fistful of plooble

Sounds good in principle

The latest issue of Wired has an extensive how-to section, with tips on everything from mastering Guitar Hero to taking better photos. I'm intrigued by their suggestion that if I am able to get to the back of my car stereo, I may be able to attach an RCA cable and plug my iPod into the other end. After examining (what I thought were) all the different, complicated, expensive and ultimately unsatisfying ways to do that, this is a pretty compelling idea. It sounds like a weekend project with at least a 50 percent chance of ending in a Monday morning drive to the Mazda dealer with my dashboard on my lap.

You have to admire Wired's chutzpah for including tips on how to jump off a building and how to maximize your MPG by getting behind a truck and turning off your engine.

Now, where were we?

I just looked at three or four of the blogs I used to read on a regular basis, and all but one is either completely kaput or almost as sadly neglected as my own. (I actually had someone email me about a year ago to see if I had died. I had not.) I barely even remembered how to get here to post, and a lot has changed. This seems to contradict the general trend I read about everywhere that social media is the new black. Why is it then that all the blogs I first read are dead?

I know the reason I stopped blogging; I didn't have any damn time. If you read the last post, you will see that I was about to start a job in the music bidness. I did that, and now I'm out again. Let's just say it wasn't as much fun as it should have been. And once I'd had dinner with Billy Bragg and met Chuck D, Robyn Hitchcock and John Doe, I figured I'd had enough to hold me for a while.

I'm now back on the corporate teat, doing PR for a big software company. Those of you who used to read this blog back when it had a pulse, or who know me from the real world, know that this is not an unusual move. It's odd to be back in corporate America, but the nice things about it are pretty nice so far.

One thing that's changed about PR in the six or seven years since I was doing it on a regular basis: blogs. Everything I read about the industry tells me that I'm a chump to be paying attention to The Wall Street Journal. I should be pitching to bloggers. Also I need to be on Facebook and Twitter and probably a bunch of stuff I've never heard of. Looks like I have some catching up to do.

I don't have my blogging voice back yet. I'll have to figure out what that is. I know that I probably won't be writing the relatively long and thought-out posts I used to write back when I was unemployed. But I'm going to try to do something, even if it's just posting the odd juxtapositions that come up on my mobile phone web browser's news headlines. (I could give you a for instance, but that would squander another potential post, and I can't afford that.)

Am I Ready to Rock?

There’s a gag I’ve always wanted to try that requires you to be in a group situation where nobody knows you. A party would be ideal. First, attach yourself to a group of people telling jokes. When someone finishes telling a joke, you say, “That reminds me of one.” Then you tell the exact same joke the first person told, word for word. You have to tell it, of course, as though you aren’t aware you’re doing anything unusual. I’ve always wondered how people would react. Anytime I’ve been in a situation where it might work, I’ve forgotten until later. And frankly, I might just chicken out. It’s probably like getting into an elevator and facing the opposite way everyone else is facing: much, much harder than it sounds. I managed it for about five seconds once.

The reason I’m thinking about all of this is because I start a new job on Monday, working in the indie rock music biz. (I don’t know why I’m being cagey about the name of the company, except that that’s what everybody always does in blogs. I suppose I should call it Local Indie Label.) I could try the retold joke bit at my new job, but I’ve been thinking about some gags that would be a bit more complex and have some longevity.

The L. Ron:

Strategically place a dog-eared copy of Dianetics on my desk. Frequently say things like, “We need to get clear of what’s holding us back in order to reach new levels.” Exhibit a great deal of interest in the impending marriage of Tom and Katie, and vigorously defend him should the situation arise.

Potential drawbacks: as it is in the entertainment industry, company may already be rife with Scientologists

The Poser:

Show up on day one in an obviously new t-shirt promoting some radio-friendly rock band (say, Candlebox) preferably still showing creases from being folded. Wear a similar t-shirt every day: Limp Bizkit, Blink 182, etc. Surreptitiously (yet visibly) change shirts at the end of the day, removing the t-shirt and putting on a Polo. In meetings, whenever I agree with someone, make the devil horns gesture and stick my tongue out. Always spell rock as “RAWK!!!!” Make frequent drug references.

Potential drawbacks: termination or injury before the end of my first day, forced to ingest narcotics

The Easy Listener:

Starched oxford shirt and pressed khakis. Bring in a small transistor radio and listen to Sunny 99 all day. Hang motivational posters in office. Ask co-workers listening to company product to “turn that down a bit please, some of us are trying to work.”

Potential drawbacks: too close to home, could validate co-workers current suspicions; no obvious “ta –dah! I was just kidding!” moment. Possibly irreversible.

Ting, Tang, Walla Walla Bing Bang

So, where were we?

Anyway, me and the Mrs. recently returned from our honeymoon in Curaçao, famous for producing an eponymous blue liqueur drunk only by teenagers in the dark, and Aruba, famous for causing people to start singing that Beach Boys song. On both islands they speak Papiamento, which is a patois of Spanish, Portuguese, Dutch, English, French and Edward James Olmos’ lines from “Blade Runner.”

Seriously though, it’s a beautiful language and we did pick up a few phrases. “Bon dia” means good day, “bon bini” means welcome and “masha danki,” I seem to recall, means, “Thank you very much,” although Jean says it means, “Faster, donkey!"

By the time we left we had picked up enough to be able to read the sign above, which I'm pretty sure means, "Johnny Walker - the world's bendiest whisky."

When we landed in Aruba we immediately heard some airport employees speaking Papiamento, and it sounded like this: “Papiamento papiamento papiamento.” After we had been in the islands a bit longer, our ears became more attuned and we were able to hear more of the subtleties of the language, and it sounded more like, “Badda bing badda bing badda bing.”

Future Career Directions

One day I'd like to open a store that sells nothing but ottomans. I'd call it The Footstool Empire. Then when people come in and say, "How come you didn't call it The Ottoman Empire?" I'll say, "Oh, yeah. That would have been a much better name."

I Voted for You

(click to enlarge)

Biscuit & Gary

I recently bought a new mobile phone, which will come as no surprise to anyone who knows me. (One friend suggested I put that message on a t-shirt.) The new one has a built-in camera, which means that, because I am too lazy to use the good-quality digital camera that I quite often have with me, I will be able to take crappy pictures and share them with the world.

You might be thinking the photo above is a commentary on urbanization, the depersonalization of modern society or creeping commercialism. In fact, the only reason I took this picture is because the Hardee's sign reads:

NEW LOAD
BISCUIT &
GARY BOWL

I Have No Blog

I guess I just don’t have what it takes. Thousands of bloggers, including many linked over there on the left, manage to produce amusing, informative, interesting and worthwhile writing while balancing full-time jobs, parenthood, the demands of quotidian existence and probably volunteering for Doctors Without Borders, for all I know. I get a 9-to-5 job and the best I can do is take a month to come up with something about microwave popcorn. What’s worse is that when I do finally post again, my post is about how lame I am for not posting. How lame is that? The only thing worse would be if I wrote about spam.

I’m still getting about 150 a day, which gives me a chance to see the themes developing. It’s nice to see that it’s not all about penile enhancement anymore. Mortgages are always popular, of course, but yesterday the theme seemed to be, “Euphemisms for ‘Reduce.’” I got emails encouraging me to butcher, chop, knock and scalp my mortgage payment. When I find a broker who can help me eviscerate my payment, we’ll talk. (I’m waiting for them to get confused and send me one that says, “Women Worship Low Payments” or “Drill Your Girlfriends Mortgage All Night!”)

