Sunday, October 30, 2005

Adventures in late night television

-- On MSNBC, there is a show on right now in which they are talking about hoarding, as in people who are extreme packrats and save everything. I wasn't really listening, but for awhile, I thought they were talking about "whoring." At hours of the night such as this, I am easily confused. Especially when the "whorer" featured is a 13-year old girl named Megan.

For the sole purpose of making myself look really dumb, here's how one sequence occured between myself and the show...

Me: (Sitting reading an article and not paying attention to the TV.)
TV: Blah...blah...blah...whoring (hoarding)...blah...blah.
Me: (Slowly looks up from the computer) What the?
TV: Whoring (hoarding) can be unsafe for the whore (hoarder) and those around her. Meet Megan, a girl who has been whoring (hoarding) for as long as she can remember.
Me: Oh no. Not one of these shows that's going to make me feel bad.
TV: Like most whores (hoarders), Megan doesn't mean to be messy.
Me: OK, WTF?!? What channel is this? Wait...why are they...what are they...what's going on.
TV: Megan, whose stack of gum wrappers grows every day, has been diagnosed with obsessive compulsive disorder.
Me: Oh. Yeah. Hoarders. Not whores.

-- The Home Shopping Network never ceases to amaze me. How they actually sell this junk is beyond me. How they sell actually sell this junk to my mom, who used to record the channel, burns a small hole in my brain.

-- Somebody tell Chris Berman to be quiet. His jokes weren't funny in 1995, and they're still not funny in 2005. It's times like these that make me glad I am very close to never watching ESPN (or at least Sportscenter) again.

-- I've never been kidnapped, but this site says it will extreme kidnap you. It sounds interesting. Basically, you can order a kidnapping for yourself, and they come and take you away. I guess it's better than being kidnapped by the mob. You probably don't have to worry about the whole part that includes being killed, having your body dipped in lye and buried in concrete.

-- And then there's Extreme Ironing. Who knew that ironing could be a competitive sport? I like the description...

Welcome to the home of extreme ironing - the latest danger sport that combines the thrills of an extreme outdoor activity with the satisfaction of a well pressed shirt.

It appears to be more of an England/Australia/New Zealand sort of thing. Americans are too stuck up to accept something such as this. Either way, there is some amazing stuff on this site.

-- OK. Yes. A video featuring two Chinese kids lipsynching the Backstreet Boys is funny. However, what really makes me laugh is that the kid in the background on his computer seems totally oblivious to what is going on behind him.

-- I'm going to go extreme sleep.

Saturday, October 29, 2005

Kitten toss

My best kitten throw was 1,867 feet. Nothing quite like shooting kittens out of a cannon.

That's all for tonight. I'm way too tired to write anything.

Thursday, October 27, 2005

The Cubs suck a little more today

My belief in curses is gone now that the White Sox won the World Series. If there were any "curse" in baseball that would have kept a team from winning a championship, it was the curse of the 1919 White Sox that intentionally lost the series because they were controlled by gamblers. That was the biggest crime to ever hit baseball, and if that team is allowed by the supposed baseball gods to win another World Series, then there are no curses except self-inflicted ones. The self-inflicted ones can become self-prophesizing, though. The Cubs are not cursed by a billy goat or any supernatural force. They are cursed by the thought of a curse and by bad ownership that sees a sold out ballpark whether they win or lose. People are saying that the Cubs are next in line to win a World Series because the Red Sox and White Sox have won in consecutive years. No, no, no, it's not going to happen. I've been a Cubs fan for too long. They had their chance in 2003, and they blew it. The Cubs were going to be the first to break it, but they fumbled their opportunity. It's not going to happen in 2006. It's not going to happen in 2007. It's not going to happen in 2008. It's never going to happen until they finally structure their organization around success and not merely filling Wrigley Field everyday. As long as the Tribune Company owns the team, that is not going to happen. Seeing the Red Sox, and especially the White Sox, win the World Series just makes me hate the Cubs in a way. I'm tired of supporting failure. All I want is one Cubs World Series championship in my lifetime.

That is all I'm asking for.


I don't want two or three or four.

Just one.

Before I die.

At 94.

And have them win.

The year.


When it would be totally worthless to me.

Because I'm rotting in the ground.

It's kind of hard.

To enjoy something.

When you're being eaten.


Wednesday, October 26, 2005

So...the ship didn't sink?

