Spooky.

Google has added Street View for Baltimore, which means if you know where I live, you can see our cars parked in the driveway and some dude jogging out in front of our house.

Posted on November 14, 2008 2:46 PM | link to this entry | comments (0)

My New Boss Sent Me This.

Under the subject line, "Probably the most disturbing thing you'll see all day." More like Month. What could have been going through the heads of these two fine gentlemen? I think it might have gone something like this:

Can't Touch The Mullet: Dude, Let's line our trucks up and take a picture.

White Hat, Pale Skin: Sure, OK.

(Several pictures are taken. Two Silver Bullets are consumed).

CTTM: Dude, Know what would be better? We need to pose in front of the trucks. With our shirts off. You know, to show off our tans.

WHPS: Um, I don't know...

CTTM: What are you, a pussy? Chicks will totally dig this.

WHPS (nervously draining the last of his beer): OK.

(more pictures are taken; two fresh beers are consumed).

CTTM: I got a great idea! Let's take a picture naked. To show off how ripped we are.

WHPS: No way, man.

CTTM: Come on, dude, it will be so totally rad! Like Conan, dude!

WHPS: No way.

CTTM: Dude, take the picture or I will totally beat your ass.

WHPS: OK.

CTTM: This is totally going in Playgirl.

Posted on November 12, 2008 6:35 PM | link to this entry | comments (1)

24 Hours of TV Advertising.

Here's something I've noticed after three weeks' sleepless sampling of basic cable TV fare:

• The 3-6AM lineup is sponsored by infomercials for stock trading, investment scams, and exercise machines.


• The morning news hour is sponsored by erectile dysfunction, male enhancement, and the automotive industry.


• Game shows are propped up by personal injury lawyers and the diet/fitness industry.


• Noon news hour and the early afternoon lineup are paid for by personal injury lawyers and weight loss pills.


• 3PM is owned, of course, by Oprah.


• 4PM through the news hour is sponsored by asbestos lawyers and junk food.


• The 7PM news is leased back to America by Big Pharma and the automotive industry.


• Primetime is anybody's ballgame.


• The 11PM-3PM syndicated police-procedural is brought to you by phone chat lines, local car dealerships, and lousy sold-on-TV products.

It's a good thing you're cute, Finn, 'cause you're kicking Papa's ass.

Posted on October 17, 2008 11:40 AM | link to this entry | comments (3)

Raise The Flag.

This evening I'm watching the Vice-Presidential debate just to see if Biden and Palin live up to their billing. So far Palin is doing a good job parroting the catchphrases she's been spoon-fed the last few weeks.

(9:15) She's trying to get down-home and go back to the convention speech talking points, but she got cut off by time. Biden is doing a good job staying away from attacking her, which I think is a good idea, but I would love for him to stick a pin in her bullshit mayor and governor stories on live TV once and for all.

(9:31) Palin is rambling about climate change, ducking the question completely. She actually said that she thinks the climate change we're experiencing could be nothing more than a naturally occurring event.

(9:37) Biden just made a definitive stand for same-sex unions and property rights, but not marriage. I need to do more research on the actual party planks here.

(9:42) Biden: "We will end the war." Palin: sputtered. She sounds flustered now. She tried to repeat the "Obama cut funding" line for the second time, and Biden nailed her on it again.

(9:49) Palin is trying to define diplomacy, and I'm not quite sure she knows what the fuck she's talking about. Biden just crucified her in his response.

(9:56) I'm sorry. You should be disqualified from consideration as a presidential or a vice-presidential candidate if you say "nu-cu-lar" twice in a sentence. I don't give a shit if Miriam-Webster won't take a stand on it or not.

(10:10) Gag. More Wasila bullshit; more Democrats-will-tax-you bullshit. Biden gave her a little Home Depot in return, which sounded good, but his McCain=Bush shpeil is getting a little old, and she called him on it. Oh, wait, what's this? Talking about Biden's wife as a teacher, she mouthed some platitudes, saying "Her reward is in heaven". That sounded like a rehearsed down-home speech to me. It will win her big points with the PTA and Christians.

(10:21) ZZZZZzzzzzzzzz...

(10:30) It's over, and the talking heads are yammering. My take: No train wreck, which is what I was hoping for; each candidate did pretty well. I'd call it a draw.

Locally, the lawn signs are sprouting all over the 'Ville, and even though our lawn is shaggy, we own some prime real estate for pissing off the local Republicans. I'm looking for something subtle, like a 4'x8' double-sided neon billboard with fireworks, but I'll settle for something a little smaller. How much fun would it be to drop five of these Hebrew rally signs on the lawn? I'd hear no end of people complaining about "Arabic" propaganda, I'm sure. Or I could really fuck with their heads and slap these all over the place...

But seriously, I might get two of these, maybe one of these just to counteract the "Family=man+woman" sticker next door, or even the Catholics for Obama sticker here just to let 'em know the Papists are still alive. I do wish they had one of these in a newborn size so Finn could show the family colors, and find one of the "Mama for Obama" stickers I saw a few weeks ago.

Then again, for $25, the support pack is a good deal too. I may wait until some checks roll in to spend more money, but I think this is a good place to start tomorrow morning.

Posted on October 2, 2008 8:59 PM | link to this entry | comments (2)

Wordle.

Ha! This is fun. Wordle takes the feed from your website or weblog and makes a pretty, customizable font cloud from it.

Posted on August 11, 2008 8:59 PM | link to this entry | comments (0)

Spooky Van.

I've always liked the idea of having a utility van as a means of transport. They're big, they hold a ton of cargo, they're enclosed and secure, and they exist everywhere. They have been in continuous production for decades, and they are still available new from the factory, the design essentially untouched. They remind me of old episodes of S.W.A.T. where the the big black van screeches to a halt and the team jumps out to somersault through windows or rappel down the face of a building as the music swells to a crescendo. And, there's something about having the entire door open while cruising down the freeway that reminds me of doorless Jeeps. I've had several conversations debating the merits of owning and driving a retired UPS van (apparently, this is all but impossible; Grumman Olsen custom-made these vans for the company and all retired vans are disassembled for spare parts) or a GMC StepVan as a work/hauling truck instead of a pickup.

I'd paint mine something harmless-looking, black out the wheels, and make sure the back section was enclosed. Inside, I could have a full workbench, or a mobile welding unit, or a set of bunk beds for travel. Of course, hauling around a wood shop, camping rig, or zombie survival outfit would be expensive on gas; a 6.9 liter diesel at 10mpg makes for an ugly Visa bill.

Which is one possible reason why Mr. Scout and I found a blue stepvan in a junkyard in West Virginia on Saturday.

This one was painted a light blue latex with a house roller, and accented with small pink handprints along the front of the fender. The windows were dirty and covered in old sticker residue, and the wheels were all mismatched retreads. All in all, it was a pretty sketchy vehicle, which made the silver reflective lettering on the outside that much more ironic:

ICE CREAM
CANDY
SODA
WATER

Inside, it was a hundred times more molester than the outside. A mishmash of wooden and wire shelving still held buckets and empty cardboard cartons. One filthy cooler chest sat in the corner, which I avoided opening. a handmade plexiglas window stretched across the back of the van, with a crude square cut out for passing the "merchandise" through. Yes, that's right, in order to buy stuff, small children walked up to the open back doors of the Big Spooky Van, cash in hand, to buy italian ices, bomb pops, cigarettes, pot, or whatever else this kook was selling. And, thankfully, the proprietor accepted both food stamps and Independence cards.

