of your Banyas for good time at home. Please deliver and install.

Or… please provide Banyas on days 1, 3, 4, 7, and 10 of my trip to your land if and when you provide me with said trip.

Let me know if you need dimensions of my available space.

Thanks in advance,
Me

PS – Still waiting to hear back from you about the open letter I wrote weeks ago. I sure hope you’re not ignoring me on purpose because that’s not cool.

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Detox and the Grid: The Revisiting

I might as well start a new mini-series here around the whole detox thing. If you missed Detox Night 1, here you go. Now, on with the show.

Actually, I’m not sure what to say about Detox Night 2. I spent it sleeping, on the couch, all night actually. So… probably not a lot to say.

Except I ate half a pizza. Though, that wasn’t the reason I slept all night on the couch.

Sometimes I like sleeping on the couch. Changing it up once in a while is good, plus, my couch is comfy.


Ok, so here’s night 3: Slept on couch again because my dog asked nicely. Sleep sucked. Overslept.


Detox Night 4? Fell off the wagon.

Detox Night 5? TV after a night out to dinner. And Night 6 onward? Totally off the wagon. In fact, I can’t even see the wagon.

Clearly this hasn’t worked for me the way I had expected. However, my mind is still working out the details for going off the grid.

More to come about the grid ...someday.

So much for the new series.

Extending whoopee

So we went out for dinner and drinks. I had the worst Mexican food I’ve ever had. This post will not be about that.

This post is about what happened after dinner, after the half-pitcher of margaritas, and after a few drinks at the next place.

Perhaps it was too loud… Perhaps there was too much alcohol... Or perhaps we’re just hard of hearing…

The old man who was clearly drunk decided to stop and say to us as he walked by:

“I don’t know either of you, but he’s extending you whoopee.”

Now, I don’t know how one extends whoopee exactly, and in all honesty I really don’t even know what that means. I’m still pretty confused about it actually.

What I do know is that it’s very odd for a stranger, and old man stranger especially, to approach a couple and say something about extending whoopee in one direction or another. I mean, is “extending whoopee” a common phrase that I’ve somehow missed my entire life?

Can you take back this whoopee once it’s extended?

Can you adjust how far you extend your whoopee?

Is whoopee something you can eat?

Or is it purely ornamental?

I didn’t see any of this so-called whoopee extending anywhere, so I’m definitely lost here.

So v. S – The battle within

Actually no, there should be no “battle within” around whether or not to use ‘So’ or ‘S’ when abbreviating ‘South’ in an address or any other case of short-handing “South”.

None-what-so-ever.

In fact, I can’t think of one time I thought to myself: “gee, I’m troubled because I don’t know which to use: So or S?“

Nor has there been even one instance of me thinking: “yes, I shall put ‘So’ instead of ‘S’ because that is the correct thing to do.”

Not. Once.

In fact, after an extensive search of the internet, I can’t find one good reason for ‘So’ other than it was used sometime in the past. I don’t know how long in the past, but it wasn’t yesterday. Or 5 years ago. Maybe not even 10.

I have two words for everyone who still uses ‘So’:

Time to move on, folks.           Time… to move on.

Face threading – wtf.

I received one of those deal emails recently, for “face threading”. And of course I was all, “wtf, mate?”

My first thought went to some strange Frankenstein action with stitching. Maybe even needles and thread. Or even face transplants. I don’t know.

And then it went to: why would people do something like that? What the hell are they stitching their face to? Is it legal to do such a thing? And why is there a deal for this?

I clearly had no idea what this “face threading” was about, so I looked it up. And what I have to say now is:

Whatthefuckisgoingonintheworld!

You females seriously do this? You have someone tangle up your hairs in a string, get it all nice and knotted… and then yank away???

OVER AND OVER AGAIN?!?!

Fjasdnioqwenio[vnasdjk;faf’spspspsfffth

From detox to off the grid in 3… 2… 1…

I recently decided to undergo detox (detox of the TV to be exact). Of course, this means only the type of TV where you plop down on the couch to aimlessly watch whatever’s on at the time and surf the channels when there’s nothing of interest.

