Archive for category Rant
I’m taking a very very brief moment out of today’s work-family-oh-did-I-mention-it’s-the-last-day-of-school-writing-like-a-panicking-fiend schedule today to address something very very near and dear to my heart.
Just in case you weren’t aware, the internet is as full of animated images as your aunt Glenda’s house is full of cats, mothballs, and canned produce that looks like snot. Some of you might even know the name of the format for those animations. For those that don’t, they’re called “gif” files, which is an acronym for Graphics Interchange Format. And if that’s not the kind of sterile, technical thing a geek would name something, I don’t know what is.
It never ceases to amaze me how every time I start with something small and intentionally shallow, I end up contemplating it hours later in a completely different way.
Case in point, yesterday’s post about finding “Aquaman” scrawled across the door frame of a men’s room in New England was intended to be this quick, one shot thing. I’d just post a camera phone picture and hammer out a few dozen words about it, and just like that – Wham! Bam! Thank You, Bob’s Your Uncle…
Err, wait, I think I messed that up.
Anyway, whatever, I’d be right back to putting words together for Secret Project: Other Thing.
Which, by the way, is coming right along, as you can see by the progress meter at the right, thank you for asking.
While I was off pretending that I can play hockey Sunday night, the Puddinette, for no reason other than because She. Is. Awesome, made a pan of brownies from scratch.
I’m going to say that again, because it’s important, she made brownies from scratch.
Which means they had actual cocoa and actual eggs and actual flour as opposed to some heavily processed equivalents and a health dose of the magic of modern chemistry.
Ten years ago, I generally thought it was cool when the time rolled around to get a new pair of glasses and update the ol’ vision prescription. In my case, I’ve been rumbling steadily down the road of deteriorating myopia since, um, third grade, which means new specs or contacts every couple years have been the name of the game.
What’s not to love about get new glasses? Few things can so fundamentally change the way people see your face as a new set of specs. And while I tend to wear my contacts more—because I have the light-sensitivity of a garden mole meaning Yay! Sunglasses!—I honestly think I like better with my glasses on. You know, more studious and less confused middle-aged beer drinker.
In case you’re curious, the script for my peepers at the moment puts me at –6, which is bad. To put that in perspective for you, without correction, I couldn’t tell the difference between my mobile phone and a ripe avocado sitting side by side on my desk, a mere 24 inches from my face.
Which is unfortunate, because avocados get worse reception than AT&T.
In the past, this “movie in 100 words or less” thing I try to do has proven pretty difficult. I don’t always have opinions about a given thing, but when I do, my thoughts are rarely either neat or concise. In other words, if you asked me if I thought Daylight Savings Time was the bane of humankind’s existence on Earth or a productive manipulation of the daily clock based on our rotational orbit, I’d respond with a hearty, “Meh,” and then go back to trying to get caught up on DVR’d episodes of Vikings while using this years crop of Easter Peeps to diorama crime scenes from CSI: Miami.
Shut up, it’s not as bad as painting feet and faces on eggs and then using them in stop motion plays with Lego sets. You know who you are.
Given my propensity to ramble, though, if you instead ask me how I feel about sour cream, you might as well pull up a chair and pop some popcorn. Yeah, I won’t be finished with that subject until I’ve popped a capillary or two and I’m foaming at the mouth (short answer: sour cream is ewwww!—but that’s a different post)
Because I’m an Old Guy now, it seemed to me that I should have some Old Guywear. Nothing as frightening as Pat Boone shoes or mid-chest-level pants or anything. But you know, maybe something a dude who was trying to pass himself off as being moderately mature might wear.
You know, like a sport coat to throw with a nice pair of jeans when you go out with your other adult friends, who also aren’t dressed like they staggered out of a goodwill store bleary-eyed one morning.
(Come on, I’m a software guy by trade. We’re not exactly known for our fashion sense.)
My four year-old son, The Attitude, apparently just started a new stage in life. For the last few nights, he’s been slow to get to sleep and has been waking up tearfully in the middle of the night.
Kind of reminds me of my twenties, but let’s not go there.
In my son’s case, I’m afraid it’s worse than a few questionable late night decisions. The poor kid is seeing bugs all around him.
I mean, he’s not really seeing bugs, thank goodness. But unfortunately, there’s just no convincing him that his room is clean and bug free. Even when we turn the lights on and show him it’s just a trick of his eyes in the dark, his 4 year-old brain will not be assuaged.
There are bugs. In his room. At night. Flying around. He is certain.
I should probably be clear, right off the bat, that this “This is 40″ post is, somewhat surprisingly, not about the motion picture This is 40.
Certainly, I have little doubt I’ll get around to doing 100 words on the film eventually, since that kind of adult romantic comedy makes up 90% of the movies the Puddinette and I watch together.
Nonetheless, we’re not talking about that today. Today we’re talking about my age. In four short days, I’m going to turn 40 years old. That kind of seems like a big deal to me. I mean, 30 was, you know whatever. At 30, you still have pretty much no idea what you’re doing with your life, except probably not going to clubs anymore because, damn, the kids are making those places louder and louder and more and more crowded. There are plenty of 30 year-olds still making questionable long-term life choices and acting like fools.
But 40? Forty, man, is officially middle-aged. Forty means you should probably have most of your shit together. Forty is about time to go pick out that ridiculously irresponsible and impractical red sports car that’s so little you have to wedge yourself and your 1920′s-era paperboy-style cap into it with a can of WD-40 and a shoehorn.
Seriously, people, this is why we can’t have nice things. On the very same day that I post that somehow this blog has become a checkpoint of sorts for online pilgrims on a quest to locate some very dark, scary corners of the world wide webs, I find that someone is at it again:
Yes, that’s an actual screenshot of yesterday’s actual search results. Read the rest of this entry »
When you write a blog, it’s easy to forget that yes, in fact, you’re often-too-long-ramblings can, and sometimes will, end up scattered to the four corners of the real world. Well, or at least the “real world” of the internets. Which, you know, is also where people form long-term relationship with “catfish”, and I’m led to understand that’s not to mean actual fish.
I suppose that’s a good thing. That they aren’t actual fish, that is. Although, still.
At any rate, the point is that this is a moderately public soap box, meaning that, at the very least, Google—oh, well, and I guess “other search engines” (as if that were thing anyone cared about)—will frequently catalog the words used and then direct people here when it feels my blog might have some info pertinent to their needs.