Looking at the dashboard, I was filled with excitement when I spied an electronic gadget stuck to the panel:

That's right, it's an ice cream sound machine! I don't know if it will play the sounds and songs I remember from living in Canton (the "Hello!" song comes immediately to mind), but I decided it was coming with us in any case. A quick snip of dry-rotted wiring with the Leatherman and it was ours. But, looking back on the day, I can't believe I was dumb enough to have left without taking the One True Prize:

The stylized cap on that steering wheel is the fucking bomb. I'm considering making a T-shirt design out of that logo it's so damned cool. Why I didn't take two minutes to pry it out of the cracked plastic I'll never know, but it sure does make for a great picture.

Posted on August 5, 2008 10:11 PM | link to this entry | comments (3)

The New Face Of The State Police

Posted on June 27, 2008 5:00 PM | link to this entry | comments (0)

Monkey Ball.

Dude, how sweet is Super Monkey Ball going to be on my iPhone? I will most certainly pay money for this.

Posted on June 9, 2008 1:38 PM | link to this entry | comments (2)

We Now Return You To Seizure Robots.

Is it just me, or do all the trailers for "Speed Racer" look like extended acid trips? I have no honest desire to see this movie whatsoever. I guess that makes me sound old.

Posted on April 28, 2008 10:24 AM | link to this entry | comments (0)

On Location.

Thanks to Verizon, our phone and DSL at the studio is down yet again. So we are commuting to the local Panera for connectivity yet again. So if you need to get in touch with us, email is probably not the best solution.

Posted on April 8, 2008 11:12 AM | link to this entry | comments (0)

Multiplication.

January 29.
Dear Zygote,
I'm writing this to you so that I'll remember how it felt when the OB showed us a small dark spot on your mother's uterus, centered it, and said, "That's your baby." It was a peculiar sensation somewhere between my stomach, which felt like it was on spin cycle, and my head, which was alternating between happiness and dizziness. I reached for my wife's hand and held it while the doctor printed out some grainy pictures.

We've been working on this particular project for a while now, and when she told me we should look into buying a pregnancy test, I was cautiously optimistic. We'd had several false alarms in the second half of last year, so I wasn't going to get my hopes too high. One Saturday afternoon in January, we shopped for groceries and home supplies, and when we returned home I got lost in my project, obliviously walking past her several times with handfuls of tools intent on breaking something. When I brought her in to look at the progress, I wondered why her eyes were welling, thinking, dirty old wallpaper can't make her this happy. In a rare moment of clarity, I correctly guessed the reason for her emotion, we held each other in the half-demolished doctor's office, and I was caught between waves of joy and stark terror. This is for real.

Today, before the first meeting with our OB, we sat in the waiting room for our appointment, both nervous and lost in our own thoughts. I skimmed Outside magazine, unable to put the sentences together, and held her hand. Inside the exam room, with the lights turned down, I was amazed that a spot five millimeters long could have such a strong effect on me. The doc pointed out the highlights (not much, considering your size) and assured us everything was fine and that our conception date was most likely the one we thought it was.

February 12.
Dear Lima Bean,
We can see your little heart beating clearly in the grainy black and white monitor next to the exam table. I reach for your mother's hand again, and we both are smiling as the doctor takes measurements. I'm not ashamed to say I got choked up as she told us it's looking good, and that we're past the first big hurdle.

February 26.
Dear Kumquat,
That's what we're calling you this week. See, mommy gets these emails every week that talk about what to expect and what's happening and what to look for, and they compare your size to fruits and vegetables. Which is ironic.

At first, the changes were minor, but now we are dealing with the brutal onslaught of morning sickness, which should be renamed monthly sickness. Food—the mere thought of food—seems to have lost all of its appeal; certain things now go by codenames so as not to make your mother's fickle stomach backflip with displeasure. There are days when the subject is completely verboten, and I must simply place some substance, any substance, in front of her and pray it will not turn her stomach. We have tried all the usual cures: Ginger, watermelon, saltines, graham crackers, ice water, etc., etc.

You laugh at these things. Our normal lackadaisical eating schedule has been supplanted by your demands: YOU WILL BRING FOOD EVERY THREE HOURS. I am horrified to find myself in charge of the menu planning, which is sort of like letting a blind man fly a plane: it's only a matter of time before the whole thing becomes a smoking crater in the ground. You'll find out soon enough what a lousy chef your father is. Thankfully, there has only been one time mommy has sent food back to the kitchen, a dark experience involving a bean burrito unknowingly sabotaged with zucchini. You and mommy both don't like zucchini. Bananas and cantaloupe are always welcome on the menu, but when you get tired of these failsafes, we're fucked.

Meanwhile, the trick has been to keep an outward sense of normalcy while we wait for the first trimester to pass while lying to everybody. Sorry, everyone, we're sorry for the subterfuge, avoidance, and outright lies when you've asked how things are going: "Nothing's new here." The truth is, we're both worn out. Your mother's had to beg off from dinner plans due to 'food poisoning' once already, and we're trying to avoid any social occasion that involves alcohol. This has not been 100% successful, especially given our, ahem, well-known love for the grape and grain. You'll find out about that, too. Meanwhile the secret is killing me.

March 11.
Dear Fig,
Today your parents dragged themselves out of bed to be in the city by 7:45 for a more comprehensive checkup at the hospital, a scant two days after the federally mandated joke called Daylight Savings Time. See how much we love you? You'll find out how grumpy we are at six in the morning in a couple of months.

We got some higher-resolution pictures of you from a cheerless technician who jabbed the sensor clear through to mommy's spine, and for the first time we heard the strong, clear whoosh-whoosh-whoosh of your heartbeat, which made me dizzy with pride. You look good! You have a nose, and little arms, and every time the tech bonked you on the head with the sensor you jumped around like a flea. You're a bit larger than a fig, actually—eight centimeters, to be exact. So we want you to know that you're ahead of schedule and to slow down a little. Your neural tube looks good, which is a relief. We talked to the counsellors about our family histories and tried to remember all the aches and pains and diseases that run through our family trees, and then they took about a gallon of your mommy's blood for testing, and then we were done and it was time for a SANDWICH.

Mommy is holding up well, considering you make her feel like throwing up all the time. I'm running out of ideas for dinner, though, so I'd appreciate it if you'd lift the ban on vegetables, chicken, potatoes, salad, and, well, everything else besides cantaloupe, bean burritos and Trader Joe's Ginger Almond & Cashew Granola cereal. Because they can't make enough of that stuff if that's all the two of you can eat.

Lately there's been a lot of talk about subprime mortgages, stagflation, and unemployment. These are all fancy terms for HOLY SHIT THE SKY IS FALLING. They say "timing is everything", and it looks like we've picked a swell time to start our new family. Things are still reasonably OK right now, but I'm hoping the country hasn't devolved to a Road Warrior state of anarchy by the time you're ready to pop out. All of this cheerful banter has daddy laying awake late at night pondering different ways of earning money to feed you. But don't worry, little one. I'll do whatever I've got to do to keep you safe, warm, and happy.

March 18.
Dear Lime,
Today was a huge day for the three of us. We saw the OB this morning to listen to your heartbeat, which always chokes me up, and every time we talk with her I like her better. I hope she's the one who hands you to your mother on your birthday. We started making some calls to my family to give them the good news, and sent your first picture, and I'd like to thank you for the best birthday present EVER.

