Giving Umbrage

Lists.

I am a believer in making lists… not the kind of list that will get you ‘on’ a list (e.g., list of most explosive fertilizers, or list of Yemeni based charities)…just lists of things that define your own brand of crazy.  Maybe it’s basic, like things you love or hate, or maybe it’s more eccentric like ‘Top Ten Things I Do When Nobody is Looking”, “Favorite Venereal Diseases Named after Flowers”, “Situations Where it is Permissible for a Man to Order a Cosmo” etc. 

 

I haven’t added these lists to the blog and may not as I have a sane persona to uphold to the professional world and realistically, who cares what I think the ten stickiest foods are?  Additionally, Facebook has bastardized lists with neutered versions of what is interesting.  Nobody cares what your favorite movies are…nobody.  People may care how you ‘choose’ movies, for example…I never, ever, rent a movie with three people smiling on the movie box cover: chic-flick from hell.

 

So, I started a new list which currently only has one entry.  I finally found ‘the’ song I want to hear if I ever go crazy (unlikely, but you need to prepare).  This song encapsulates how you should ‘feel’ as the straps are synched and you are loaded into the van.  As I peer out the chicken wire, this is the catchy tune I would like to rock back and forth to.  So begins my list of ‘Top Ten Songs for Hospital Admittance’.  I have nine more openings for this list so feel free to share.

 

 

Incredible Breaking News...

I have learned rather quickly that the blogosphere has standards, especially the few miscreants that may be reading this dribble.  It’s clear that this tiny crowd, or platoon, takes umbrage with the provided umbrage when I dabble in the stale - there seem to be expectations, which is a bit unfortunate as this is the reason I blog, to escape all the daily expectations. 

The comments, emails and prank calls received as a result of Balloon Boy Closure were the equivalent of a web-based tasering.  I will therefore not attempt to post breaking news on Letterman and have retired gut-busting thoughts on other current events (e.g., Britney Spears, the Hindenburg, etc.,).   I have also learned that cynical is good, dark is better but, ‘winey’ just leads to comparisons with Andy Rooney – which is not exactly the goal.  Finally, I apologize that certain umbrage is created late at night and may lack vision and sentence construction – damn, that was winey (Rooney!).

As a token of good faith and noting it’s rather early in the a.m., I am quickly addressing a current event – the NWA Laptop Pilots.  The thought here is simply this - I have never felt more secure about flying.  All this headline proves to me is that flying is the easiest thing on the planet.  It’s so freaking easy that it’s possible to forget to land.  I also can’t think of a single additional vehicle you can operate while on your laptop…not your car, not a riding lawnmower, not even a skateboard.  My next twitter may be, ‘hey look, no hands, I am flying a plane right now.’

Please note that I use 'Breaking News' loosely.  I often get behind in the day to day events so anything that happens this month is considered potentially 'Breaking'.

Balloon Closure

T. Cruise would call me ‘glib’ for this tired post but I need closure on Balloon Boy and the Buffoon Family (it’s been a long week).  I am not averse to a good hoax, just the immeasurable stupidity of poor execution.

First, every 6 year-old on earth is a KGB trained double agent, bouncing between wide-eyed truth telling and artful lie peddling. They cannot be trusted under any circumstances – not with the silly or mundane and certainly, not with national secrets.  These are people that are forced to watch TV shows starring 7 ft yellow birds, slightly skewing their ability to discern truth and reality. 

The point is - if (or when) I had an elaborate family hoax, the last person in the family to receive the final black ops details would be my 6 year-old.   She can’t keep a secret, cracks under pressure and will tell you, ‘unicorns came and stole my cat’ - just because she is bored. 

More importantly, once a family hoax is in full swing, I would never, under any circumstances, show up on Larry King Live.  I wouldn’t even show up on Larry King if there were no hoax at all and I had won a sweepstakes to be on the show.  Larry King could ask my daughter her name and I have no idea what she would say:

Larry:  “What a day for you little girl, all this attention, how are you feeling?”