Today’s theme seems to be “Long Lost Friends.” Sebastian wrote to say, “We used to talk,” and Mcclain wonders if I “remeber way back when?” Granted, I am getting old and my memory is not what it used to be. But I think I would remember if I had ever made friends with Parson Straightaway and Eldridge Landscape.

Well, there you go. Nearly a month of silence, then I give you a lame compendium of spam subject lines. The least I can do is finally release this one, which I’ve been holding in reserve for months:

Boy in front, sheriff around and mirror behind are what made America great!

Essential Truths: Microwave Popcorn

1. Microwave popcorn is never as good as you think it will be.

2. No matter how many times you learn this lesson, you are still capable of deceiving yourself.

3. You will cook it for too long, because you are a greedy bastard and want every last kernel.

4. You will burn it.

5. You will eat it anyway. All of it. Even the burned bits. You will upend the bag over your mouth and get popcorn grit all over your clothes.

6. When you are done, you will feel:
a. kind of sick
b. very thirsty
c. greasy

7. You'll need to wash your hands like Lady Macbeth to get that "butter" off.

8. You will be forced to endure the smell in your office for the rest of the day.

9. Despite the fact that your co-workers know all of the above to be true, the smell will entice them to make their own, starting a chain reaction that could conceivably go on all afternoon.

10. Microwave popcorn should be prohibited in offices, like smoking. There should be microwave ovens outside the front door for people who are addicted.

Blogcentennial

So I sit down in front of the computer intending to slap up a picture of the snack table at my new job and maybe one of the bizarrely Orwellian panel in our stairwell, announce the opening of the Chicago photo gallery and ask the question, “Why would I want to drink Pimp Juice?”, then get back to horizontally catching up on the TV shows I’ve missed in the last two weeks. Then I check my stats and find that this will be my 100th post. Oh for heaven’s sake. I suppose I can’t just ignore that.

It’s hard to believe that I’ve posted 100 times since I started this blog in October, but it’s not so hard to believe when you realize that I pretty much had nothing to do during the day for all but two of those last 22 weeks. It would be churlish of me in the extreme to complain that I don’t have as much time as I used to now that I’m working, and I don’t expect any sympathy. But man. Having to be someplace 40 hours a week really cuts into your blogging. (I’ve set a goal of being there at least a month before I start spending all my time at work blogging, web surfing and IMing. I think that’s prudent.)

It’s definitely an adjustment. I have newfound respect for all of you whose blogs I read and enjoy who I know work hard during the week and manage to find time to post even once a week, let alone those of you who post every day or thereabouts. When do you shop? When do you eat and do laundry? How do you find time to watch Average Joe: Adam’s Revenge? It has honestly been long enough that I forgot what it was like to work full-time. (Yeah, yeah. Cry me a river.)

I also find that my mind doesn’t wander in blogworthy ways as much as it used to. I saw a truck drive by my office the other day that said “Rude Transportation” on the side, and the best I could do was think, “Huh. That might be funny to mention.” That was a week ago. Could it be that I am becoming more focused? More responsible? More dedicated to my job? Wow. That’s a hell of a concept. We’ll see.

In the meantime, thanks a lot for stopping by.

I Yam What I Yeat

In the common room of my new company is a giant table, probably eight feet long and four feet wide, and it is covered, no, I mean covered with snack food. Items currently on the table include:

a case of ramen noodles

a case of individual breakfast cereals

Snickers bars (size full, not "fun")

M&Ms, of two varieties

cans of applesauce

one (1) 3-pound tin of mixed nuts

one (1) 3-pound tin of cashews (whole, not pieces)

two (2) 2-pound buckets of assorted snack mix

a bowl of fresh fruit

cans of fruit

a jar of licorice

a convenience-store pack of Slim Jims

a case of mixed Frito Lay products

a case of Zone protein bars

a case of Power Bars

a tin of mixed candies that must be at least 10 pounds

This is just what I can remember off the top of my head. It’s amazing. They also provide breakfast for everyone on Fridays, and last week it looked like they hijacked a bakery truck.

If I still ate like a student, I could live during the week just by grazing from this table. The worst part though, is that I have finally, more or less, gotten a handle on my life-long love of junk food, so for the first time probably ever, this table does not appeal to me. (Well, of course it does, but I’m trying to act like it doesn’t.)

Even so, I can’t help but check out the selection whenever I walk by. Apparently someone asked the snack buyer for some healthier offerings, because we now have little cans of lima beans, corn and spinach on the table. I don’t think I will ever get healthy enough for a spinach SnakPak to sound appetizing.

Someone Will Be Right With You

Anybody still out there?

New job. Taxes. Trip to Chicago. Post very soon.

In the meantime, here's this.

RIP

It is with great sadness that I must announce the death of a dear and treasured member of the Plooble family, the Job Search Theme. For those of you who have come to know and love it, I share in your grief. It has been a major part – perhaps the heart and soul - of Fistful of Plooble since the beginning, and it will be missed.

In other words, I am no longer unemployed. Starting Wednesday, I will be a Vision Guidance Leader at Huhcorp.

Okay, not really (although I’ve applied at companies that seem to share the same ethos). I will be working as an editor for a company that publishes a wide variety of newsletters on topics including health care, finance and the law. Someone will once again be paying me to write, and to write things that don’t require the use of the words “extensible” or “functionality.” As you can imagine, I’m pretty happy about that (although I am sure there are unexplored countries of jargon I am yet to visit).

It looks like a pretty cool place with a lot of creative people, and I’m very excited about working for a company that values writing above all. Everyone I’ve met seems to like each other and like being there, and last Friday night in Hell I ran into a group of my soon-to-be fellow editors, including the managing editor who interviewed me. It’s not every day that I get to list “having a drink named after me” as a relevant job qualification. I’m sure it sealed the deal.

Job Search is survived by Found Absurdity, Fun With Words, Car Geekery, and the twins, Bitchin’ & Moanin’, who ask that you send wrinkle-resistant khakis in lieu of flowers.

L-Word Jackson

I like words, you like words, we all like words. Sure. But not all of them. Some words I hate, and I don’t mean “intolerance” or "can't" or anything like that. For years I’ve had a list in mind of words I cannot stand. I’ve recently discovered I’m not the only person.

One good friend told me that she hates the word “brouhaha,” which disappoints me a bit, since that’s one of my favorites (along with "squeegee"). But yeah, it is kind of stupid. Her ex-husband hated the words “mighty” and “tender.” Naturally, she sometimes found it necessary to describe her meal as “mighty tender.”

Jean has three words that make her shudder: “smock,” “slacks” and “subpoena.” It’s hard to use all three in a sentence, but I’ve done it.

As for me, there are several words I don’t like - “delicious” for one, and I would never, ever use it, but it’s not enough to put me off my food. I also could live without “lush,” and you’ll never hear me express my longing for a lush lawn, or describe any of my friends as a lush, no matter how appropriate it might be.

So, lush and delicious. I cringe just writing them down. But there’s another word that’s even worse, and it’s basically a combination of the two. I can barely watch HGTV for fear of hearing the word used to describe a soufflé or an upholstery color. I managed to type it in my online quiz, and I’m far too traumatized to do it again.

Any words you have strong feelings about?

Me Me Me Meme

Surely you have something better to do than this.

I Can Hardly Wait for Bath Night

Today while killing time before an interview I went to the Indian market in Research Triangle Park. (I think it’s called “Indian Market.”) Man, I love that place. Walking in there is like stepping into another country (say, perhaps, India), and it reinforces my naïve belief that I might one day be able to satisfy my chicken tikka masala jones in my own home. Every time I shop there I buy bizarre things in jars the intended use of which I have only the vaguest idea. (Whenever I eat in an Indian restaurant, I worry that the waiters are looking at my condiment distribution the way we might look at a foreign visitor who is putting ketchup on his ice cream.) Still, thanks to this store I have the essential ingredients for the World’s Weirdest Tuna Salad. Don’t worry, the chunks are pickled mango rind.