We've started telling a few people now, which is alternately exciting and tiring. Your grandparents are thrilled, and they're chomping at the bit to spoil you rotten with all kinds of things they never would have dreamed of giving us, their children. Your great-grandfather really couldn't hear us too well, but after the fifth or sixth time shouting "We're having a baby" into the phone, I think he got it. It's this whole complicated thing with his hearing aid and batteries...we'll explain that to you someday. Hopefully you will get to meet him in person, and hopefully he'll be able to hear you.

Mommy would like to thank you for reducing the level of nausea to a dull roar. The past four or five days has been much better on her, and it's good to see the two of you up and moving around. The three of us took a drive to Lancaster this past weekend to peep some furniture at an outlet store, and you both held up surprisingly well. She's now deep in migraine territory though, which means many evenings are spent in a dark, quiet cave awaiting the bliss of sleep. The cats are not happy with the new arrangement, because they are now banished to the basement each evening, following a frightening moment when one of them used your head for a launching pad (sorry about that). And hey! That Which Shall Not Be Named isn't so vomit-inducing anymore! Talking about it is still tricky, and smelling it still isn't acceptable, but she can actually fix some things for herself in the morning, to which I have to say THANK YOU, because suddenly you've decided that you're getting the two of you up at 6:30AM, and I just can't hang with that.

March 23.
Dear Medium Shrimp,
Yeah, I'm sorry you're now being compared to shellfish. I think they could have come up with something more imaginative than an hors d'oeuvre, and my guess is that you're larger than that anyhow. I've never had the pleasure of eating a shrimp bigger than a lime, but I bet it would be good. I'm sure you'll smell better than shrimp, unless it's shrimp with Old Bay. In which case daddy might have to snack on one of your arms with a cold beer. And hey, what's this whole thing about the smell of beer making mommy want to puke her guts out? You're Irish, kid! Beer is the lifeblood of our people! And your father just learned how to brew it for himself. This is a cruel joke, little one.

This weekend, some carefully laid plans to tell your mother's family at Easter dinner were waylaid by an abrupt visit to the emergency room (not you or your mother, so don't worry), but your aunt is now at home and doing fine. We did finally share the good news with them, even if it wasn't quite the way we wanted, which means it's now time to notify the internets. Dear Internets: WE'RE HAVING A BABY.

Posted on March 25, 2008 4:00 PM | link to this entry | comments (2)

I'm Confused.

Perhaps, dear interwebs, you can help me figure this out. And let me just apologize up front if my ignorance offends anyone.

What, exactly, besides sharing a four-year-old girl and four years of marriage, entitles the ex-Mrs. Paul McCartney to $50 million dollars? I don't understand how this rich people divorce thing works, exactly.

According to this CBS News article, the judge ruled that Paul has to provide the daughter $70K US annually. On top of that, he pays for tuition and nanny services. I understand this completely, and were I the judge, I'd probably have upped it a bit to help pay for bombproof round the clock security, given the frequency of nutjobs coming after the Beatles and their families. So the child is taken care of. CNN reported:

Mills said she was unhappy with that amount because it isn't enough for school tuition, private security, or first-class airfare.

From what I read, she has custody of the child. Isn't part of that her responsibility?

Then I read, "Mills had sought almost $250 million", while Paul was offering a $30 million settlement, "including her own assets, which the court assessed at $15.6 million." When is $15 million dollars not enough? And what kind of mental patient believes $250 million is a fair settlement for four years of marriage?

Pardon me for being blunt here, but I don't think she worked for that money. I seem to remember it was Paul doing the world tours, writing the songs, and producing the albums, before he met this woman. It could be that he is a tyrant and a bully and a bastard to live with and be married to, but I kind of doubt it. From what I've read about this, it seems like the ex is coming off as a money-grubbing bitch.

What do you think?

Posted on March 17, 2008 12:41 PM | link to this entry | comments (9)

Mystified.

This commercial has been on for a couple of weeks now, and I am so totally considering paying $45 a head just to go bear witness to the awesomeness that is Shawn Anthony.

It's playing across the street from the Mount Royal Tavern. Jen and I could go there before the show, get bombed, and take in the show.

Or, we could just catch his juggling act at the Ren Faire this summer.

(Check him falling out of the shower at 0:30. Jen laughs every time.)

Posted on January 17, 2008 7:08 PM | link to this entry | comments (2)

How Many Five-Year-Olds?

23

(Update: Sorry if anyone tried to click on the link and got sent to a stupid dating site. Apparently this is the latest in some form of viral linkbaiting. My apologies.)

Posted on December 18, 2007 10:09 AM | link to this entry

Nerd Fart Tag

Nerd fart tag

Posted on December 6, 2007 9:07 PM | link to this entry

Signs The Christmas Apocalypse Is Upon Us.

November 5, 2007: 7:56PM. We saw our first Christmas-based commercial on TV (for a card company hawking a singing snowman on a toboggan).

Let the consumerism commence.

Posted on November 5, 2007 7:42 PM | link to this entry

It Made Sense At The Time.

We were outside yesterday afternoon, putting some spider webbing on the bushes.

Me: "Oh, that's why we've not gotten any mail today."

Jen: "Why, is there something wrong with our mailbox?"

Me: "No. It's because today is a holiday."

Jen: "Do you mean to tell me that the reason we've not gotten mail today is because it's Halloween?"

Me: "Yes. A holiday."

Jen: "Are you serious?"

Me: "We're out here decorating for tonight, aren't we? There's no mail in our mailbox, is there?"

...

...

Jen: "Right. I forgot that the founding fathers set forth that the Federal government must remain closed in honor of Pagan rituals and candy sacrifice on October 31 of every year."

Special thanks to my wife for formatting and writing the first edition of this exchange, and then emailing it to a bunch of people yesterday. I love you, shmoopy.

Posted on November 1, 2007 10:22 AM | link to this entry | comments (1)

Scientific Poll.

Alright, for the four readers of this here weblog, a question: Should I (providing it's still available) buy this $900 project Vespa? I could spend the winter disassembling it, have the metal sandblasted, and get the chrome refinished while I learn how to rebuild the motor. If your answer is yes, what color should it be?

Come on, internets, give me a sign.

Posted on October 26, 2007 9:52 AM | link to this entry | comments (8)

Economics Lesson.

Jen and I belong to a gym in a suburb of Baltimore that's generally a bit higher on the income scale than other areas. We like the gym because it's low-key and quiet during the hours we usually get there, it's not a meat market, and the atmosphere is one of healthy workouts, not Mr. Olympiad pose-off contests. One of the reasons for this is the high percentage of older members—the area is also full of retiree communities—and the other reason is that it's a dual health and rehabilitation facility. However, this skew to the older, more conservative demographic makes it interesting to overhear certain conversations in the locker room (and it's not hard to overhear when most of the participants are deaf).

This morning I was listening to a conversation that had me grinding my teeth for a half an hour afterwards. Two men were discussing our current governor's plan to deal with a 1.7 billion shortfall in the state budget. I'm going to paraphrase here.