My 6 year-old: “My dad watches TV naked and feeds my brother cigarette butts.” - ‘no’, none of this is true.

Before signing off on this subject, let’s at least mention the other lesson from this ridiculous story - roving reporters aren’t always the smartest lot.  First, the title ‘roving’ is reserved for reporters that upper management doesn’t want at the channel nerve center; mainly, because their hair and dental work are not suitable for extended close-up.   I actually love the footage of the Denver-based ‘roving reporter’ sprinting to the balloon landing site, breathing heavily, dirt kicking up from his heals…focused, alert.  As he anxiously takes his groundbreaking footage and the commentary begins, you can’t help but ask…so, um, er’, there is a boy in that tinfoil picnic basket?

Cut me some slack, it’s been a long week.  

Twitter Me This Batman...

There are so many riddles in this life…mysteries of the cosmos, random acts seemingly without purpose (e.g., Coke Zero, that thing that hangs down in the back of your throat, ‘Smart’ cars, any joke ever told by Leno, etc,).   Currently, the most baffling thing to me is Twitter - I don’t understand ‘following’, ‘followers’, ‘Tweets’, Ashton Kutcher or the point.  

 

My Twitter disconnect may be driven, in part, by the fact that I recently setup a Twitter account and froze-up before I could get my first ‘Tweet’ out.  Obviously, I don’t have a problem blogging, but when it comes to sending the world a message regarding my activities ‘right now’ – I freeze.  It’s like the curtain comes up, the warm spotlight hits my face, and I just hear feedback from the microphone…followed by a guy coughing in the back row.  I stare at my blinking cursor and realize I don’t even know what I am actually doing at that moment.  Strange.

 

I finally sent one Tweet out, entitled ‘test’ – not, ‘my test results are in’ or ‘I am getting testy over this’, just ‘test’.  So funny enough, I have ‘followers’ as a result…I have no idea how, or why, or even whether I have met them.  For example, I know a girl named Giselle in Illinois is following me…do I owe her money?  I keep looking over my shoulder to see if a woman in an Illini sweatshirt is positioned strategically behind a mailbox or peeking over a garbage can… following me.   It’s unsettling to have ‘followers’ – I understand subscribing to a blog but don’t ‘follow’ me.  That said, I guess it’s better than having ‘watchers’, watching me.

 

The bottom line is this – nobody, really, is that interesting and, more importantly… nobody really cares that you just bought a latte’ or finished your workout.  In my struggles to understand this torturous new bit of techno-communicato, I did manage to identify a few examples of what ‘may’ be considered worthy of a Tweet:

• Tweet right as you rush the President’s motorcade with your son’s orange plastic pistol.  I want to know how you feel and what's happening RIGHT THEN. 
• Tweet as you push a briefcase full of flour across the table to seven stoic, heavily armed, Russian gentlemen.  Once you take their cash and they open it…Tweet, so I know how you feel and what’s happening RIGHT THEN.
• Tweet as your children under the age of 7 watch the Thriller video for the first time.

In the end, the fact that over one million people follow Ashton Kutcher’s Tweets each day is, I believe, one of the signs that the apocalypse is near.  Forget the Mayan calendar’s projections for 2012, as well as, the cloud of locusts in your backyard – be afraid that we care, as a collective, what A..s..h..t..o..n… K..u..t..c..h..e..r is doing RIGHT NOW.  I am off to buy a latte’.

 

 

Vampires, Witches and Michael Jackson

As Halloween approaches, it seems appropriate that I reflect on the fears of my children and the role my actions may or not play in their blanket clutching nightmares.   Most families will sit around the dinner table this Halloween discussing the various horrifying attributes of mummies, vampires, Bigfoot, and/or witches - at my house we will sit eerily staring at each other, waiting for the next Michael Jackson story.  The King of Pop is the King of Darkness in my house and it’s my fault.

