Category: Life

As part of a Father’s Day craft, my six-year-old was asked a series of questions about his father which someone transcribed onto a piece of paper which my son decorated with stickers and his handwritten name.

He got the name and age right for me, and for my job, he answered “Office” which is a pretty fair description as I am not a professional hockey player.

However, when asked the question If my Dad was a superhero he would be[sic], my son replied Robin.

Now, it’s bad enough that my son did not choose a respectable Marvel superhero like Spider-Man, The Thing, Iron Man, Captain America, Quasar, or Speedball. No, he chose a DC superhero.

Worse, he chose a sidekick. A DC sidekick, I’d like to add. Not a respectable Marvel sidekick like Nomad, the Falcon, or Bucky.

But the unkindest cut of all: My children know who Nightwing is.

That’s right.

Not only am I a DC sidekick, albeit the best known sidekick in the entire DC galaxy (I refuse to call it a universe or mythos (which I call the Marvel milieu to put it on par with Greek, Roman, Egyptian, and Norse mythologies, all of which the Marvel mythos has subsumed)).

But I’m not even the best Robin there is. I’m not the Dick Grayson Robin, I’m the Jason Todd Robin.

I don’t know what I’ve done to turn the child against me so.

Behold, the cartoonish Maison Martin Margiela Artisanal corset and veil embroidered with found objects featured in the most recent WSJ magazine:

It looks like that poor girl was first dipped in a glue vat and then fell into a junk drawer.

The model, the beautiful Sam Rollinson, looks as though she’s in on the joke with us.

Nobody would really buy something like that and wear it, ainna?

I don’t go dancing much these days, not that I ever did, but I really had only one set of moves.

I called them The Azathoth.

Because I danced like A GOD.

Also, because humans who viewed the eldritch and inarticulate gyrations to the unholy beat of the indifferent cosmos instead of the music tended to be stricken with madness at the sight of arms gyrithing like tentacles and a head nodding and grinning like an arisen Great Old One.

I was literally a terror on the dance floor.

When I was young, I set Seeing Halley’s Comet again as a personal goal. I mean, let’s face it, the last go-round was less than spectacular. I might have seen it one night/morning from the porch of the mobile home where I was living at the time, but I might have only hoped that the blur I thought I saw was it.

But now that we’re in the 21st century, I’m setting my goals a little higher: Now, I want to enjoy the millennial celebration of The Battle of Hastings.

Yes, I know: These events are only five years apart some fifty years hence.

But:

To celebrate the latter, I’ll have to obtain a passport at the very least. At the not-quite-worst, I’ll have to convert to a rival religion as well.

Eh, ask me again in thirty years, when this blog will still be chugging slowly along on the old timey Internet they had in the twenties. The 2020s.

At a sales pitch this weekend, we were asked to fill out a worksheet with this leading question:

Strangely enough, I did not answer good grammar or proofreading.

But the top three values in life are:

1. To crush your enemies.
2. To see them driven before you.
3. To hear the lamentation of their women.

Needless to say, I was not the easiest touch in the room.

Continue reading “The Obvious Answer” →

The City of Springfield is auctioning off an old police car, and it could be mine for $500:

You know you want it. I want it just so I could say “It’s got a cop motor… cop tires… cop suspension… cop shocks…”

However, you know if you bought an old cop car, you wouldn’t be jumping draw bridges with it. You’d be constantly in a pack of cars on the highway doing four miles an hour below the speed limit because they thought you were looking for speeders.

So I’ll pass on asking for it for Father’s Day.

The local Farm and Home store offers a suggestion for Father’s Day gifts:

Grills, smokers, and dog kennels.

For the record, if my children read this, I have a grill and a smoker and do not need a dog kennel.

Tam K. says she’s no technical writer, but she dreamed of it:

Anyhow, how I wound up with this gig I don’t know, because technical writing really isn’t my bag, baby. And I was getting all bogged down in nomenclature arguments about everything from pistol parts to horse tack.