I haven't seen it yet, but I have heard about a commercial advertising the release of the DVD version of "Titanic." That's not a big deal. Nearly every movie is on DVD. However, one of the features are "alternate endings." What? How could there be alternate endings? There is no alternate ending. The ship hit a huge iceberg and sank. A whole bunch of people drowned. One guy hit the huge propeller and made everybody laugh. And oh yeah, THE SHIP SANK!! The end. What more do they need to say? Maybe Jack lives, but I really hope not. It wouldn't make sense because the whole side-story of the movie is with the old woman telling a story about how Jack changed her life and then died. To change the ending would make the previous three and a half hours meaningless.

Seeing the movie in the first place was something I was unsure about. Why go through three and a half hours when you know how it's going to end? I suppose you could say that about a lot of movies, but everybody knows the ship sank. I never understood why people cried because it was obvious what was going to happen. Did anyone really think Jack was going to live? I sure didn't. He goes and thinks he can sweep Kate Winslet off her naked feet by drawing a picture of her? I think not. I hated Leonardo DiCaprio after that movie. So annoying.

Tuesday, October 25, 2005

Wal-Mart at midnight

I was planning, and still may do, my account of a late-night visit to Wal-Mart, but poster Bubbler does an amazing job with his. So here it is ... "Dissecting pop culture: Eight scenes from Wal-Mart at midnight." Wal-Mart after the sun goes down is the scariest place on Earth. The one in my town is also the also the filthiest place on Earth. I see people cleaning the floors, but I don't think they're actually doing anything. The parking lot is a whole other matter. Number one, it's way too dark. Number two, I could fall in the potholes and never be found. There is also a very creepy McDonald's in the front of the store. I thought it was cool when I was 12. At 24, it appears it is even less clean than the store. It's the second Wal-Mart the town has had. The first has been abandoned for years and is just sitting. A new Wal-Mart is being built (on the site of a former mobile home park, which is a coincidence you just can't make up because it's really kind of cruel), so the current one will also be abandoned. It doesn't do much to make the town look good, especially when the huge new outdoor mall will be opening later this week.

Blah, blah, blah. I don't know what I'm writing about anymore. I'm going to bed.

Monday, October 24, 2005

Fake advertising!

I don't know how long I'll keep the blue slogan maker, but for now, I think it's pretty spiffy. It changes every 30 seconds when you refresh. The ones I've seen have gone between funny and a little weird.

"Make yourself at home with Daniel"
"Feel it -- Daniel"
"Daniel, to hell with the rest"
"With a name like Daniel, it has to be good"
"Daniel, better than sex"

Like I said, I don't know how long I'll keep it there. I kind of like it, though.

In other news, why did Iggy Pop sell out and start doing (I think) Motorola commercials. Yeah, that's real punk. John Mellencamp selling out to Chevrolet is pretty disappointing, too. Everyone sells out.

I have weird friends

(I'm using intitials because they didn't want their real names used. Wusses.)

Because it amuses me, and because DP told me to, here are a series of emails sent between DP, LDS and me regarding a tropical storm that could combine with Hurricane Wilma on Tuesday...

Date: Sun, 23 Oct 2005 16:03:35 -0700 (PDT)
From: "Daniel Bradley"
Subject: Hurricane Voltron?
To: DP and LDS

Do either of you know if it's even possible for storms to combine forces like that last sentence says? If they can, that would be weird. With the lower temperatures on the east coast and northeast, I wonder if it would be more like a hurricane blizzard, but I don't know if that's possible either.



Date: Sun, 23 Oct 2005 18:24:31 -0500
From: LDS
To: "Daniel Bradley"
Subject: Re: Hurricane Voltron?
Well, I am no expert (obviously), but I do know it is possible.

I know this, because I've observed it and observed weather people on TV saying it's happened. For a recent example, look at the huge amount of rain the Northeast got last week. That was a result of a general low pressure storm system over that area joining with the remains of a tropical depression that moved up from the southern atlantic area.

For an example around Indy, moisture from the gulf of mexico moves northward and joins regular low pressure storms to make them particularly rainy over Illinois, Indiana, and Ohio.

Hurricanes feed off of warmth, in the air and water, and thus a hurricane-blizzard doesn't seem feasable in my mind. However, moisture from the remains of a storm might be able to feed into a regular old low pressure snowstorm to make it snow more, I would imagine.



From: DP
Subject: Re: Hurricane Voltron?
Date: Sun, 23 Oct 2005 22:03:55 -0400
CC: "Daniel Bradley"

I don't know anything about the weather other than that it was beautiful outside today. I really hope these hurricanes stop. Just this morning I was being thankful for the area we live in and that we don't get hit up by nasty nasty storms like this, but then I see this. I know that that's selfish of me but it's how I was feelign at the time. Maybe God is going to teach me a lesson with Voltron.