To properly understand this strange situation it’s important to note that I have a unique desire to pay tribute. I am a sucker for a good retrospective or montage and have been known to look for reasons to mourn or propose a toast; ‘A moment of silence to the passing of Gilligan.’ was once uttered by me in 2005 shortly after Bob Denver died. When the Gloved-One passed on in June, I took the liberty of embarking on a weeklong personal retrospective of MJ.  This celebration included sitting my kids down and explaining the importance of Michael and the Jackson 5 – notably leaving out certain sordid details and without mention of Jermaine Jackson or McCauley Culkin. 

So, what better way to expose them to the genius of MJ than the zenith of all music video performances – Thriller.   I hadn’t seen the video since approximately 1990 and from vague recollection thought it might be ‘thrilling’ but not utterly terrifying.   As I dial the video up on TV, Finn (3) and Ella (6) sit with eager anticipation.  Shortly thereafter, silence overtakes the room as the first scene unfolds.

 

Knowing I have just gained 13 minutes, I rush to the washer and dryer to switch the laundry.  As I frantically sort my unmentionables…I continue to notice the disturbing silence in the other room and then, a…blood-curdling scream.  This was not the screech of a girl who had dropped her ice-cream cone but the scream of a teenage girl sitting front row at the Beatles in 1967.   I rush to the room to find Ella in a suspended scream state staring and screaming…and screaming.  I turn to look at the screen and well, it started coming back to me – ‘yes,’ Michael Jackson turning into a werewolf with bulging yellow eyes in the first scene is, in fact, ‘scary’.  Finn is stupefied and rebooting; I imagine his mind is projecting a spinning hourglass followed by two short beeps.  I was able to calm them down by quickly changing our retrospective to an open forum on the greatest achievements of the Wiggles.  Ella then summed up her frustration, “DAD! You shouldn’t show little kids stuff like that!”  I wasn’t sure what was more disturbing – the fact I actually showed them the video or the fact that Ella had determined it her duty to chastise me in the name of little kids around the world – oddly sophisticated. 

I dropped them off at their mom’s place praying they didn’t mention the debacle during the transition.  As I ushered them into the house, I spoke quickly and made distracting observations about their cat and their mother’s cooking skills.  I will hand it to my ex-wife though – after I left it took 2 minutes to piece the story together and send me an email with nothing in the body of the text – only the subject line “Thriller?”.  What more was there to say?

The first three minutes of Thriller has taken up permanent residence in their tiny psyches – like ancient hieroglyphs to be seen in perpetuity on the walls of their little mental caves.  In the weeks to come, shadowy Michael would repeatedly come up in conversation: 

-      Tucking Finn into bed…he monotonely inquires, “Is Michael Jackson going to come get us?” 

-      “No Finn, the Man in the Mirror is not coming for you.” I reply.

-      Ella then proceeds to blankly ask, “Dad, can you check the closet for Michael Jackson.”

 

 

Colorado Balloon Boy: Father's Day Comes Early...

I am currently throwing out anything in my house that may be inflatable and disregarding all boxes in my attic.  I know, I don't have an attic... but I don't want one now, ever.  I am also permanently putting on hold the family spaceship and time travel projects.  I WILL NOT have my kid on national TV with millions and millions of people watching say, basically, "I was hiding in the closet while the ENTIRE WORLD looked for me because I didn't want my dad to yell at me."  OMG!  I wish Harry Chapin was alive so I could call him and request that another verse to 'Cats in the Cradle' be added.  I need a drink.

This is the kind of thing that will make any dad wake-up in the middle of the night with cold sweats. Even Joe Jackson is at home thinking, 'thank God I am not THAT guy.'  

Note 1 - I am really glad that kid is ok.

Note 2 - ONLY in Colorado.

Note 3 - I don't have a post under the 'Travel' category so I have affectionately filed as such.

Flu-Mist vs. Flu-Shot

I went to get a flu shot a few days ago and the nurse kindly gave me the choice between i) a needle sure to send a small tear down my cheek; and ii) a harmless looking nose spray.   Are you kidding – that’s a no-brainer, right? Knowing I wasn’t getting poked, I sat gleefully while both of my willing nostrils were misted.  Wow, they figured out how to take seeds out of watermelons and now this.