Guy #1: O'Malley's going to tax us right out of the state. Did you hear?
Guy #2: Yeah.
Guy #1: Raise the gasoline tax by $.50. Tax health clubs.
Guy #2: Tax all the services.
Guy #1: And then, just wait until Hilary gets in there. It's all going to hell then.
Guy #2: We won't be able to make enough money to survive with all the taxes.
Guy #1: I like those bumper stickers that say, 'Don't blame me, I voted for Erlich.'
Guy #2: (laughs)
Guy #1: ....
Guy #2: I don't know...did you see how much the war is going to cost us? I like Bush, but they're spending too much money. That's not the conservative way.
Guy #1: Well, I'm waiting for Iraq to start paying us back. They've got a ton of oil.
Guy #2: They don't have that much oil.
Guy #1: THey have more oil than they know what to do with.

At this point, I found it hard not to stick my liberal pinko ass into the conversation, so I took a shower. but what I wanted to point out was:

They need to pay us back? Let's break this down for a minute, buddy. Imagine, if you will, that America actually still produced or built something that the rest of the world wanted, like, say, steel. Now let's say the great country of Spain bombed the shit out of us one day, then shipped in a million troops and set up camps all over the place, and then set their sights on getting us to start producing steel again to pay them back for bombing us?

What part of that scenario is hard to understand? We don't own that oil, but we act like we do. A certain percentage of our population apparently feels entitled to it. And that same percentage takes umbrage at the idea of higher gas taxes to pay for social services. Unbelievable.

Posted on October 24, 2007 10:39 AM | link to this entry

Back On The Air.

The mail may not be running today, but the UPS guy dropped off a box this morning at 8:30 that contained our new DSL router, which means we're back online! It took Jen several hours to coax me out from under the stairs, where I'd been growing out my beard, eating by campfire, and carving crude stick figures into the walls with a chunk of rock, but I'm feeling much better now.

It's a good thing, because I was beginning to get real sick of the food at the Panera.

Posted on October 8, 2007 1:18 PM | link to this entry | comments (3)

We're #49, And Still Trying

Apparently, our little 'ville is #49 on Money Magazine's top places to live in 2007. It must be the picturesque Friendly's downtown that tipped the scales. Or, maybe it's the drunks stumbling out of Bar at 9AM. Whatever their criteria, the fact remains: we still don't have a good restaurant within walking distance of the house. (Word has it that the one restaurant that's actually worth a damn has been chasing off other prospective restaurateurs with obscure liquor ordinance rules, something that has soured us on ever ordering crabs from them again.)

I was talking with a client who's in a semi-related field a few weeks ago, and he mentioned the recent implosion of the Baltimore advertising community. He compared this town to New York and DC, and said that we've never fostered a real advertising community here because all the shops in town are founded on a burning hatred of one another. Everyone steals clients from everyone else, the employees bounce from place to place, burn out, and eventually all the firms blow up and reform into other firms.

If that's how it actually is, then they should take a chapter from the bustling restaurant scenes downtown, in Fell's Point, and over in Canton. Having one good restaurant in town is great, until the regular patrons get sick of the menu. Having two restaurants across the street from each other is better, because A. if one is full, people can go to the other, and B. people flock to areas where multiple restaurants are concentrated. We are Americans. We want choices, because we're fickle Wal-Mart shoppers, not Soviet citizens waiting in lines for soap and toilet paper. Look at every homogenized strip mall erected in the last twenty years: there's a mexican chain, a steakhouse chain, and an italian chain. Around them are smaller fast food chains. None of them are hurting; on the contrary, there's a two-hour wait for an overcooked, underflavored slab of meat, and there's only Miller Lite on tap. But there are choices, and that makes us happy.

There is strength in numbers, in both advertising and local restaurants. When an area has enough of one thing to reach a critical mass (quality advertising shops or locally-owned restaurants) then people will start showing up. People will come from the other side of the country and the other side of town to check out the scene. And if the food is good, they'll keep coming back.

Posted on August 22, 2007 8:27 PM | link to this entry | comments (2)

Denial.

I don't care what the weather reports say; I don't believe it's going to be 93° on Saturday.

I'm currently wearing a sweatshirt, long pants, and I'm still cold.

Posted on August 22, 2007 2:31 PM | link to this entry | comments (1)

I is a homeowner...

I keep getting these stupid letters in the mail. I guess they think I'm too dumb to watch the news or something. The idea that "rates are still low" is also pretty laughable considering the interest rate I'm currently at.

Update:

Aug. 16, 2007, 10:09PM
">Countrywide taps credit line for cash

By ALEX VEIGA AP Business Writer
© 2007 The Associated Press

LOS ANGELES — The credit mess forced Countrywide Financial Corp., the nation's largest mortgage lender, to borrow $11.5 billion on Thursday, shocking financial markets already reeling from the growing credit crunch and threatening to make home loans harder to get.

Countrywide said it borrowed the cash from a group of 40 banks so it could keep making home loans....

Posted on August 15, 2007 3:58 PM | link to this entry

You're Spelling Is Bad

That's a Seagate ad, spied in the Towson CompUSA this morning. They make hard drives. You may have heard of them.

Posted on July 23, 2007 11:35 AM | link to this entry | comments (8)

Classy!

I saw this in a parking lot on a way to a client meeting this morning. It's a miniature pole dancer that hangs off a car radio antenna.

Posted on July 10, 2007 9:14 PM | link to this entry

Mr. President? The Clue Phone Is Ringing.

There are some pretty good reasons Why W's approval ratings are in the toilet. This could be one of them.

Seriously, is this shit for real? Me, I wanted to know what happened to a guy named 'Scooter' after getting thrown in the Big House.

Posted on July 2, 2007 6:19 PM | link to this entry

Do The Numbers.

• Number of junk emails received since Friday the 8th: 1,557


• Number of days without our luggage (and toothbrushes, shampoo, deodorant, etc.): 2


• Number of days without being woken to the sound of waves crashing on the beach: 2


• Number of times I wanted the cabana lady to bring me a fresh alcoholic beverage since returning: 17


• Number of LOST episodes viewed since we returned: 4


• Number of tasty Maryland crabs consumed yesterday while watching LOST: 6


• Average Curacao temperature today: 88° (heat index 102°)


• Average Baltimore temperature today: 90°


• Average Curacao water temperature: 82°


• Number of pictures taken in Curacao: 228 (an all-time low record)

Posted on June 18, 2007 10:26 AM | link to this entry

Out With The Trash.

The setting: on line in the local Bank of America lobby. A young woman, between 20-25, pushes a stroller containing a sleepy-looking toddler directly behind me, and places a call on her cellphone.

Hey baby.

Hey, baby.

Where you at?

At the bank. I have to move some money around, see what I have, you know.

I'm in the lobby, on line.

It's nice in here. It's cold.

So how is it in your car? (laughing)

Baby who you talking to?

Baby, who you talking to?

Baby, who you talking to?

(pauses)

So, baby, are you H-O-R-N-E-Y [sic] for me?

I wanted you so bad last night.

I wished I could have come over there and been with you, but I didn't want to get all [indistinct] on you.

At this point, I looked over at Jen, whose eyes were as big as dinner plates, and made the gun-to-my-temple motion as the woman pushed the stroller over to the teller's window.

Hold on, baby.

Hold on, baby.

(to the teller) Yeah, I need to know how much I have in this account?

(into the phone) So, you have to go to the Wal-Mart?

(the teller asks her something from behind four inches of bulletproof glass)

(to the teller) Hold on.