You can tell she’s not a real technical writer. Real technical writers don’t get bogged down in what technical terms to use; they just rearrange the sentences provided by the engineers without comprehending the content or terms.

No, real technical writers get bogged down in Times New Roman versus Garamond.

Take my word for it. I’ve sat in multi-hour meetings hashing it out.

The soccer and baseball fields behind the YMCA now sport a convenient ramp for the handicapped:

It’s nice that the YMCA has expended its money to give those in wheeled conveyances access to the ball fields so that they can watch the children’s sports leagues, but I’m not sure how practical it is. After all, once they’re up the curb, they’re still in a field, and fields don’t look to be that easy to traverse in a wheelchair or a Hoveround chair.

Neoneocon has a lost picture of Marilyn Monroe lifting weights, and I feel like less of a man.

In the photo, she’s working with an empty bar, but it has the weight collars on.

And I am shamed.

You see, my freshman year of high school, students in gym class could opt out of the normal activities to go down to the weight room beneath the high school stage and pump iron. On a couple of occasions, my friend Jim (who would later become the Goth King of St. Louis) and I would go down at my urging. I remember distinctly being unable to lift the bar for bench presses with the collars on, but if we took the collars off, I could lift the empty bar a couple of times.

And here’s tiny Marilyn Monroe besting me. Or a me of thirty years ago.

Somebody get me a protein shake. And one for Monroe, for Pete’s sake.

The songs that were current when Richard Simmons made his first Sweatin’ to the Oldies video are actually oldies now.

And Richard Simmons is will celebrate his sixty-sixth birthday this year. But I sense that nothing makes him feel old.

My five-year-old came downstairs at six-thirty this morning. “I had a good dream,” he said, pleased.

“What did you dream about?” I asked. What kind of narrative would have he built in his nocturnal slumber?

“There were volcanoes.”

“Volcanoes?” I asked.

“We had ice cream,” he added. And that’s all I got out of him.

I’ve been blogging for over ten years now, but I’ve been sharing my opinion for longer than that.

In the late 1990s, I had a little email newsletter called “The Cynic Express(d)” which I sent out to a couple dozen people. I’d started it back when I was on America Online and fished out a list of people who had “cynic” in their profiles (I was spamming before spamming was cool, then uncool). I made a Web page to store and serve up these emails (and, as I mention often, I thought “Hey, wouldn’t it be cool if I could just type the content in and have a database back-end serve up the content in the Web page?” thus inventing the blog except for the part where I put effort into inventing the blog). Instead, I hand-coded (hand-copied and pasted) each page as an HTML file. And when I redesigned the site, I’d have to hand-edit all the pages.

I moved off of AOL at some point and onto Postnet, which is the ISP that the St. Louis Post-Dispatch ran back in the day. At which point I hand-edited all the files and changed the URLs. (Frankly, I’ve never gotten relative URLs to work just right, so I’ve always relied on absolute URLs.)

At any rate, I have adjusted the URLs again and have made the site available again just as it was in 1999: Presenting, again, The Cynic Express(d) (Later, the Cynic Express(ed):

The site also includes a couple of book reviews and the columns I wrote for the Marquette Tribune (my college news paper) in 1991-1992.

Going back over them, I’m nostalgic for the times and anecdotes I cover in them. I’m also startled a bit about how much I’m going on about the same things that I do today. Government health care makes an appearance, of course, and Ellen Degeneres… Remember her sitcom was cancelled fifteen years ago. The real question I leave you with is… Why has Ellen Degeneres not aged in fifteen years?

UPDATE: Thanks for the link, Ms. K. Unfortunately, my old AOL pages seem to have eluded the Wayback Machine. But I’ve got them collecting dust on my current hard drive ready for exhumation in due time.

Hey, VftP readers, you’ve already heard me pitch my novel John Donnelly’s Gold and The Courtship of Barbara Holt, hey? They’re available for the Kindle at .99 or in paperback. I gotta keep flogging them if I want to get to the milestones of 100 copies and 6 copies respectively. Thanks!