 

Then I learned the difference between the shot and the mist – I know, I know, I should have asked beforehand.  The nurse proceeded to tell me she had sent a ‘live’ virus up my nose - but not to worry because the virus had been ‘weakened’.  Weakened?  Weakened by what… a 10 day bender, poor healthcare, low blood sugar?  Huh?  The vaccine, as you know, is different as it has old dead virus carcasses in it….not festering vengeful fellows.

 

Shortly after the misting, I could feel the virus climbing up my nasal passage and I swear I heard him yodeling – I may have even heard ‘Riiiiccccola!!!!’ - I don’t think sore throats were in his bag of tricks so what did he care.  Regardless, he certainly was not ‘weakened’.  I envision he had spent the last several months in that little plastic mist bottle doing push-ups, pull-ups and sending secret messages to the outside world that directed hits on the healthy.  I also think he was pissed he was even referred to as ‘weakened’.  I could feel this stuff eating my brain and ‘yes’, I got sick or at least worked over a bit by him and his friends. 

 

I obviously recovered but I don’t get it – I wouldn’t go to the Congo to get bit by a monkey in an attempt to ward off HIV?  I think there should be proof the virus is weakened; like a picture on the label of just how weak the virus ‘in that particular bottle’ is…I want to see him in there with a walker, playing bingo, or pleading for his life with other germ bullies.  I don’t want to peer into the mist bottle and see him flexing to show me his ‘mom’ tattoo.  Next time, I get the vaccine. <sniff>

Circus -

Had the unique opportunity of taking Finn and Ella to the ‘Ringling Brothers Circus’ on Saturday.  Not sure what happened to Barnum and Bailey, I think they must have been sold to Bank of America in the shake-up – regardless, it was noticeable to me.

 A few observations:

•         Clowns aren’t funny - maybe because I haven’t slept a full night since watching Poltergeist in 1982.  I am convinced that most clowns either have a collection of human heads in their basement freezer or are pedophiles.   That said, an injured clown is sort of funny and I would also like to ride around on the mini-motorcycle at some point – probably easier to become a Shriner.
•         Ironically, the lead clown chastised me for using my cell phone right before the show started.  Huh!?  You’re a freaking clown man!  Next time I am wearing a water shooting flower on my lapel and filling it with Drano to squirt at this guy when he gives me his disapproving clown look.  And, ‘yes’ the look was disapproving even with the goofy painted smile.   And ‘yes’ this is ironic; for all those silly Alanis Morissette, language nerd, critics out there:  rain on your wedding day – not ironic; clowns chastising you for cellphone use – ‘ironic’. 
•        Has all hubbub around feeling sorry for circus elephants been blown out of proportion? – it’s just a question.  If they are so smart they must know it’s a pretty good deal to get handwashed each day, stuffed full of peanuts - and not have to worry about either lions, dried up watering holes, civil unrest or someone hacking off your tusks.  One winked at me, I saw it.  
•      I felt badly for the tigers.  Eventually, they will get a hold of that mean little whip snapping Russian dude ordering them around – it’s just a matter of time before they are picking their teeth with his femur.    Funny how the lights went out and it was pitch black as they brought the cages in and loaded them into the ring.  Even the elephants were like, “man that sucks.”
•        I bought lemonade in a plastic thing and it cost me $9.  The Ringling Brothers are shrewd bastards.  I was offended by this until…(see next bullet).
•       Seizure sticks – what the hell is with these plastic toys that have spinning lights and glowing orbs?  When did this happen – why do I see these at every public event?  When did some sadistic fellow in the Changzhou Province figure out this is just what fat U.S. kids need?   Ugh, I had promised Ella and Finn one and upon inquiring into how much the pink princess wand with the spinning, glowing star was….I stood stunned - $20!?  We bought two and I had to sit the rest of the show with a plastic spoon in my mouth - just in case I had a seizure.
•        The woman spinning from the ceiling on the bed sheets (ala Cirque du Soleil) was warmly accepted by all the fathers in the crowd.   Just an observation, the Ringling Sisters wouldn’t have approved.
•       There were no small people, dwarves or whatever they are called these days.  Not sure why I thought there would be, probably hazy memories of Lalapalooza 94’ mixed up with the Circus. 