In addition to selecting a package of tea based solely on the beauty of the label, I bought a bar of sandalwood soap. Imagine my glee when I opened it up at home and saw the inscription on the bar itself, making it without a doubt the coolest soap ever. It costs a dollar, which is twice as much as my previous favorite, Bee & Flower Brand Sandalwood Soap from China. But at least now I don’t have to worry that my soap is made by (or from) imprisoned political dissidents.

Thank You for Calling Fistful of Plooble

I called Toys R Us last Thursday, trying to find a pair of Hulk Hands for the only person on the face of the Earth above the age of ten who would think this was the perfect Valentine’s Day gift. When I finally got through the menu tree, the phone was answered by a woman who rattled out, “Thank you for calling Toys R Us, where the magic begins.” Imagine if you had to say that every time you answered the phone. Diane made it clear through her delivery that she would rather not have to say that.

I worked at the Crabtree Valley Pizza Hut my senior year in high school. In addition to being forced to wear the world’s most uncomfortable garment (a red-and-black zippered polyester smock that looked like something a Yugoslav hairdresser might wear to a disco), I was instructed to answer the phone with, “Thank you for calling Crabtree Pizza Hut. This is Dave speaking. How may I help you?” I always felt as though I was making people wait, rather than being polite. I’m sure most people would have been fine with, “Pizza Hut. Shoot.”

That particular Pizza Hut was owned by a tubby guy in his 40s with curly blonde hair who showed up at the restaurant early one Saturday evening sporting a pink track suit with a thick gold chain around his neck, and smoking a cigar. He and his besuited flunkies looked into our coolers and declared the pizza dough hadn’t risen enough, and directed us to throw it out and start over. Knowing that if we did so, we would find ourselves in the difficult position of being unable to serve any pizzas that night, (“Try to push the cavatini,”) we smiled and nodded and ignored him. When he and his posse returned from dinner at the adjacent Steak & Ale, they looked in the coolers again, at the same dough they had rejected an hour earlier, and grunted their approval, certain that their managerial intervention had averted a crisis. I can hardly express how often I have relearned that same lesson in one way or another since.

I left that job just before I graduated, and when I gave my notice the manager made a concerted effort to talk me out of going to college, offered me an assistant manager’s job, and assured me that I would be manager within a year. I declined, and the job went to Steve, who worked there 80 hours a week and also spent his nights off at the restaurant, wearing a brown suede shirt that had laces instead of buttons, drinking pitchers of beer and playing the Ms. Pac Man game by the front door. Clearly he wanted it more than I did.

I had gotten a similar offer a year before when I left Golden Corral for the Pizza Hut job. (Twenty years later I can’t remember why I left one crappy restaurant job in favor of the other one, but there must have been a reason. Maybe I thought it would be better to come home stinking of pepperoni instead of steak. Or maybe I got tired of referring to the waitresses as “Steerettes.”) In retrospect I realize that the manager of the Golden Corral, thanks to that corporation’s practice of giving managers a stake (no pun intended) in the profits, was almost certainly a millionaire by the age of 35 (he was already driving a Porsche 928 at 27), and probably retired at 40. Thank God I dodged that bullet.

Soft/Fluffy vs. Hard/Shiny

Compared to our last severe winter weather event, which turned the Triangle into a hard and shiny place and left even the spryest 20-year old shuffling apprehensively about like an octogenarian on the waiting list for a second hip replacement, I have to say our latest snowstorm was pretty near perfect. It happened on a Sunday, reinforcing my inclination to stay on the couch and generally act like this, and made everything all purty. This morning my neighbor’s five-year old daughter came out in her pink snowsuit and gleefully exclaimed, “It’s soft!” Plus, the roads magically cleared themselves, and now we’re left with beautiful vistas and the slightly wistful sight of powdery snow floating from pine branches. And my house now looks even more like a ski lodge than usual.

The last winter storm wasn't very photogenic, but I took full advantage this time. (I’m hoping my neighbors knew that I was crouched in the bushes behind their deck with a camera for purely aesthetic purposes.) Jean gave me a fantastic book of Japanese graphic design for Valentine’s Day, which inspired me to spend several hours today fiddling with the pictures in my Fauxtoshop program. Because as we all know, that’s the best way to find a job. I’ve put the results in the Snow photo gallery.

More Car Geekery

When I was 16 I had one of these, but not one of those

I’ve been reading car magazines almost as long as I’ve been able to read. Those of you who don’t care about cars probably think that car prose consists of nothing but limited slip difs and caster and camber and whatnot. Yeah, there’s a lot of that, but the best automotive journalism can be pretty damn good. For instance, long before I knew him as a Republican Limbaugh-apologist, I eagerly awaited each new article P.J. O’Rourke published in Car & Driver. His piece entitled “High Speed Performance Characteristics of Pickup Trucks” is a classic.

“What happens to an unloaded pickup truck in a curve is that the rear end has nothing to do - is unemployed, metaphorically speaking - so it comes around to ask you for work, up there in the front of the truck where all the weight is. And the result is exactly like one of those revolving restaurants that they have on hotels except it's on four bald snow tires instead of a hotel, and it's in the middle of the highway, and it tips over.”

Plus, he once wrote a piece about driving in England that taught me the most valuable piece of information one could have when trying to navigate the wrong side of the road. Think of yourself as a well-dressed socialist, he advised, and say to yourself, “Keep left, look right.” I’m barely exaggerating when I say P.J. O’Rourke may have saved my life.

My current favorite automotive magazine is Car, published in England. In addition to great photos and great writing and columns by comedian Alexei Sayle, they have capsule reviews and specs of every car for sale in the UK, which I’m sure is incredibly useful for settling pub arguments and planning your next purchase. But some of them are also extremely funny. Here are a few of my favorites:

BMW 7-Series
For – Clever
Against – Too clever by half
Sum up – Cyborg killer limo, feels neither pity nor remorse

Hyundai Tiburon
For – Nice to drive, cheap, great V6 engine
Against – Crappy cabin
Sum up – Greatest Korean car. Ever.

Jeep Grand Cherokee
For – Big, solid, well-equipped
Against – Slightly overspecced for shopping in Twickenham
Sum up – Ironic not iconic

Kia Rio
For – She dances in the sand
Against – Like a river twisting through a dusty land
Sum up – And when she shines…

Land Rover Defender
For – Still unparalleled in the bog
Against – Panel gaps visible from space
Sum up – A true British icon

Peugeot 807
For – It takes the whole family
Against – They won’t want to be seen in it
Sum up – It’s a bus

Seat Arosa
For – Sounds like a sex toy
Against – Vibrates like a sex toy
Sum up – Avoid the 1.0 litre

Volkswagen Beetle
For – It’s a joke
Against – It’s on you
Sum up – Fashion is a fickle thing

Pet Smarts

After five years I have come to the conclusion that, as sweet as he is, Hastings is not the sharpest flea comb in the drawer. Let’s just say it’s a good thing he’s domesticated. As with most cats, he is primarily concerned with eating, napping, parasitically sucking up body heat, and chasing imaginary rodents. He used to be really good about eating. I would put a small bowl of dry food down in the morning and he would stand there until he finished it, and that was that. Then, during last year’s ice storm, I really screwed up. I felt bad for making him stay in a cold house all day while I decamped to places restored of power, so I started giving him a snack at night. The first time I did it, he looked at me with an incredulous expression that seemed to say, “What?! You mean you can feed my anytime you want?!” And from then on I was doomed.