So I was taking my urchins to school yesterday, and I was behind this pickup with a brake light out. He’ll never see it, of course, since he’s sitting in the truck with his foot on the brake when the failure occurs. I could have let him know by getting out at a stop light and tapping on his window, but that’s a good way to get an sudden leaden tracheotomy in these parts.

Then I thought to myself, you know, if only I could text to him based on his license plate. I’d send something to KC0WUT, and if he logged into it, he could get the message. He could also set his cell number to get the messages delivered as texts. It could be helpful for these sorts of “You don’t see it, but….” Kids–although kids don’t drive or cruise much these days–could use them while cruising to flirt. And, yes, there’d be a lot of griefers complaining about driving, but people would have to log in to get the messages, so it would definitely be opt-in in nature.

I told my beautiful wife about it over lunch, and we spitballed some requirements. She didn’t immediately tut-tut the crazy idea, so maybe it wasn’t so crazy after all.

And then Charles Hill, destroyer of dreams, posted a link to the story “‘Girls were desperate to track me (and my £170k Ferrari) down – so I invented an app to make it easier for them!’ Businessman, 58, launches service that finds dates using number plates“:

The app which allows admirers to contact any car owner in the country. All you do is sign up to the website or app and send a message or a ‘wave’ to any registration plate.

Kinda like what I imagined, but less focused on the getting-laid-because-I-have-a-Ferrari thing.

Come on, Charles, did you have to post it the same day I had the idea? Couldn’t you have waited a couple days?

Anyone want to hear again the story about how I thought up a database-driven Web content display mechanism that let users enter posts which were rendered in HTML in reverse chronological order in 1997? I have the ideas, but not the programming skill nor enough money to afford a Ferrari and a team of developers to implement them.

You Never Move Your Settler! – Opening Strategy Splits Civ V Studio:

“What?! Are you crazy?! You never do that! You fool!”

People got a little crazy during a routine design meeting in the Firaxis Games offices, where the developers of Civilization V take strategy very seriously. A designer talking about his recent playthrough to a large group of his gathered colleagues casually mentioned he didn’t like the starting position of his settler so he moved it that turn to look for greener pastures. The reaction was immediate. Half the designers in the room erupted in anger and disbelief – while the other half vehemently defended the move. They ditched what the meeting was supposed to be about, and instead argued for or against a specific move in the first turn of a Civ game. Clearly, this issue was very important. Sid Meier once said that all good games were a series of interesting decisions, and it’s a testament to the power of Civilization that even the first decision could evoke such a strong reaction in the current Civ team at Firaxis.

I don’t play Civ V because, well, when I got it, it challenged my computer, and, secondly, the Steam login every time I started my computer was a pain and its TSR components lingered and impacted my machine’s performance even when I wasn’t playing the game. Also, I’m feeling a little old to learn new game concepts after, what, a decade on Civ IV?

But I don’t tend to move my settler the first move unless I’m moving off of a desert or frost square onto a better grassland or plain square where I can still build my first city on the first turn.

I also have a host of other bad habits, such as playing the easiest level even after a decade on it. In Civ II, I am pretty sure I tried upping the difficulty, but I just dabble in this game, and a long (or short) frustrating learning-style game just wouldn’t satisfy me. So I also abandon a lot of games early when I don’t start in a strong enough position.

Because I’m doing this to be entertained, not to learn something.

With McDonald’s recent innovations in having double order boxes in their drive-through lanes but still only one set of windows, they’ve codified a practice that should fill them with shame: asking someone in the car to please pull forward.

Let’s unpack just how disparate these words are when jumbled together.

For starters, once you’ve been asked to park, it’s not longer a drive-thru. Man, how I hate to misspell it to keep up with the current marketing-based illiteracy. But if you park your car and someone brings you your food, it’s car-hop service, not a drive through. I go to a drive through because I want immediacy. I want to grab a sack of food I’ll regret later and be on my way. I don’t want a moment to reflect on the significance of signage at McDonald’s. If I had this much time, I’d have stopped at Sonic.