(into the phone) What do you have to get there?

(to the teller) Hold on.

(into the phone) What?

(to the teller) [indistinct]

(into the phone) You should get that at the Wal-Mart, baby. They give you more pills there.

(to the teller) [indistinct]

(into the phone) Yeah, but at the Wal-Mart, they give you ten pills for free.

It was at this point that I left the line and tuned the moron out so I could count my cash and lament the end of cultured, modern Western civilization.

Posted on June 7, 2007 4:24 PM | link to this entry

Oh, really.

Jen noticed this on the back of a hot sauce bottle as we were waiting for dinner last night. This is someone's attempt at a self-promotion that should have been properly thought out.

Posted on May 18, 2007 2:04 PM | link to this entry | comments (3)

Return From The Land of Cheese.

The Lockard Tour Van is back in town after a whirlwind three-night limited engagement to support Annie, who kind of got her diploma Saturday morning, and all I can say is that I'm still tired. Our first stop was Ashland, Ohio, to prepare for the graduation ceremony, and as we loaded up the van we were given our itinerary, typed neatly on a single sheet of paper. To the hour, our schedule was outlined in Times New Roman to keep the caravan on track, and even though it was handy to have, we used it to poke fun at Jen's dad good-naturedly throughout the trip.

Despite some last-minute drama, the graduation went off without a hitch, and even though the threat of rain loomed, it turned out to be a beautiful day. We shared a late lunch with Jen's aunt and then passed out back at the hotel to sleep off the carbohydrates. Before venturing out for a late dinner, we hijacked Jen's father into a visit to the CHEESEBARN, an inexplicably-named highway attraction up the road from our hotel. Unfortunately, the CHEESEBARN was closed and we weren't able to explore its wonders in detail.

However, we did stop for a picture out front.

Then we enjoyed a prolonged tour of the seedier side of Mansfield, OH, looking for somewhere other than a Perkins to eat dinner; the directions given were, shall we say, vague, and it took a while to get oriented until we found an Olive Garden to stop at.

Sunday morning we were under strict orders to be loaded and ready by 8:30, because the day was tightly planned: we were stopping in to visit with Jen's great aunt, who is in a retirement home, and then on to visit her mother's gravesite. Her great aunt is still sharp and funny, and we were presently joined by a group of cousins who helped us take over the entire front room of the facility.

Driving on to the gravesite, we passed fields that had been flooded in January of 2005 (we were some of the last cars allowed in before the state troopers shut the highway down that night), through the sleepy, worn-down town, and up the hill to where her marker sat in bright afternoon sunshine. The family had about ten minutes alone with her before a gaggle of extended family arrived, and then we stood around and caught up with folks we hadn't seen in two years.

And then, it was time to load up the van and get on the road. The trip back was uneventful, apart from everyone in the van (including driver) dozing off after lunch at the Sonic, and we were treated to a tour of the rolling hills of West Virginia and miles of empty countryside until we made it back to town last night. And I'll be damned if Jen's Dad didn't get us home a half-hour ahead of schedule.

Posted on May 14, 2007 9:28 AM | link to this entry

Squid Sauce

Posted on May 6, 2007 5:21 PM | link to this entry

Next Exit

On the way to work this morning, I snapped this shot of a highway overpass sign. I thought it was funny.

Posted on March 27, 2007 6:27 PM | link to this entry

The Score.

The Idiot: 0
Technology: 5

Posted on March 19, 2007 6:40 PM | link to this entry

Possibly the funniest thing I've seen so far this year.

This is oh, so not safe for work, but good goddamn, it's funny. I laughed so hard my stomach hurts.

Posted on March 14, 2007 12:46 PM | link to this entry

On Shiny Things: Automobile Edition.

Would it be completely assinine of me to even consider purchasing this beauty of a vehicle? Something this large, expensive, improbable, unwieldy, and impractical? Because that bumper is about a mile wide, and I'd swear to Dog it's smiling at me.

I need a real garage...

Posted on March 8, 2007 10:24 PM | link to this entry

Swine

Posted on March 3, 2007 4:29 PM | link to this entry

Don't Get Involved.

I'm struggling to figure out what bothers me most about this news item. Go read it and come back.

OK, so you have the basics. Here are my issues.

• I'm troubled by the fact that the cops are charging him for this; this makes me think of the Kitty Genovese story, and the don't get involved mindset many people have in these litigous times. I'm actually kind of happy the guy ran upstairs to see what was going on; as I was telling Jen, I'd probably grab whatever was handy (baseball bat, 2x4, steak knife) and do the same thing myself.


• I'm a little wierded out by the guy, though. His eyeballs in that mugshot say "tweaker", but that could just be me. The fact that he's 39 and living with his mother is a little Norman Bates-ish, too.


• That must have been some kind of pr0n to warrant that kind of response. Usually it's pretty easy to tell by sound what's going on, but the actress must have really been convincing. (is that wrong of me to say?)


• It's kind of sad that the guy who tried to do right gets popped and winds up on CNN, while the guy watching the movie remains "the neighbor". Everyone inside the bustling metropolis of Oconomowoc, Wisconsin probably knows who the guy is, but to the rest of us he is a mystery. (Jen sez they had the guy's name and picture written in that article earlier today, but it's gone now. Hmmm.)


• Antique sword. Lives with Mom. 39 years old. Not clued in on the sounds of a woman in distress/pleasure. Any red flags coming up for anyone else besides me?

Sucks for that guy, to be sure.

Posted on February 22, 2007 10:25 AM | link to this entry

Be My Valentine

'Cause I'm all romantic and shit.

Posted on February 16, 2007 11:12 AM | link to this entry

Feel The Love.

Because we're all about the romance here at Idiot Central, we scheduled the most tender and heartwarming of appointments for this, the special day of love and affection: a tax meeting with our CPA. And because the Sky Pilot is not without a sense of humor and irony, he/she decided to schedule a "wintry mix" of undetermined amount, duration, an consistency, ensuring that every chucklehead with low-profile tires and a fart-can muffler will be out spinning their tires with willful abandon.

Thanks Martha!

Now, normally we are all about the snowdays, choosing to spend them on the couch with a cup of tea and a "Flip This House" marathon, but we've been looking forward to this particular day with a wintry mixture of fear and hope. All large-ticket purchases have been put on indeterminate hold until we find out what we owe The Man, and because the self-employed businessperson's taxes are equal parts logic and santeria, we're a little concerned that we're going to have to auction off some internal organs to pay for 2006.

Jen and I have spent hours compliling our paperwork, and she has hers neatly catalogued on a crisp sheet of business letterhead in a clean folder, while mine are listed in a plain Excel spreadsheet and paper-clipped to a wad of crumpled receipts (infer what you will here about our individual methods of organization.) Our CPA, a cheerful woman who has been wrestling with sorting my personal finances out since my college days, told us to email the relevant info to her and then set up a conference call to get the basic numbers figured out instead of braving the roads. That's service.

Meanwhile, lest you think the Idiot is a thoughtless cad, I made plans for us to see The Baltimore Opera's production of the Bartered Bride in March, which is something Jen's been wanting to do forever. The plot of this opera is a bit convoluted, so we're unclear as to exactly what will be happening, but I was assured we will enjoy a clear view of the translated subtitles—a requirement, as the opera will be performed in Czech. (Nothing says romance like Czech.) We will get dressed up in our finest threads, have an elegant dinner before the show, and enjoy a complimentary glass of champagne at the Brass Elephant after the production. In the meantime, I will be lavishing my bride with homemade grilled cheese sandwiches and warm soup until I can dig out the Jeep and buy her some fresh flowers.