In the end, they enjoyed it and that’s the goal.  Even if Finn slept through two people flying 120 feet after being shot out of cannons – he was smiling on the way home.  

Week 1: this internet thing may catch on...

So this thing has been live a week and it’s a fairly nice outlet from the 24/7 work-life imbalance.  I have had some fair interest (or shock) from a few of you, so for now I will continue to occasionally throw some dribble out there until I annoy everyone.  Once that happens, I will just create an email account on Yahoo under the name ‘Ted’ and visit the blog repeatedly myself.   Ted’s got friends too. 

As this moves forward, I am told it’s better if people ‘follow me’ – button to right, instead of just periodically visiting.  It doesn’t mean we need to wear matching jumpsuits and have an annual meeting in Waco, TX – just that you may visit more than once.  I also promise I won’t send you Amway coupons or watch you through your computer camera. 

The next steps are to pimp this out a bit and understand how all this Internet jive works.  So far, I have figured out that you can add ‘widgets’ which is a problem.  I am a very poor judge as to how much is too much or too little in life – so expect curve feelers, fuzzy dice and hydraulics added until someone squirms and tells me ‘maybe not’.    That said, I have taken the liberty of adding my first widget – the ‘listen now’ button.   If you press this button you get a neutered version of C3PO reading whatever is written.   I am not sure why people need this; maybe it’s for the visually impaired?  Maybe people have C3PO fetishes and I should write some dirty robot material?  Regardless, I am short on blind friends - which I am now for some reason feeling guilty about.   So try it out - it’s fun to have C3PO read, especially when he gets to ‘hmmmm’s’ in which case he quite literally sounds out each letter – I think we can have some fun with this.  R2D2. 

Ok, enough for now.  Coming soon, expect a ‘polling widget’ to the right side of the screen.  I don’t know what I will poll, maybe whether people think it’s cooler to die by guillotine or snakebite? – maybe not.  It’s got to be interesting though, no politics; everyone hate’s George Bush, I get it.  Send me an idea if you have it and you can even comment below.      

Cheers -

Costco

Being recently divorced and the primary breadwinner, I have had to make several financial changes to support my small village of expensive dependents – something I am honored to do.  The cost cutting and bargain shopping have sent me down strange new paths, like this whole Costco thing.  I won’t waste much time with this topic as it’s a well worn path in popular culture.  All that said, I am disappointed the math-minded, engineer types, haven’t cracked the code on the Costco theorem.  It has occurred to me that there must be a mathematical way of proving that I don’t save money shopping at this place - which by the way feels like buying groceries in Dante’s seventh ring of hell.  

 

After a recent Costco expedition, I stood in my kitchen admiring my newly purchased jar of pickles which was, by my estimates, the approximate size of an Iowa corn silo.  After eating 30 to 40 pickles I thought, “hmmmm, I just ate 30 to 40 pickles.”   I then opened my Jurassic Park size bag of Cheezits and at the same increased consumption rate – ate Cheezits.  This was followed by a few extra glasses of wine - why not, I got a case.  A few days later I noticed that the garbage bag full of lettuce I purchased was browning a bit and I never did make it to the bottom of my UN famine relief size jar of Mayo.

 

If I could get one of my egghead friends to play with a formula, we could probably prove the Costco savings myth by taking, say…i) increased consumption rate; and ii) wasted food rate, divided by say, saving cost per unit….I know we could crack the code on this thing.  In this process we would probably uncover that the whole operation is run by the Free Masons.  Alright, enough for now, I am off to eat another pickle.  Anyone want a Tootsie Roll? – I have several thousand.