From: DP
Subject: Re: Hurricane Voltron?
Date: Sun, 23 Oct 2005 22:05:25 -0400
CC: "Daniel Bradley"

Why is it Volton? Aren't we dealing with Wilma right now? The next one should start with an X.



Date: Sun, 23 Oct 2005 21:37:24 -0500
From: LDS
To: DP
Subject: Re: Hurricane Voltron?
CC: "Daniel Bradley"

Bah, so much misunderstanding :-)

Wilma is the last named hurricane. They don't have a hurricane for every letter. They don't have one for x, y, or z... The next one is named Alpha (because they use the greek alphabet after they are out of regular names.

The name "voltron" was a joke.



Date: Sun, 23 Oct 2005 20:50:34 -0700 (PDT)
From: "Daniel Bradley"
Subject: Re: Hurricane Voltron?

Yeah, Voltron was a 1980s cartoon where the lion robot forces assemble to defeat the evil forces of King Zarkon and Prince Lotor, who are from the planet Doom, from destroying the planet Arus (and the galaxy!). Only here, it's two hurricanes assembling to create havoc and Voltron is going to be needed to destroy it. Let's go Voltron force!

From Voltron: Defender of the Universe ..."From days of long ago, from uncharted regions of the universe, comes a legend; the legend of Voltron, Defender of the Universe, a mighty robot, loved by good, feared by evil. As Voltron's legend grew, peace settled across the galaxy. On Planet Earth, a Galaxy Alliance was formed. Together with the good planets of the solar
system, they maintained peace throughout the universe, until a new horrible menace threatened the galaxy. Voltron was needed once more. This is the story of the super force of space explorers, specially trained and sent by the Alliance to bring back Voltron, Defender of the Universe!"

I'm weird.



From: DP
Subject: Re: Hurricane Voltron?
Date: Sun, 23 Oct 2005 23:53:35 -0400
To: "Daniel Bradley"

Post this on your blog...



Date: Sun, 23 Oct 2005 23:01:25 -0500
From: LDS
To: DP
Subject: Re: Hurricane Voltron?
CC: "Daniel Bradley"

should he post it before or after the pics of him screwing your mom?

(Editor's note: LDS enjoys making jokes about DP's mom, which sometimes are a little on the demented side.)


Date: Sun, 23 Oct 2005 21:03:27 -0700 (PDT)
From: "Daniel Bradley"
Subject: Re: Hurricane Voltron?

You should know I'm posting the entire exchange from beginning to end because it amuses me. I am considering whether I should censor that.



Date: Sun, 23 Oct 2005 23:04:50 -0500
From: LDS
To: "Daniel Bradley"
Subject: Re: Hurricane Voltron?

I don't think you should

but I think you should not put my name, perhaps....



From: DP
Subject: Re: Hurricane Voltron?
Date: Mon, 24 Oct 2005 00:05:30 -0400
To: "Daniel Bradley"

CENSORSHIP IS FOR LOSERS! Post the whole thing.



Date: Sun, 23 Oct 2005 21:07:13 -0700 (PDT)
From: "Daniel Bradley"
Subject: Re: Hurricane Voltron?
To: DP

I'll make sure to write in the appendix that LDS and DP's mom are expecting DP II in February.


Date: Sun, 23 Oct 2005 23:27:41 -0500
From: LDS
To: "Daniel Bradley"
Subject: Re: Hurricane Voltron?
DP completely missed your joke and thought you were saying that I was actually his dad.... He thought it was funny with that interpretation, but when he learned the real one, it lost the humor to him... hmm, nothing like a homeschooled sense of humor...



Date: Sun, 23 Oct 2005 21:39:36 -0700 (PDT)
From: "Daniel Bradley"
Subject: Re: Hurricane Voltron?
Eh, oh well. Homeschooled sense of humor or no homeschooled sense of humor, the Oedepus complex is a little too strong for me here. I think I'm going to end this now.


Sunday, October 23, 2005

Christmas, 1994

My brother likes to accuse me of stealing his belongings, but other than the Nolan Ryan baseball card at Christmas in 1994, I never have. I guess that wouldn't have been so bad had the card not been worth $200. I asked to see what cards he got in his pack while we were waiting to leave home for a relative's house, and as I was shuffling through, I came across the NOLAN RYAN GOLD SIGNATURE CARD (!!!!!!!!). Not believing what I found and what he didn't know he had, I quickly shuffled it into my cards and gave him some other card. It was a Dickie Thon card, even though Dickie Thon was my hero for a short time because of his name.