For the past year he has followed me around relentlessly, and meows plaintively whenever I walk into the kitchen. Any time I stand up, he is on me like a cheap furry suit. And of course, he greets the dawn by jumping on my bed and putting his nose in my mouth. ("Oh, you're awake? Well then you might as well feed me.") I finally got tired of it and inaugurated the Full Bowl Policy two weeks ago. Many of my cat-owning friends keep a bowl of dry food constantly replenished and their cats eat whenever they feel like it. Sure, some of them are a bit, er… zaftig, but they also aren’t leaping around like Chinese acrobats on the Ed Sullivan show every time you get up to go to the bathroom.

On Day One of the FBP when I filled his bowl to the brim, Hastings thought it was Kitty Christmas. Since then he’s gotten used to it, but whenever I top up the bowl he looks at me as if to say, “I’ve never loved you more.” I think he’s gained maybe a pound, and for him that probably isn’t a bad thing.

But has it changed his behavior? Has it my eye. He still meows at me when I walk past the cabinet where his cat food is kept. When I point to his full bowl, he kind of shrugs and goes, “Oh, right.” And he still wakes me up in the morning and tries to herd me downstairs when I head for the bathroom. I realize he’s an animal, but like some kind of pathetic parent with a child vying for a spot in a magnet school, I want him to be exceptional. (Then again, as far as intelligence goes, I’m the one trying to reason with a cat here.)

Maybe he needs a tutor, or some flashcards.

Ooh, Shiny

A few weeks ago, Jean came over for dinner and gave the hairy eyeball to my stove, which I’m assuming has been here since 1978 when the house was built. At first I was confused because I thought it was pretty clean, and not just by my pathetically lenient standards.

“You know you can get new trim rings and drip pans,” she said. What? Of course I don’t know that. Who the hell knows that? I didn’t even know those objects had names, although “trim ring” and “drip pan” seem pretty straightforward. If something has to be purchased at Lowes or Home Depot, I usually assume it’s going to have some kind of specialized and esoteric name that I will neither know nor be able to deduce. It wouldn’t surprise me if these things on my stove were called plattrens and cronnets.

Anyway, my 26-year old stove now has brand new decorative hardware (one of the odder gifts I’ve received, I must say), and it does liven it up considerably. But now I have to worry about getting fingerprints on my shiny new cronnets. Err, trim rings.

Baby, It's Cold Outside

I set out Sunday morning in the snow with the promise of freedom toast and a kind word. I turned around and came home ten minutes later after discovering three things:

1. Plooblewagon's boy-racer low-profile tires love dry pavement, but they get all confused and belligerent when they encounter anything slippy.

2. The vast majority of other vehicles I encountered were SUVs (many of them two-wheel drive, which is the stupidest thing ever) piloted by sorority girls driving far too quickly and running stop signs while talking on cell phones.

3. I don't like doing things I'm no good at.

(It didn’t make me feel any better when I watched the Monte Carlo rally Sunday night and saw people driving 80 miles an hour on roads I would be reluctant to walk on.)

If you're from some place that has real winters and you're aching to scoff at my wimpishness, remember that I live in North Carolina, so we don't have snow plows, we don't have snow tires, and we don't know what the hell we're doing. And since it doesn't happen very often, we can afford to avoid the snowy and icy roads and hunker down in slippers-and-pay-per-view mode. Even so I will admit it is a bit ridiculous that one inch of snow will shut down the entire state and cause a run on the grocery stores that resembles the evacuation of Saigon and leaves shelves denuded of milk, bread and eggs. (I'm stealing from some stand-up comedian here, but what is it about snowstorms that makes people crave French toast?)

I was born in New Jersey but I grew up here, so winter weather meant no school. It takes a long time to overcome that nostalgic memory. When I first started working for myself in 1995, I woke up one morning to an ice storm and thought, "Cool! I don’t have to go to work." Then I remembered that I worked at home, so essentially I was trapped in the office.

Dave Thomas Is Getting A Chance To Do Something Like This

My name is Dave Thomas. It doesn’t matter if I introduce myself as David Thomas or David B. Thomas, I still get, “Huh, like the founder of Wendy’s?” As if it might have escaped my attention. (It used to be one in ten people said, “Like the guy from SCTV?” and I usually liked those people, and one in 50 would say, “Like the guy from Pere Ubu?” and I always liked those people.) One year for Christmas my mother gave me and my father coffee mugs that say, “Yes, my name is Dave Thomas. No, I don’t have a daughter named Wendy. No, I don’t make hamburgers.” On the bottom it says the cup was made by Thomas Tiles, so I assume there is a fellow sufferer out there who decided to cash in. I wish I had thought of it.

Having shared the name of a famous hamburger pitchman for decades, I have learned firsthand that if a name can be lampooned in any way, the namesake has probably heard it a hundred times. I could meet someone named Delicious Chocolate Pudding and I would say, “How do you do, Mr. Pudding.”

All this is preliminary to what I am about to post. I know I have the same name as the late burger baron. Don’t bother pointing it out. You have been warned.

My friend Greta, who I’m sure has heard her fair share of Garbo jokes, hipped me to a site called Googlism, which does some kind of fancy internet magic and pulls together quotes about any term or name you enter. Here’s a sample of what you get for me:

dave thomas is truly the biggie man
dave thomas is covering his eyes with his hands in mock fear
dave thomas is a bigot
dave thomas is a life
dave thomas is a woodturner based just outside the picturesque village of shere
dave thomas is spared immortalization by way of clumsy cartooning
dave thomas is currently not yet a bronze member
dave thomas is an original american folk hero
dave thomas is wanting to go out in the parking lot and fight defending his own lie
dave thomas is available for viewing with windows media player
dave thomas is the perfect fit
dave thomas is revealing his inner workings
dave thomas is an award winning canberra cannon
dave thomas is leading the charge for legislative action to add a state fossil to michigan's popular list of identifiable symbols
dave thomas is resigning his position after only three weeks
dave thomas is
dave thomas is your superior technical advisor
dave thomas is prominent in the worldwide ruby community
dave thomas is an unashamed packrat
dave thomas is not blues
dave thomas is 20th
dave thomas is one of the most underrated geniuses in the country
dave thomas is hot as
dave thomas is mentioned
dave thomas is sitting in the booth behind us
dave thomas is sexy
dave thomas is cool
dave thomas is getting a chance to do something like this
dave thomas is particularly proud of his customer service
dave thomas is a wonderful man
dave thomas is to blame

Want to see some other Dave Thomases I found on the web? Of course you do.

I Wore a Suit Today, Oh Boy

If I were given the choice between opening a door marked “All-Day Meeting,” or another one marked “Five Minutes of Root Canal,” I would stop and think hard for a moment and then say, “This is a stupid metaphor.”

If it’s even a metaphor. I know it’s not a simile. Or an analogy. Maybe it’s an allegory.

I’ll start again.

Today I drove to Raleigh for a meeting on the grounds of what used to be called Dorothea Dix Mental Hospital and is now probably called something else. (I wondered if, like the Simpsons when they visited Ned after he went loopy, I would be given a sticker that said “SANE.”) This was a meeting of very smart and committed people volunteering their time for an extremely worthwhile cause, and I was happy to be involved. But dang, y’all.

First of all, and I won’t belabor this point, it’s time we abandoned the business suit, for men and women. ‘Nuff said.

Then there are the roundtable introductions, which no one ever hears, since we’re all practicing our own in our heads. I think the woman to my right said, “Hello. I am a leopard. Grrrrrr.”