Happy Valentine's Day, baby.

Update: w00t! We're (at least, right now) reasonably sure we don't owe millions to the gub'mint! Thank GOD.

Posted on February 14, 2007 10:27 AM | link to this entry | comments (1)

Jen, listening to her father

We stopped down to Jen's father's house this weekend to install his new DSL modem and get his laptop set up to be on the internets. Afterward, we sat around in the kitchen and swapped stories.

Posted on January 15, 2007 10:52 AM | link to this entry

Unclassified

In order to pay for this nice shiny MacBook, I put my iBook on Craigslist for sale a few weeks ago. Since then, I've had a lot of responses ranging from "I'll come over tonight" to "Can you give me a better offer". This, after the ad clearly stated that my price was firm and fair. I had the usual "Can you ship it to me overseas" bullshit, the "I'll pay for it with a postal money order" bullshit, and the "I'll give you $350 for it," none of which got a response back from me. I got a bunch of nice folks who claimed they were serious, and then they never showed to look at it. I figured it was the holidays intruding on plans, and I guessed that some people may have come up short on cash towards the end of the month.

I hadn't gotten anyone serious enough to actually stop by until New Year's Eve, when a kid with a high-pitched voice set up an appointment to look at it. I asked how he was going to pay, and he cheerfully replied, "cash," which was fine by me. So he shows up at the right time, looks over the machine, and happily says, "OK, I'll take it," and then tries to give me $250 in cash and a checking balance receipt, claiming he couldn't get the money out of an ATM on the holiday, and can he take it and come back and give me the rest?

Get back in your Dad's new Honda and get out of my driveway until you come back with the full amount, hippy. Do people really think that shit works? That because one claims to be a student, I'm going to believe that line of crap? I'm sure your dealer doesn't front you a dime when you're trying to score dope before the Widespread Panic show, does he? Oh, and no, I'm not installing Microsoft Office on it for you for free, Jerry Garcia.

Posted on January 2, 2007 10:10 AM | link to this entry | comments (1)

We're not as drunk as this picture makes it seem

Taken on the roof of R&K's house, Canton, Baltimore. Happy New Year!

Posted on January 1, 2007 1:54 PM | link to this entry

Fun With Babelfish.

So I finally have some decent (well, working) logfile reporting for my personal site, and I spent about 20 minutes going through some of the lists to see who's looking at me. As it turns out, there are five or six people jacking some of my bandwidth (mostly MySpace punks and an MP3blog), but I stumbled across a blog in Spanish which refers to my illustration portfolio. A quick trip to Babelfish and I had a rough translation of the site:

Stupid King. Gotta remember that one.

Posted on December 7, 2006 9:55 PM | link to this entry | comments (2)

Pazo, Aliceanna St., 30 Nov.

Posted on November 30, 2006 11:55 PM | link to this entry

This "Work" is Hard Stuff.

The last two weeks have been pretty stressful and chaotic, with animal sickness, human sickness, travel, holidays, and household projects. I sat down at the computer to get some work done yesterday and I felt, for a period of about five minutes, like an orangutan suddenly placed behind the wheel of an automobile: What is this thing? How did I wind up here? What do I do now? Where is my banana?

Today is no different; in fact, it's been harder than yesterday. I was able to get some time critical stuff out the door yesterday, but after that was done, I was frantically searching for something to occupy my head, which has not been in the work-accomplishing place. My usual internet haunts have not been shiny enough to keep my interest. (I suppose this is also partially due to the fact that I got a series of checks in the mail last week, so the consumer portion of my brain is insistently prodding me to buy stuff. I'm resisting.)

I have work to do—plenty of work, actually. Why can't I get back in the saddle?

Posted on November 28, 2006 4:11 PM | link to this entry

Clap On

Posted on November 20, 2006 12:25 PM | link to this entry | comments (2)

Gym-tastic.

I signed up for a year's membership at the Lifebridge Health Club in Pikesville this morning. It's a big, spacious gym with lots of windows and a ton of different machines, a basketball court and a pool. I've been wanting to do some cardio for a long time to get my ticker back in shape, and because Jen already belongs, we're getting a little bit of a break on the membership. The gym is positioned in an older section of town, next to some retirement communities, so I am barraged in the locker room with as much wrinkly bare old man-bottom as I can try to avoid. It's kind of amazing how free and out there the 55-80-year-old set is with their bodies. I'm the guy with three towels and a pair of boxers scuttling back to my locker, while Abe over here next to me has his junk hanging out all over the bench as he carefully tweezes his nosehair. Clearly, I have a lot to get accustomed to. I also need to invest in some flip-flops for the first time in 20 years to avoid the toe fungus.

(By the way, was I one of the only ones who never had to shower after gym period in high school, or was that pretty much over and done with for everyone else too? No wonder high school was such a dry period for me.)

In other news, Penn the Terror is sick with some kind of bottom-problem. He's a shadow of his former self, down from 15 lbs. to a sickly 11 in the space of two months. Just when we'd gotten him calmed down, groomed correctly and used to being with him for 8-12 hours per day, he started being antisocial and avoiding his food, which is about as normal for him as time standing still or the sun blinking off. Usually, when pouring food into his bowl, he gets his head in between the food container and the bowl and nudges it out of the way while the food is still falling, so that I'm pouring the food on his head as he's beginning to horse it down. I used to think it was a little rude until I considered Homer Simpson's dream of donuts falling from the sky like rain, and then it made sense in a hedonistic food-fetish sort of way. These days, he eats a few bites and then returns to his chair in the other room to sleep.

The doc doesn't know what it could be, but she says there might be a mass of some kind in his intestines. He's had bloodwork done and a trio of X-rays, which all came back inconclusive, so we have an ultrasound scheduled for next Tuesday. In the meantime, he gets his choice of canned food so that he'll keep his weight up. Keep your fingers crossed for the little punk.

Posted on November 10, 2006 1:30 PM | link to this entry | comments (1)

Carotid Artery - neck

We saw this on the wall of the elementary school where we voted this afternoon. The kid looks stoned, doesn't he? Or, better yet, it looks like he's flashing the emo gang sign.

Posted on November 7, 2006 4:32 PM | link to this entry

Family Values.

Watching the Ian McKellan-written Richard III this evening, at the exit of Dame Maggie Smith (The Duchess of York), who is delivering a final word to Annette Bening (the widowed Queen Elizabeth), who is standing on the tarmac of the airport.

Jen: I never understood why she [Queen Elizabeth] stuck around in this play. Why didn't she leave England too?

Bill: Yeah, I don't know.

Jen: Like Jackie said, "They're killing Kennedys. I'm out!"

Posted on November 3, 2006 9:33 PM | link to this entry

That Sound You Hear...

...is the sound of pigs flying. Your humble correspondent visited the gym this afternoon.

Posted on October 30, 2006 5:11 PM | link to this entry | comments (1)

Field of Screams

A couple of weeks ago, after a particularly hard series of workdays, Jen and I copped out on making dinner and ordered a pizza. When I stopped in to pick it up, I noticed a sheaf of brochures on the counter resembling an Iron Maiden album cover. A knockoff of Eddie was shilling the Field of Screams, a haunted house attraction in Pennsylvania, which was billed as the best attraction in the area, featuring two separate haunted houses and a hayride. (However, it's not on this list of the "13 best haunted houses in America.")