This does not include, however, Netflix or DVR items. That’s just plain crazy…

At the time of writing, it has been exactly one night of detox. It wasn’t too hard, even though I was more or less bored. But probably no more bored had I been watching TV for hours on end.

There are things I’d like to accomplish, and these things take time, time that the TV is eating up, time that I seemingly don’t have. Hence the detox.

Hopefully detox will allow me to do these things. Hopefully I won’t go so far off the reservation that it becomes a slippery slope and next thing you know I’m trying to go off the grid, which, by the way, most definitely crossed my mind during Detox Night 1.

Or maybe that would be fun…

…But not so far off that there’s no internet access, because that also is just plain crazy.

Nor do I want to hunt daily for all my food needs. Or live in a tent fashioned of twigs and leaves for that matter.

While that does sound to be a fun and engaging week-long adventure, it surely isn’t a viable option as far as long-term living arrangements go.


...Clearly I need to think this through before detox is over.

Super what? (Aka: why is everything so super?)

In honor of the recent super moon, I would like to list a few things that are ‘super’ by today’s standards, which, apparently, are a lot of things – few of which are warranted to be ‘super’. Enjoy.

Super moon – Did you happen to see it? Did you notice how much closer it was? Me neither…

Suberbad – I’m still not sure why this is the title of the movie.

Superman – The only alien accepted in today’s society, other than those from The Event.

Super-size – I wish this option would go away.

Super-duper – Yessssssssssss!

Supercharger – Nothing to say here. Move along.

Super Bowl – Too bad the rest of the world doesn’t have football teams American style.

Super Shuttle – Nothing to say here. Move along.

Super 8 – Sometimes this is a good idea. Sometimes it is not.

Supercuts – Sometimes this is a good idea. Sometimes it is not.

Super foods – Gimmick? Perhaps.

Super glue – Tasty. But I don’t remember how tasty, exactly.

Superhero – Is there an supernonhero classification for a super-human-thing-character?

Superintendent – Super guy/gal in charge of stuff.

Super Mario – What happened to you…

Super Nintendo – Too bad you didn’t make it.

Supernova – Awesomeness. (Apparently Word agrees that ‘awesomeness’ a real word. Good.)

Super volcano – Shitguys! We’re all in trouble if this thing goes off.


In conclusion: please, if you’re going to name something, name it something other than ‘super’ – we have enough of those. Thanks.

Is ‘fish & chips’ the ‘Tex-Mex’ of the British Isles?

At some point during dinner on St. Patrick’s Day, I had a thought that fish & chips might be to England and Ireland what Tex-Mex is to America and Mexico.

After a quick search of the internet, my suspicion was validated: fish & chips can be associated with both the UK and Ireland (along with anyplace else the Brits were in the 19th century).

For some reason, up until recently I thought it was purely a British thing. After paying attention to several Irish pub menus, however, I began to think otherwise, and my confidence in its origins began to diminish.

What I had absolutely no inkling of prior to my search of the internet was that ‘fish & chips’ is slightly Jewish as well:

As it turns out (aka: so says The Great Internet), the first fish & chips shop was opened by a Jewish guy way back in the day (1860 in London to be exact, per Wikipedia…).

So, unlike poor Saint Patrick (who was captured by the Irish from his homeland of Britain, enslaved, escaped, and returned to Ireland as a bishop later in life), ‘fish & chips’ had more favorable travels from Britain to Ireland and the rest of the area, and even made it to America.


And what can we learn from this (other than learning this information in and of itself)?

A) It’s easier to enslave food than people?

B) You can’t enslave food at all?

3) It’s more acceptable and moral to enslave a food than it is a person?

9) It ain’t easy being a saint?

x) Don’t let ‘the man’ put you down?

Or

Z) It’s easier for food to emigrate/immigrate than it is for people?

An Ode to Corned Beef

Oh, corned beef, where ever did you get your name?

I understand the beef.
I do not understand the corned.

You rarely ever have corn in your makeup.
Yet, you’re called corned.

Where, oh where, does your name come from?


(I realize that ‘corned’ means ‘cured’. Let me have my fun.)

Oh, Saint Patrick, patron saint of… wait, what?