And then there’s PowerPoint. “Can you see this in the back? No? Okay, I’ll just read all the slides out loud. First, a little background. Millions of years ago, after the Earth cooled and developed an atmosphere…”

I will admit that my mind tends to wander a bit during an all-day meeting, and then it starts to get me in trouble. I find myself imagining the most inappropriate thing I could do at that particular moment. “What could I do right now,” I wonder, “that would be incredibly embarrassing, but not so embarrassing that I would have to leave town?” But that doesn’t satisfy me. “What could I do right now that would be so embarrassing that I would have to leave town tomorrow and never return?” Before I know it, in my mind I am naked and dancing on the conference table singing “Inna Gadda da Vida” in Elmer Fudd’s voice and throwing poppyseed muffins at people. Then I have to go to the men’s room and think about lost puppies until I can keep a straight face again.

As for my suit, it is charcoal gray and unremarkable except for the label, which declares “Pronto Uomo – Firenze.” Because this is the year 2497 and I am Buck Rogers, I was able to take out my subspace communicator and send a text message during the meeting to Memsy, who told me that “Pronto Uomo” is Italian for “Ready Man.” Surely he is one of the lesser superheroes. “We’re leaving in five minutes.” “I’m ready!”

Spud

I don’t care what the Chinese zodiac says, so far for me 2004 has been the Year of the Potato. Don’t worry, I’m not going to write about mashing again, but I have done a fair amount of spud handling - along with champagne drinking - in the last two days. Perhaps that explains my general fuzzy-mindedness today. I have a potato hangover.

I admit I feel a little pressure here in this, the first entry of 2004. Does the first post of the year set the tone for the next 364 days? Is it like what they say about who you’re kissing at midnight being the person you’re going to kiss for the rest of the year? Can I work another potato joke in here? Maybe I just need to get this one under my belt and move on.

The dawn of 2004 brought a flood of messages to my inbox, so allow me to join with some of my correspondents in wishing you all a Happy New Year.

Signed,

David B. Thomas
Yourselves S. Institutionalized
Oceanographer B. Grumbling
Ritually H. Chastised
Antihistamines U. Depression
Miscuing J. Noncommittally

It’s All About the Mash

When I bought my house five years ago I was overcome with a wave of domesticity that manifested itself in the purchase of design magazines and painting the rooms a variety of colors with silly names (“Spring Sprout” and “Madder Carmine”), most of which I do not regret. One issue of House & Garden had a recipe for smoked salmon scrambled eggs in popovers, which sounded like just the thing for my housewarming brunch and inspired me to try my hand at the culinary arts. I soon became hooked, realizing that cooking combined two of my greatest passions: magazines and gadgets. (For instance, I own a potato ricer, which I have used exactly once.) Then Mom gave me a copy of The Joy of Cooking for Christmas, which can only be described as Essential. (In the peculiar ways of our family, this book is referred to as “Mrs. Rombauer’s.”) I taught myself to cook by picking a different recipe every day, shopping for it, and cooking it. I’ve tried a lot of different things in the last five years with varying degrees of success and have attained a modest degree of proficiency which at the very least keeps me from being too nervous about cooking for guests (although I do reach a level of tension while I’m preparing a big meal which sometimes means I’m less than hospitable to people who want to hang around in the kitchen and talk to me while I’m cooking. But I’m working on it.)

My mother is an excellent cook, and my interest has given us something enjoyable to share. I often call her to ask cooking questions, usually while I’m wearing hot mitts and worrying that I’ve destroyed something or created something toxic. (At least I’m past the “is this mayonnaise too old to eat” stage.) Our mutual interest is especially fun around the holidays, when we bond furiously in the kitchen.

I pride myself on two things: green beans and mashed potatoes. I’ve perfected my green bean technique after many years of trial and error, along with a ridiculous level of persnicketiness reached after reading too many books about the Culinary Institute of America. I won’t reveal all my tricks, but just to give you an idea, a sinkful of ice water is involved.

As for the mash, I’ve learned the secret: tremendous – nay, deadly – amounts of butter and cream and salt. With this you cannot go wrong. Today, however, it all went pear-shaped. I peeled half a bag of Yukon Gold potatoes and boiled them for twenty minutes. I melted two sticks of butter with some cream and salt and pepper, ready to add to the potatoes. I remember thinking to myself, “I need to add this a little bit at a time.” Any cook will understand my mindset when everything suddenly became ready all at once: the lamb, the green beans and the potatoes. So instead of adding the butter/cream mixture a little bit at a time, I panicked and dumped it all in at once. The result was potato cream butter soup. In an effort to help me salvage this glutinous mess, Mom suggested adding some potato flakes, which seemed like a perfectly reasonable idea. I grabbed the box and dumped about a cup into the bowl. “That’s rice,” Mom calmly explained. No amount of tasting and retasting and self-denial were able to convince us that Dave’s Potato Rice Casserole was a discovery as opposed to a catastrophe. Three pounds of potatoes and half a pound of butter went down the drain, and I started over. Luckily Dad was napping and never knew what transpired.

All things considered, it could have been much worse. Like, say, for instance, my first Christmas dinner when my family each consumed roughly a half-ounce of melted plastic. But let’s not dwell on that. We all survived.

The Pride of Wensleydale

photo lovingly yoinked from and © 2001 Red Snapper Photography

I spent the Christmas of 1984 and 1986 with my parents in Bainbridge, North Yorkshire at the Rose & Crown, a 500-year old hotel with lots of history, lots of drafts, and nary a plumb line in the place (and it totally wigs me out that I can link to it). It was a beautiful way to spend Christmas. The hotel sat on the common in Bainbridge, and was also the village pub. The locals were very friendly and eager to buy a drink (contrary to the stereotype of Yorkshiremen – and possibly because my presence in the bar as a hotel guest allowed the staff to ignore licensing hours and stay open as late as they liked). The hotel was very cold, but I think I prefer that to today’s not-very-Christmasy 64 degrees. Cold, after all, is the reason for fireplaces and whisky and big wooly sweaters, all of which help me get into the spirit of Christmas.

The Rose & Crown was full of people from the UK and US, and we gathered by the fireplace in the residents’ lounge at night. I came in on Christmas Eve to find that all the chairs were taken. One Englishman in his 70s saw me and leapt to his feet, and insisted I take his chair. (Keep in mind that I was 20.) I politely refused. He continued to insist. “I’m perfectly happy to sit on the floor,” he intoned in the slow, deliberate drone of the office bore. “I often sit on the floor at home. You can ask my wife.” He pressed it to the point where the only polite thing for me was to accept his offer. You can imagine the looks I got from other guests who came into the lounge afterward and saw me sitting cozily in an armchair while an arthritic senior citizen sat on the floor at my feet.

We ate (and drank) incredibly well while we were there. I especially remember a rack of local lamb encrusted with rosemary, which I will attempt to recreate for Christmas dinner 2003, but I don’t expect it to match up. Breakfast was a wonder as well: local eggs and local sausages and local toast with local homemade orange marmalade. One morning a large glob of marmalade fell off my toast and landed on my eggs and sausage. And it was good. I put another spoonful of marmalade on my sausage, and it was good, too. Then I realized that, no matter how good it is, you can’t just go around putting marmalade on everything. I became a man that day.

Bainbridge is in Wensleydale, home of the eponymous local cheese (which gets a prominent mention in the Python cheese shop sketch) and not far from the home of James Herriot, who kept office hours for fans of his books as well as for sick animals. We were on our way to see him (which required us to traverse the Buttertubs Pass) when a tractor blocking our lane caused us to suddenly and inadvertently make the acquaintance of John Allen of Hawes, and later an old couple who let us sit in their parlor while we awaited the police and tow truck. (Out of the blue the man announced, “We’ve been on the QE 2.”) We were driven back to the Rose & Crown by Constable Jefferson, who maintained a steady 90 mph in his miniscule Ford panda car, much to the dismay of all of us who had recently been in a road accident. When we returned to the pub, my mother thought rightly that a brandy would be in order, to warm her up and calm her nerves (and her nose, which we didn’t know at the time was broken). The bartender supplied her with a Courvoisier VS, which to this day she considers the finest brandy to be had.