Priority? Obviously, my priority was continuing to keep in motion. If we’d adhered to my priorities, I’d be a mile or so down the county highway by now. No, my sitting here fits with McDonald’s priorities of getting more money in the cash register inside the window by shuttling people through with ever-increasing speed. Obviously, it’s past the point where they can adequately service the customers in a timely fashion. Also, note I’m parked in the second pull-ahead spot. I’m not even the top priority among the secondary priority customers.

A drive-through pick-up? The very concept wars with itself. And it’s not a pick-up except when I’m parked there. It’s a quick toss of a sack through the car window before the employee runs back into the McDonald’s before you discover the error in the order. At the normal drive-through window, you can sort through the sack and account for the received goods. If there’s a discrepancy–because, as Leo Goetz says, they make mistakes in the drive-through–you’re right there at the window to demand remediation.

When you’re at #2 Drive-Thru Priority Pick-Up and the employee has run back inside and out the back door for a smoke break, you’ve got to further impede your vehicular progress by exiting your car and going inside to get your missing cheeseburger.

Suddenly, your exclusive “priority” “drive-through” experience involves walking into the store.

Bah. I’m glad I’ve mostly put drive-through dining in my rear view mirror.

Tam K. on collecting the old-fashioned way:

(I’m not going the internet auction site route, because it always feels to me like the gun collecting equivalent of hunting over a baited field. It’d be like having a computerized database of exactly what old sports cars are in which barns across the country, or having clear wrapping paper on your Christmas presents.)

In all the various things I collect and/or accummulate, I generally limit myself to things I find in the wild at garage sales, estate sales, flea markets, and the occasional antique mall. I could hit eBay and fill out my collections easily and, sadly, start new collections too easily. But that’s so… cold. I get a lot of satisfaction in digging around and finding something on my own and holding it in my hands.

So much of collecting is hunting for things, of almost getting them but not quite. The thrill of finding a stash of Herb Alpert albums in an estate sale, the brief hope that it will include You Smile – The Song Begins but finding it only includes the best sellers from the 1960s. That little disappointment will sweeten the triumph if I ever do find it.

Collecting comes with stories about collecting. Stories about estate sales you’ve seen, different homes you’ve visited and explored while looking, different things you’ve bought. Ask me about my Robert B. Parker collection, and I won’t tell you about the advanced reading copies, television scripts, and limited edition numbered copies I bought on eBay. I’ll tell you about the hour and a half I spent in the 18-and-older back room of a downtown Milwaukee bookstore scouring through shelves of men’s magazines (blushing the whole time, I’m sure) to find a copy of the Gallery magazine from May 1984 featuring Parker’s short story “The Surrogate”. Thankfully, I found one and included it among a stack of other lesser books picked up because I hoped, foolishly, to camouflage the men’s magazine amongst them. But the clerk knew what I was doing. Of course he would.

Finding that sort of thing on the Internet ain’t collecting. It’s buying.

Also, let’s be honest, you don’t find bargains on Internet auction sites. Most of the power sellers know the maximum price the market will bear, and many of the inexperienced sellers price their articles above what the market will bear. What I want, I want cheap. Generally.

Hey, don’t you work for a company that helps collectors more effectively leverage the Internet to add to their collections? Yeah, I know. But my preferred style is still in-person. And the service will let me hunt for other people, which can be almost as fun as hunting for myself.

P.S. I was going to ding Ms. K for adding to her collection by going to gun shows, quipping that gun shows or any other collectible shows are the low-tech equivalent of Internet marketplaces, but I can’t take a collectior-than-thou stance here given my affinity for book fairs. Besides, shows are opportunities for fellowship, and Internet marketplaces are not.

P.P.S. To further undercut my point, during my research for this post, I found a copy of Gallery from May 1984 listed on Amazon for ten bucks. So I bought it. BECAUSE I MUST OWN THEM ALL.