Oh, Saint Patrick, patron saint of something, purveyor of amateur night, and little-g-god of alcohol lust. You are, and will always be, special to many in this world, and held close to our heart for most of our lives.

We thank you, from the bottom of our hearts, for your willingness to die for our alcohol consumption and our bastardization of the color green.

May you rest in peace. Amen.

Wait, what? That’s not what Pat was about?

Oh… well then… Congrats for being Irish? Or British? Or a Brit capture by the Green team, enslaved, escaped, then returned as a bishop to the Green team’s land by own free will?

Interesting…

Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

What I learned at the mall for 3 hours on a Tuesday night

I spent 3 hours in the mall tonight. I also wrote a step-by-step account of the night. After re-reading I realized it was boring, so now you have the following list - enjoy.


Here are 9 things I learned while spending 3 hours in the mall on a Tuesday night:

1) Not one store sells the pens I like. Nor do any of the stores sell pens that are worthwhile.

2) Also of note - Hallmark sells silver and gold pens of some kind for writing in cards, not for taking notes or writing in a journal... unless you're "unique" like that.

3) Contrary to the intercom lady who told customers to bring up their selections because the bookstore is closing (just before 8 p.m.), it was still open after I left the store and returned to walk through to leave the mall nearly 45 minutes later.

4) When in a bookstore, I do NOT like to sit across from other people who are reading.

5) When in a bookstore, I also do NOT like to sit next to, or behind, other people who are reading.

6) When in a bookstore, I feel like a dog circling the yard over and over as I try to find a suitable place to browse my reading selections with some sort of privacy.

7) There are no clocks in the mall. Anywhere. Not on any wall, anyplace. And when you ask someone for the time, they're likely to not hear you, forcing you into an awkward situation where you have to repeat yourself and risk sounding condescending as you speak louder and slower.

8) Watching strangers flailing around in front of an Xbox video camera game thing while in public is NOT fun whatsoever. Poor kid.

9) Cruising the mall as an adult is NOTHING like it was back in the school days.

It’s clear by now that I’m definitely not alone.

Standing at the back door as I let my dog outside, I noticed something different about the neighbor’s backyard. They don’t usually change things up so it was pretty obvious that something had changed, but I couldn’t immediately put my finger on it.

After a more careful look from across the way, I saw something leaning against the fence which stood higher than the fence itself. And after refocusing, it finally became clear:

My neighbor, on March 5th, after two-plus months of waiting, FINALLY removed a once-live Christmas tree from their house!

…At least mine is fake, 3-foot tall, and sits in a cubby above the fireplace.

…And is not a fire hazard.

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And you thought I was bad…

Today on the drive to work I was behind a car at a traffic light. That’s pretty typical, though. What was unusual was the fact that she (the driver) had at least 3 rolls of Christmas-flavor wrapping paper behind the rear seats under the back window of her car.

Now, you tell me which is more less-than-desirable: her and her chosen wrapping paper container and storage space, or me with my Christmas decorations still up and it’s now March 1st?

If you guessed ‘her and her chosen wrapping paper container and storage space’, you guessed correctly.

Have a good night.

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That’s not water damage… That’s from a swing?

…a sex swing to be exact.

A friend of mine, who shall remain nameless, arrived at his apartment yesterday after work to find that his bed was made. Thinking it was nice of his wife to do so (apparently it’s uncommon in their household for the bed to be made on a regular basis), he didn’t think much of it.

Then he noticed a hole in his ceiling. A square cut-out that he, nor his wife, had done.

They began to wonder. Then they called me to confirm their next move. They then called their apartment management company to find out what was going on and to ensure there wasn’t any nefarious activities while they were gone for the day. No note was left by maintenance personnel, so things obviously seemed strange and most definitely out of place.

After a quick call to the management company and then a call back to me, I learned that a notice had been sent previously which stated that maintenance personnel may come in and fix water damage if they see anything. So there you have it… Case closed.

…But there was no water damage in their ceiling. And his wife didn’t make the bed that morning.

Apparently the maintenance person saw holes in the ceiling which were thought to be water damage and made the bed before cutting the hole.

Actually though?

The holes were drilled previously for the purpose of a sex swing.

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