One night the hotel staff took me on a pub crawl of Wensleydale. When we returned, the hotel was locked for the night. One of the cooks climbed in through the kitchen window and opened the back door. He then asked, “Did you see me go through that window? I was as graceful as a Thompson’s gazelle.” Not just a gazelle: a Thompson’s gazelle.

On Christmas Day we ate our roast beef and Yorkshire pudding and popped our Christmas crackers and put on the silly hats, then watched the Queen’s address and went for a walk. As we stepped out of the hotel onto the village green and saw the inhabitants of Bainbridge stepping out of their front doors, we imagined our Christmas was more or less the same as 80 percent of the population of Great Britain. And it was pretty darn good.

Happy Christmas, everyone.

This Post Cost $20.18

hot pilgrim's chick

Friday I had lunch with an old friend and colleague at a restaurant in Lake Boone Shopping Center in Raleigh. Lake Boone is one of those strip malls that isn’t sure if it’s on the way up or on the way down. An argument for the latter would be the presence of the Upscale $1 Store (it’s actual name, right there on the damn sign and everything). I headed in there the moment lunch was over. Since I didn’t have my camera (and since I’m not sure the clerks would have appreciated me flashing and snickering at their merchandise), I had to buy all this crap. At least my Christmas shopping is done.

First, some green tea for Mom, because I know how refreshing she finds it after a long bike ride. Then I thought Dad might like a nightlight, but now I’m not so sure. My parents are pretty healthy but they are getting older, so maybe waking up in the middle of the night and seeing a glowing Jesus in the room might not be too comforting after all.

I picked up something for Britney Spears (if only it were that easy), and should I find a job in the next few weeks, I have a gift for my new boss. (Take a close look at that label. It doesn’t even look like the models were actually wearing the bandanas, and I can’t say that I blame them.)

If only I knew two Rachels who would appreciate these, but I’m sure I know several people who could benefit from this Canadian dandruff shampoo, complete with disclaimer (“marginally more effective than hot water alone”). I’ll let Rebecky, Myküll and Pinky fight over the lunchbox from Mars.

This I will certainly have to reserve for a special someone.

Finally, I’ve always wondered where you buy these, and now I know. Hmm. Who do I know who would wear it?

Adventures in Juvenilia

Many thanks to One Good Thing, who helped me rediscover one of my favorite Internet absurdity time sinks. If you go to Merriam-Webster’s site and look up a word, it will not only give you the definition, it will also give you a little speaker icon which lets you hear the word pronounced. It will say any word. Yes, any word (at least I haven’t stumped it yet), no matter how silly, prurient or NC-17. With a little work, you can have it say entire sentences. This is very useful for leaving voice mail for someone who needs to be told anonymously that he is an odoriferous Belgian pizzle pirate.

I got a little frustrated though, because I can’t get it to say Plooble, since Plooble isn’t in the dictionary (yet). I did some poking around on the web, and hoo, boy; if you thought the talking dictionary sounded like fun, wait until you try the AT&T Labs text-to-speech generator. Select the voice of “Charles – UK English” and have him say, “Oh dear. I’m afraid I’ve soiled myself.”

Hmm? 38. Why do you ask?

Voiceover work isn’t very steady, so me and the gang there have started another little venture. Operators are standing by.

Ubangi Women Face & Neck

Teen Pulp has declared it obligatory, so I might as well write about the search terms that have recently led people to Fistful of Plooble (and, no doubt, away moments later).

First, there are the ones that make at least some kind of sense:

What is a steer pizzle?
pizzle and dizzle
naked Scotsmen
Panang restaurant Chapel Hill

I remember using those terms, and there can’t be that many people writing about pizzles or incorrectly spelling the name of a recently-opened Chapel Hill restaurant. Fair enough.

Then there are the ones that are kind of hard to figure. Yes, I've used these terms, but not grouped together like this. How far down in the list did the searcher have to go to get to me?:

Ubangi women face and neck
Russian sourdough starter
student & stories & nubile
neck piercings archives
bungee jumping crapping accident
(I love their new album.)
Nantucket haircut
(My favorite ride at the state fair.)
big lurch gangsta cred
50 most powerful pastors
(I’m still awaiting the hate mail.)

Then there are the ones that make me feel Fistful of Plooble has let its readers down:

just wet my pants
Was this person seeking advice on what to do under those circumstances? Confidential to Squishy in Squamish: email me for detailed instructions.

my refrigerator won’t dispense ice
Um… sorry to hear that. Try hitting it with a hammer.

And some that are completely off the wall:

woozy bottle shrink bands
Is this a new indie rock genre that has escaped me?

free scenester porn downloads
Ew. I shudder to think there might be an actual site like that, and if you’ve ever been in the Orange County Social Club after 2:00 a.m. watching the drunken scenesters pairing off, you’ll know what I mean.

hot Pilgrim chick
Unless there is an alt.fetish.pilgrim-chick, I suspect there is one very lonely and frustrated onanist out there.

Here’s what really perplexes me though. The most common search that leads people here, other than “Plooble,” is “beach house names.” I get maybe five or six a week. Are there really that many people looking for inspiration on what to name their beach houses? And is the list my friends and I created last year proving helpful? If you’ve come here using that search, please email me and tell me what the hell is going on. And if you do in fact give your beach house a name from our list, I will send you a Plooble t-shirt. I got it at a telecommunications conference, and it’s too big for me now, and it has paint all over it. (What, you didn’t think I meant a Plooble™ t-shirt, did you?)

Crap Circles

don't worry, it's not what you think

Yesterday morning I came downstairs to find that pattern of brown marks on my carpet. Naturally, having an animal in the house, I suspected the worst, but on careful examination (by careful I mean not sticking my nose in it - and no, I didn't taste it) I determined it was in fact the most sublime of brown substances, chocolate. (I suppose it could have been carob, but my mass spectrometer is out for calibration.) Momentary relief was replaced by panic when I realized that Hastings might have eaten some overlooked piece of candy from the party. I checked him over quickly, apologized for my poop suspicions, and then did a web search for “cats and chocolate.”

If your cat has eaten, licked, smelled or even looked at chocolate, he will be dead by the time you get to the end of this paragraph. But unless your house looks like the deck of a tramp steamer full of refugees after a typhoon, he’s probably fine.

(I hope you're not reading this on your lunch break.)

Just to be safe, I stuck a garden hose in him and ran it for about ten minutes, then squeezed him for a while.

Still, that left the mystery of how they got there. I suddenly realized they had some of the same geometric patterns as crop circles. Obviously, the marks on my carpet are a message from our alien overlords (and if someone wants to get my attention, chocolate is a good medium to use). After studying the patterns for quite some time, I have deciphered the meaning:

Happy birthday. Eat whatever the hell you want.

Yes, today is my birthday. I am 38, and what a useless birthday that is. When I turned 35 I became eligible to run for president, and passed gratefully out of the MTV demographic. (I have since had the opportunity to indicate my age group on a survey as “35-70.” Thanks.)

Thirty-six was at least mathematically interesting. Bill, who got there a month before me, left me a message saying, “Just wanted to know if you felt like four nine-year olds, two 18-year olds, or like me, half of a 72-year old.”)