Feeling adventurous, we decided to rally the troops and check it out with some of Jen's family. After fortifying ourselves with some burgers, we piled in a car and headed north to Lancaster, where the Field is located. After parking the car in an adjoining lot, we walked a quarter-mile or so to the entrance. From our viewpoint, it resembled a dusty County Fair: a vast field packed with people, surrounding two houses dressed up to look spooky, flanked with refreshment counters, ticket booths, and portapotties. In the center, on a wooden stage, two talentless hacks attempted to battle-rap while disinterested crowds, stranded on line before them, pretended not to notice.

The ticket booth turned out to be on the other side of the park, so we trudged up the hill in its direction, found the end of the official queue, and then followed the line of people straggling down the road behind it until we reached the end of the unoffical queue.

In the next hour, we were treated to the best and the worst of Pennsylvania's population as we slowly navigated the rope maze: bored yo-boys in hoodies and west-coast-style flat brimmed caps, squealing cheerleaders busily texting their friends instead of advancing the line, pierced couples busily sucking face, overweight couples horsing down pizza that smelled like feet, camoflagued gits comparing about bore size and barrel length, frat-types discussing the parties they were missing, squads of high-school jock types in matching letterman jackets, alterno-punks in standard issue Sid Vicious™ outfits, mothers wheeling strollers, and some of the most hideous sets of summerteeth I've ever witnessed. Meanwhile, the crowd decided to stay warm by collectively smoking an entire years' crop of tobacco and blowing it on us. For some meteorological reason, the smoke didn't dissipate into the night sky above us, but hung around our heads like fog, giving us all a wicked contact buzz. Overhead, two speakers alternated between the theme to "Ghostbusters", selections from Blizzard of Ozz, and various 80's-era dance favorites to "set the mood".

Once we'd made our way through the ticket line (with 20 minutes to spare before it closed), we entered the park itself and quickly got in line for the first of the two haunted houses, the Den of Darkness. Here the line was about as long as the line for the tickets themselves, and we soon found ourselves stranded in front of the stage again. Mercifully, we missed the battle-rap and instead were treated to a mixture of local advertising, soundless clips from Resident Evil, and Pink Floyd concert footage spliced together to be shown on a large white billboard over our heads. The night got a little colder, the smoke got heavier, and we were getting tired of waiting, but after an hour or so we found ourselves at the door of the Den and ready to go inside.

At first, we were all together, and the opening rooms didn't bring the scare as much as we were expecting. But when we got to the area where the kid with the circular saw was taking swipes at the legs of passers-by (bladeless, of course) as they stared at the rubber limbs hanging from the cieling, it started getting interesting. Many stairs, switchbacks, turns and short tunnels followed—at one point, I reached out to place my hand on Jen's sister's back so that I didn't run into her, and she shrieked all the way down the hall until her boyfriend and I calmed her down. (That was probably the highlight of my evening, followed closely by two children of ten or so who ran down the exit ramp screaming at a pitch that woke dogs for miles in every direction.) Jen, who is a veteran of countless Texas haunted houses, was expecting people to be grabbing at us as we navigated narrow corridors, but there seemed to be a hands-off policy in effect; most of the scare was implied. The effect was further blunted by the diminuitive size of most of the ghouls on shift; we'd enter a room set up to be spooky, and a 10th-grader in a rubber mask would appear from behind a curtain, look up at us and try to be frightening. I also found myself wondering how the building passed code—at a moment when I was supposed to have been scared by soemthing, I was observing the makeshift construction of a wall or a support beam, festooned with exposed wire and sharp angles.

There were some genuinely creepy moments, though—dark corridors filled with body parts hanging from the cieling, makeshift morgues with corpses open and flayed in blood-spattered glory, the odd shock of canned air to the face, and some perfectly timed entrances by spooks from hidden doorways, who wordlessly invaded one's space and then melted back into the shadows. Towards the end, we began to smell two-stroke exhaust and found ourselves at one end of a long room where a masked man with a chainsaw waited for us to make a break to the other door. As we ran past, he'd swipe at our legs, and the efffect was such that we missed the guy in the next room, who was painted to match the disorienting checkerboard pattern from floor to cieling, and who appeared from nowhere to chase us back out into the night.

The second attraction was billed as a 3-D asylum, and the effect was pronounced for the first couple of rooms, but by the second floor, it began to get old. The glasses provided worked well enough, but the combination of blacklight and day-glo paint used for the effect began to get garish. A few well-crafted rooms made me slightly claustrophobic, and the clowns up on the third floor got spooky, but overall the asylum was a bit of a letdown from the first attraction.

Across the field as we exited, the queue for the hayride was still miles deep, and we debated the merit of buying tickets and standing in line for another hour, but nobody had the heart (or the warmth) to follow through. So we packed up the car and headed south again, content with our evening's thrills, and called it an evening.

Posted on October 16, 2006 12:08 AM | link to this entry | comments (1)

Another Reason To Love Iggy Pop.

I love the guy for who he is, not so much for the music (although I'm already preparing to hear some lengthy discourse on how the Stooges were the basis for all punk that came afterwords, etc.) but this concert rider, courtesy of The Smoking Gun, is worth the read. If this guy surrounds himself with roadies who write stuff this funny, I can only imagine what a tour with the guy must be like.

"As for smoke, if you could save it for sending messages to indigenous North American tribespeople, I, Big Chief Fucks-Around-With-Drums, would be um heap grateful."

Rock & Roll may not be dead after all.

Posted on October 5, 2006 11:43 AM | link to this entry

Shut-In Sees Shadow, Runs Back Inside

Wow, four weeks straight behind this desk, with maybe two or three days off in total. I haven't been this productive in years. I'm kind of afraid to venture out of the house, though. That would be a funny thing to film for the local news, wouldn't it? I'd be like that guy they have to winch out of his apartment with a crane: "LOCAL MORLOCK DRAGGED FROM HOME." I'm sure I'd just get out the door, stumble around like a drunk and fall down in the street, which wouldn't be very smart, or newsworthy—or maybe it would? "LOCAL MORLOCK RUN OVER BY BUS."

There's more stuff coming, too, which doesn't bode well for seeing sunlight in October. I may just have to set up a bucket on a pulley with a long rope and dump candy on kids' heads when they ring the doorbell on the 31st. I don't have any idea of what's happening in the Real World other than some asshole shooting up a school in Colorado, my government passing some kind of fascist bill in an effort to make people forget about Iraq, and that it's week two of football season.

My beautiful bride is caught in this vortex of pain with me; between the two of us, we've averaged about eight hours of sleep collectively each night and gone through untold amounts of vodka to make it through crunch time. Mmmmm, delicious vodka. I now have empirical evidence which proves that I can sketch and code just as well at 1 AM with a vodka tonic than I can at 9 AM with a mug of coffee.

In happier news, I got a Big Fat Check on Thursday, which means we can afford the mortgage and they won't repossess our kitchen appliances. Unfortunately, I have lots of other things that need attending as well, so I'm estimating a balance of about $3.42 left in my account on Monday when I'm done paying the Man. Rock and roll. We have a saying here at the Lockardugan Design Collective: "If I Could Just Get Paid." This prefaces or follows pretty much anything else we say these days. e.g.:

"We wouldn't have to hide in the basement from the bill collectors, if I could just get paid."