Thirty-seven and 38 just seem like way stations on the road to 40, but I’m okay with that. I know a lot of people are nostalgic for their 20s. Not me. I was a total dipshit back then. If you don't believe me, check out the haircut in my 1988 passport photo.

Partly Drunk, With Widely Scattered Patches of Cheese

why do I always have to make a face?

The problem with throwing a party and having dozens of your favorite people show up is that you don’t get to talk to anyone for more than five minutes. Saturday night I hosted ScorpioFest 2003, a co-birthday party for Samantha, Jenny, Catherine and, also, me. At the risk of having this post deteriorate even further into 15-year old girl territory, I will just say this:

I have the kewlest friends!!!! You guys are AWESUM!!!!!! :) :) :)

I will remember the party fondly while I am spending tomorrow night, my actual birthday, in a homeowners’ association board meeting. I’m not sure it gets more 38 than that.

The party was trans-oceanic, with Adda and Andri joining via web cam and IM. Owing to wireless network annoyances (plus the fact that it was 4:00 a.m. in Iceland) the conversation went basically like this:

hey

hye

who is this?

are you there?

Taavi's feet smell like corn chips.

camera locked up again.

... followed by a discussion of a papier mache marital aid that has no place in a family blog. Plus, Adda kept arching her back and saying we could private for 20 credits.

Jesse and Rebecky brought me a pair of badass shades to go with my badass new jacket. (I’ve been calling it Jacket, but I should probably call it Mr. Jacket, or "sir." I’m not sure I’m man enough for it. I think it’s sneaking out at night to stick up convenience stores.) The sunglasses kind of took me over, like the thing in that thing where the thing takes over that guy. (“No, Sunglasses! I don’t want any more vodka!” “Shut up and drink or I will concentrate UV rays into your corneas.”) I’ve posted photos from my Sunglasses Period in the gallery.

There’s lots of cheese left over. I had half a wheel of Brie for lunch. Spencer, for some reason, brought an enormous bag with four apples in it, and it’s still here. It’s kind of surreal, or even Surrealist. “Bag With Four Apples” will remain on exhibit at the Plooble corporate gallery through the month of November.

Leave. NOW!

I try to be efficient. For instance, when I weigh myself in the morning, rather than just waste that time standing there, I do it while I’m brushing my teeth. (Apparently my toothbrush weighs 47 pounds.) While I’m waiting for the shower to heat up, I clean the litter box. When I’m making an omelet, I start the pan warming up before I beat the eggs. I estimate that these and other efficiencies save me up to three minutes a week, which I can use in far more worthwhile and productive endeavors like listening to the music of Shooby Taylor.

Go to this page RIGHT NOW and download “Lift Every Voice and Sing,” and gather a crowd before you play it. Trust me. Thanks and a tip o’ the hat to Adda for that one.

And in a further attempt to drive you off my site, please welcome Proud Icelander to the list of must-read blogs. Here’s a picture of him and me in Reykjavík. Why yes, I think we might have had a drink or two.

Mo' Money

now THAT'S the back of a banknote

The designers here at the Plooble Bureau of Printing and Engraving have been working overtime in the realization that Plooble shoppers need something other than a Fitty. After careful consideration, the Currency Committee has selected a group of esteemed Plooblers to be honored on our banknotes.

(Click the thumbnail to make 'em grandiose.)

Please be advised that printing out these notes and circulating them may be a violation of applicable laws in jurisdictions less enlighted than the Untidy State of Plooble. (My apologies to the counter staff at Quizno's who received a Fitty in the tip jar, courtesy of Primo.)

If I spent half as much time on my job search as I do on this blog, I would be president of IBM by now. (I had to say that before my dad did.)

I Want… I Want to… I Want to Talk… Better.

Despite the fact that I have made my living for the last 14 years as a professional communicator, I often talk, um… wrong. I have a real problem with pronouns, for instance. Last week I was on the phone with an HR Lady and in answering her question “How did you learn about our company?” I told her, “I met the president of the company at a party and he asked him to send me his resume.”

I once sent an unsolicited email to an ad agency who I hoped might hire me. I figured I could take a jauntier tone and wrote, “I write like a champ in any media.” Moments after I hit send I realized I had just made a grammatical error in a sentence extolling my skills as a writer. Guess what? Never heard from them. I’m sure they were happy that I gave them a quick reason to avoid reading the rest of the email, like the way I felt when I got cover letters with typos in the first line. Or the time I got a resume addressed to me as Pubic Relations Coordinator.

I wish.

When I worked for the newspaper I called people all the time, and some of them didn’t want to talk to me. On more than one occasion this exchange occurred:

“Hello, this is David Thomas from The Chapel Hill News.”

“Yes?”

“Fine thanks, how are you?"

My greatest fear was that I would one day end a professional conversation with “I love you.” This probably says something really peculiar and/or pathetic about me, but hey, I don’t keep any secrets from you.

I have walked up to a receptionist more than once and said, “This is David Thomas,” like I was on the radio or something. “And I’ll be right back after this short break.” I’m always happy to find I’m not the only person who has problems with everyday talkifying. When I worked at Big Telecommunications Company Who Sucks and Laid Me Off, a friend walked into my cube one day and announced, “Hey, it’s Alyssa!” That’s what we say on the phone, hon, not what we say in person. Still, it was endearing.

Speaking of talking, allow me to be the very first person ever to write about how electronic mediums medias things have changed communication. I spend far too much time IMing with Adda (at least from a getting-anything-else-accomplished perspective), and since she’s screamingly funny, I end up typing “lol” a lot. I tried to resist it at first as lazy shorthand, but then I just gave in. She is trying harder than I am though, and her current alternative to “lol” is “hink.” I like it. Hink hink. HOL. Rebecky also went through a similar soul-searching process. She writes “haha!”, which is kind of weird but funny, sort of like watching a recent immigrant tell his first joke in English. (I wonder if they’ll make their way into speech. Wanna start a trend? The next time you hear something funny, keep a deadpan expression and say “rofflemao.”)

Adda and I have realized that most IM shorthand is dishonestly hyperbolic. I mean, seriously, how often are you actually laughing out loud, let alone rolling on the floor laughing your ass off? You wouldn’t be able to type, for one thing. With that in mind, we created a more accurate abbreviation: LQTS - “laughing quietly to self.”

Miscellany, Thy Name is Plooble

Hellooo, ladies!

Yo yo yo. Time for a pizzost in the blizzog.

Mostly I wanted to post that photo, since Rebecky and Myküll liked the last Olympus manual photo so much. This one comes from an Olympus OM lens booklet, and gosh, I don’t know but I’m guessing it’s from the ‘70s. I have a mental picture of a Japanese Olympus staff photographer approaching those guys on Daytona Beach or Muscle Shoals or whichever van-friendly shore they were oilily lounging about. I wonder what they were saying to him when the photo was taken, and if he understood it, and if he was glad he didn’t. And I wonder how many people looked at that photo and thought, “That makes me want to buy a new lens.” It makes me want to throw away all my cameras. And possibly gouge out my eyes.

Good crop of spam lately. I got a whole bunch for mortgage refinancing, but once again it was the random text that showed up in the Outlook preview panel that made them fun:

My dog is very promiscuous. Take control of your money.

She was a very crafty little dorky head. We have hundreds of lenders to help you get the lowest rates.

His perverse sense of humor nauseated me. Find the best rates for home financing.

I got an email the other day from Pimple J. Channeling, and I’ve gotten five or six from Efrain Cobb, who really wants me to add inches. Efrain Cobb? I’m now apparently getting spam from the 18th century.