"I'd go to the doctor and get this itch cleared up, if I could just get paid."

"I could rationalize buying that extra bottle of wine so that we could drink ourselves into a stupor, if I could just get paid."

"I'd win the War On Terror, if I could just get paid."

"I could have kept Anna Nicole Smith's kid alive, if I could just get paid."

Seriously, our letter carrier, a nice, middle-aged woman who greets us with a smile but insists on putting the mail in the box even when we're out standing on the front lawn in our underwear, is getting scared of the bloodshot freaks who scrabble at the box when she turns up the front walk. She's probably seen Morlocks before, but I think we give her that spooky shop-teacher vibe—you know the one, who was really friendly but always smelled funny, looked weird and talked to his tools? Lord only knows what she tells the folks back at the Post Office about the shut-in cat people with the unmowed lawn.

Well, at least our house doesn't smell like litterbox.

Posted on September 29, 2006 4:40 PM | link to this entry

Offsite.

The last couple of days have been very busy. I'm set up in an office building in San Mateo where the workmen are still installing network cable, painting drywall and cleaning up dust. The desk I'm at only came out of the IKEA boxes a week or two ago. In a lot of ways I feel like it's 1999 again, except for the fact that I'm not an employee, and that I have to leave for home in a couple of days.

It's been a good week so far, though. I hit the ground running Monday morning, and put in an eleven-hour day before Eastern Standard Time caught up with me. The people working here are wickedly smart—smart enough that I feel like I'm too dumb to belong in a conference room with them—but they've been friendly and welcoming to the country mouse who blew in from Maryland and suddenly told them their cobbled-together business cards looked like shit and that there's been a design approved and ready since last December, had they seen it?

Today is my final day on site, and then I become virtual again, a voice on a phone and a blinking 6AM email message. I'm going to miss the excitement of feeling like a hired gun on a mission, but I won't miss the lousy hotel bed. I really shouldn't complain, though, because it's an exceptionally cheap room with a kitchenette, which came in handy for reheating my Thai leftover dinner last night, and it's less than a mile from the office. This part of California is strange, because in order to get from my hotel to the office, I cross two highway overpasses, one canal, and under two more overpasses. The grid structure here is very mixed as well, which means there's no empty space—malls adjoin suburbs, which are overshadowed by high-rise offices, which butt up to freeways, which dump out into feeder roads everywhere. I now understand why some of the first and most successful internet ventures incubated from the Bay Area were mapping applications, because I wouldn't be able to find my own ass with a flashlight out here without Mapquest.

Happily, my lovely wife is on a plane headed West to join me this afternoon, and we're going to spend the next three days enjoying the warm, sunny California air. My old friends from college have invited us out for cocktails this evening, and we're heading to Napa tomorrow to get shitfaced, and from there, the weekend is an open book. Which, I've recently learned, is the way I like it.

Posted on September 8, 2006 11:45 AM | link to this entry

Dateline: McCarran Intl. Airport.

I've called a lot of things a lot of names over the years I've been writing online, but McCarran Airport holds a special place in the HATE wing of my heart. I've just spent five hours on a cramped Airbus A320, stuffed cheek-to-jowl with all the other rabble, and the first thing I see getting off the plane before the Departures sign is a bank of slot machines going boink boink BING-bong boink binkety-bink in endless repetition as all the cattle from the rest of the country get off their planes and walk directly to the machines that legally take their money. (Didn't you morons get enough of that at the McCasino?) Correspondingly, the boarding announcements are jacked up to ear-shredding decibel levels because normal volumes can't be heard over the slot machines.

It's an airport that looks like it might have been a blast in 1965, but It sure does suck in 2006.

update: Oh, goody! Some asshole just won something! Let's go play the slot machines too! boink boink BING-bong boink binkety-bink!

Posted on September 3, 2006 12:59 PM | link to this entry

Political Activism.

From: Bill [mailto:XXX@XXX.com]
Sent: Wednesday, August 09, 2006 7:07 PM
To: XXX@martinomalley.com
Subject: Where can I get some yard signs?

Hi XXX,

I'd like to get some O'Malley yard signs so that I can battle the
Ehrlich machine here in Catonsville, but I haven't heard anything
back from your campaign yet. You're getting your butts handed to you
in this town, and I'd like to do my part to even out the score in the
Battle Of The Lawn Signs. I live right on Frederick Road on a main
thoroughfare, and I think it would be great exposure (the current
ratio is about 10/90% O'Malley/Ehrlich.)

Let me help!

Bill D.
__________________
XXX@XXX.com

From: XXX@martinomalley.com
To: Bill [mailto:XXX@XXX.com]
Subject: RE: Where can I get some yard signs?
Date: Thu, 10 Aug 2006 09:57:27 -0400

Thanks for your support Bill.
We will have one out to you by tomorrow.
Thanks,
XXX

XXX XXXX ~ O'Malley/Brown Campaign
Volunteer Coordinator ~ XXX-XXX-XXXX ~ XXX@martinomalley.com

From: Bill [mailto:XXX@XXX.com]
Sent: Tuesday, August 15, 2006 3:26 PM
To: XXX XXXX
Subject: I'm beginning to think you don't like me.

Hi XXX-

I haven't heard anything from you guys yet, and I'm beginning to get
jealous of my neighbors who have spiffy green and white signs on
their lawns. Any word on signage?

thanks-
bd.
__________________
XXX@XXX.com

From: XXX@martinomalley.com
To: Bill [mailto:XXX@XXX.com]
Subject: RE: I'm beginning to think you don't like me.
Date: Wed, 16 Aug 2006 07:19:34 -0400

Sorry Bill, we were out of signs last week so we got a little backed up.
What is your address, I will send one this week.

Thanks!

XXX XXXX ~ O'Malley/Brown Campaign
Volunteer Coordinator ~ XXX-XXX-XXXX ~ XXX@martinomalley.com

Postscript: As of yesterday, we have three shiny green and white signs on our front lawn. I was half-hoping they'd erect one of those big-ass billboards instead, but I'll take what they gave me. We're not the only ones, either—the O'Malley machine sent word out and suddenly green and white signs have sprouted up all over the area, including *sniff sniff* two of those billboards, at last count.

On the next street over from us, someone covered the "ER" in Erhlich with "BUTT" on both sides of one of the billboards. Good times!

Posted on August 17, 2006 3:59 PM | link to this entry

Stupid F**king White Man.

We watched Jim Jarmusch's Dead Man last night, starring Johnny Depp and a who's who of character actors. I'd recommend this movie to folks who aren't looking for a typical western. It's more of a metaphysical story, following one man's slow journey to his own death, and in true Jarmusch fashion, it takes its time. I wish they'd included some kind of director's commentary or making-of special with the disc, because I'd love to have been a fly on the wall of that set.

Posted on August 14, 2006 10:44 AM | link to this entry | comments (6)

Back From The Swamp.

The rest of the East Coast is hot as Hades right now, but our little corner of the world is cool. We're holed up in the bedroom, with the A/C on 75° waiting for the Smackdown Episode of Project Runway to come on at 10. Apparently somebody's getting the axe, and we're placing bets on who it might be. (I say crazy basket-head guy.)

Today's business trip to D.C. was successful, although predictably hot.