I stopped in a drugstore Friday night and was served by a clerk wearing an ill-fitting uniform shirt, with doodles and notes scrawled on her hands in multi-colored inks, an unfortunate nose piercing, and a Spongebob Squarepants sticker next to her right eye. Her nametag read “Beauty Advisor.”

WARNING: CAR GEEKERY

After years of reading about them on various gearhead web forums, I bought a K&N air filter for Plooblewagon. They promise more efficient airflow than a stock filter, with increased horsepower and improved acceleration and throttle response. Best 30 bucks I’ve ever spent. There is a noticeable difference, and the engine revs much more freely from 4,000 RPMs to redline. Installing it was easier than changing a wiper blade, as Primo demonstrated when five minutes after I bought my car he was under the hood taking shit apart. The new filter is also supposed to have some effect on fuel economy. I think it either improves it, or cuts it in half. Don’t care. Car faster.

And no Rebecky, I don’t think one would help the Bonneville. But it would double its value.

In addition to being faster, Plooblewagon is also scratchier. The first blemish on its pristine Midnight Blue Mica exterior happened Friday, courtesy of a shopping cart at Lowes. Oh, well. It had to happen sooner or later. I once heard of someone who would take a ball peen hammer and put a dent in his new car the first day, just to get it over with. But I’ve always been able to willfully suspend disbelief and pretend that my car would stay perfect forever. That approach hasn’t worked too well in relationships, either.

Man. This entry is too boring to even proofread. But don’t worry...

Coming soon: more banknotes from the Plooble Bureau of Printing and Engraving.

Provides the Ability to Enable the Offering Of

I should go to bed, but I don't feel like it. I had an interview today, and for some reason that makes me feel like I get to goof off for the next 48 hours. Putting on a suit is worth two days of lying on the couch watching daytime TV. (For an hilarious account of shopping for interview clothes to help one land a Soulless Corporate Job, check in with the estimable Rebecky).

Cross your fingers for me. If I'm lucky and get the job, I'll be able to drive 37 miles to work each day to sit in a cube ranch in a dumpy '70s industrial building surrounded by strip malls and car dealerships and think of interesting things to say about gray boxes with wires coming out of them.

Should any potential employers happen to be reading this, please be assured that the preceding statement was merely bluster, designed to make me sound cool and anti-corporate to my hipster friends. In actual fact, I love nothing better than thinking of interesting things to say about gray boxes. Robust. Feature-rich. Extensible.

I got pretty fluent in the techno-marcom babble when I worked at Big Telecommunications Company Who Sucks and Laid Me Off, but it can easily become mind-numbing. A like-minded colleague and I were writing a document together, and we realized we had used the phrase "cost effective" about ten times in two pages, so we tried to come up with some alternatives. Our favorite was "cost-o-riffic," and we accidentally sent the document out for review with that in it. You should have seen the flurry of indignation from the pocket protector crowd.

Every now and then I came across something in a piece of corporate literature that made me think there was someone else out there like me, grinding away in a cube and aware of the absurdity of corporate speak. The longer documents we wrote always had a glossary at the end, which was usually titled "Glossary and List of Acronyms." One writer realized, rightly, that it's not an acronym unless it makes a pronounceable word, like laser or scuba. He or she headed the glossary in one document "Glossary and Groups of Capital Letters Used Instead of Words."

My favorite find came from a basic primer on the telecommunications industry:

The most common enemy of the public switched telephone network is the backhoe.

Perhaps the fact that I laughed for ten minutes after reading that will give you some insight into the state of mind I had attained. And hope to attain again! Really!

Oh, You Want It To Open? That'll Be Extra.

the finger thing continues to sweep the nation

I’m trapped in my study. Four carpenters are here installing my new back door, which is going to be very nice (and for that I sincerely thank you, Mr. Burglar). Since I can’t leave the house and the TV is in the room with the hammering, I’m stuck in here writing in my blog, IMing and surfing the web. It’s like having a job again.

Even though it’s my living room they’re tool-belting around in, every time I walk in there I feel as though I’ve wandered onto their construction site. They’re making no secret of the fact that, my house or not, they’d prefer it if I just stayed the hell away. Besides, I made the mistake of letting them see my drill, which is red and weak, as opposed to theirs, which are yellow and mighty. I have tool envy. (Knock yourself out, Myküll.)

There’s plenty of groaning and banging and cursing coming from the other room. I’m afraid to look. After every noise I expect to hear, “Mr. Thomas? Turns out the door doesn’t fit but you’ll have to pay for it anyway, and we’re going to leave your back wall open for the next six to eight weeks until the new door comes in, which is gonna be twice what this one was. And we’ve broken everything in your house.” Hastings is locked upstairs in his secret hiding room, and he must think the world is coming to an end. His two least favorite things - loud banging noises and vacuuming - have been going on all day. (Adda said he’s sure we’re down here building a cat guillotine.) But he’s going to have hours of high-quality powersniffing tonight.

I had dinner Saturday night with the Blogtown All-Stars, minus Myküll (Rebecky, Jesse and Mr. and Mrs. Pinky). We ate at Panang, a new Pan-Asian Sino-Thai Confusion restaurant in Chapel Hill, in the building formerly occupied by the much-missed Pyewacket. (There were guys at the bar who used to hang out at Pyewacket, which really confuses me since Pyewacket was cool and welcoming and Panang has an ambience you normally find only at airports and theme parks.)

I have a standard of service inherited from my German-born restaurateur grandfather, and it’s hard to match these days in any place charging less than $150 for a meal. Panang nearly blew my gaskets. It’s only been open for a week or so, but still, you would think they might have mastered the art of the water glass by now. While we were trying to figure out which darting apparition with a notepad was assigned to our table, we watched a conversation between a patron and the hostess. We couldn’t hear what was said, but it was obvious from the body language that the words “ridiculous,” “incompetent” and “never coming back” were used. People at bare tables all around us gazed about helplessly like shipwreck survivors. Several times one of the black-clad underwaiters came up to our table and, very pleasantly, said things like, “You still don’t have your food?” and “You still don’t have your check?” with a bemused look that indicated he had as little control over the situation as we did. Food did show up randomly throughout the course of the two and a half hours we were there, and often it was what we ordered. Ridiculous. Incompetent. Never coming back.

The evening did have considerable charms, though, thanks to the company. We played one of my favorite restaurant games: everybody picks an item from the menu and uses that name for the rest of the evening. (I did this at Acme once with my friend Bill and his wife Jana. Bill was Sweet Butter Biscuit and I was Lime Rickey. We decided he was a middleweight boxer and I was his manager.) Saturday, Rebecky was Coconut Fried Rice, Jesse was Yam Pot, Mr. Pinky was Curry Mee and I was Volcano Pork Chop. (I always pick mine before I suggest the game.) And Pinky? Pinky was Pi Pa Duck. Of course she was. A Pi Pa Duckier person I’ve never met.

I Don't Know Much About Art, But I Don't Know Much About Weights and Measures Either

what is it with me and animal noses?

Hastings has now decided that I feed him every time I stand up. He's stepped up the "how about a snack?" meow to the "I'm calling the animal protection society, bastard" meow. Every time I put food in his bowl, he spins around and fixes me with this look that I could never figure out. Was he worried that I was going to take it away? Now I realize the look means, "Leave the bag, monkey boy. And it's only your thumbs that are keeping you alive."

My friend Bronwyn Merritt has an art show at the Durham Arts Council, and if you can, you should definitely check it out. Primo and I went to the opening, where we ran into Phil Marsupialtuxedo. In between eating all of the little cubes of cheese, we managed to check out the art. Primo bought this piece, which is nice because I'll get to see it in his house.

Bronwyn's husband The Chairman was on hand, and I asked him to give me his best Krusty the Clown