I went through that Christmas feeling a twinge of guilt along with a "ohmygodthankyousantaicantbelieveireallyhavethisbaseballcardthisisthe
greatestdayofmylifethekidsatschoolaregoingtothinkimsocool" feeling. The latter was the one that prevailed. All my family members couldn't believe I found the NOLAN RYAN GOLD SIGNATURE CARD (!!!!!!!!) that was worth $200. They all wanted to know what I was going to do with it. Was I going to sell it? Would I hold onto it? How did I get so lucky? All the while, my brother looked on with a face of envy and hate. The competition that simmered below the surface and would grow. The only thing was that I never admitted to anyone the cards was his. With everyone huddled in my corner with looks of awe in their eyes, I couldn't let the lie out. Not now. In the mind of a 13-year old, it could never be known. This was MY moment of glory. Glory through a $200 piece of glossy cardboard. A lie built on cardboard.

As time went on, the guilt built and built. But I couldn't say anything. I never could. To do so would send me to the pergatory of the people who thought I was great. I held onto the card. It was placed in a prominent place in my room where I would never lose sight of it. It would not walk away and no one would walk away with it. The card became my being, my obsession. The card became my broken conscious. I began to lie to myself that the card was really mine. That I never slipped my brother the Dickie Thon. Never, never. The pack of baseball cards was rightfully mine anyway. Afterall, he didn't even like baseball cards. Despite, of course, all the binders in his room from when we traded cards. When I would offer him a Franklin Stubbs for a Roger Clemens, Jose Canseco and Rickey Henderson. And then it hit me. This was the peak. This was the cocaine to the gateway marijuana they taught us about in health class.

What had I done?

All the while, I did not let the NOLAN RYAN GOLD SIGNATURE CARD (!!!!!!!!) go. In February, my baseball card price guide came in the mail. As had become the obsession, I checked what it was worth. It had stayed at $200 the previous month, but when I got to the page, my eye first hit the little black down arrow. Oh no. It was now $150. What? My lie was decreasing in value. Now I really didn't know what to do. If I held onto it, I would be furthering a deception. If I righted the wrong, not only 1) would I be punished severely, but 2) I would be accused of giving back something only when it was losing its value. This put me in a slightly sour mood.

The months passed. When my price guide came, I would check on the NOLAN RYAN GOLD SIGNATURE CARD (!!!!!!!!). Same price, March. Down $10, April. Up $15, May! Down $5, June. And on and on. Eventually, the card went to $50. Oh, super. At this point, the old obsession lost its prized spot in my room and descended into a box, placed far back in my closet. I figured it should never see the light of day. Ever. Again.

Years passed, and I slowly forgot. Going through some stuff, I found it one day. "Hmmm," I thought. Last Christmas, I went to my brother, shuffled around a little and said, "You know that nolan ryan gold signature card that was worth $200 and went down in value which really put me in a bad mood?" He said, "yeah."

"Well, that card was actually your's. I asked to go through your cards when we were in the car, and I saw it and slipped it into my cards. You got a Dickie Thon," I said.



"You jerk!"

"HA! You're not getting it back! NEVER!!!"

"Do you think I care?"

The end.


There might be a lesson in that. If you can find it, you probably have a tumor.

Saturday, October 22, 2005

Written with an empty brain

I don't think there's going to be any single element that ties any of this together...

-- I don't think I have ever laughed harder at a movie theater than I did during "The Royal Tenenbaums" when they were in the Owen Wilson character's living room and whenever they showed Wilson, there was a painting of these wolf-like creatures on off-road vehicles attacking a man. At least I think that's what they were. I need to see that movie again, along with "Rushmore" and "The Life Aquatic." Maybe Sunday will be a Wes Anderson-directed movie day after the Colts game.

-- "This is one of the creepiest things I've read about in awhile." They are two 13-year old sister singers whose songs are about white supremacy. From the story...

Known as "Prussian Blue" — a nod to their German heritage and bright blue eyes — the girls from Bakersfield, Calif., have been performing songs about white nationalism before all-white crowds since they were nine.

"We're proud of being white, we want to keep being white," said Lynx. "We want our people to stay white … we don't want to just be, you know, a big muddle. We just want to preserve our race."

Lynx and Lamb have been nurtured on racist beliefs since birth by their mother April. "They need to have the background to understand why certain things are happening," said April, a stay-at-home mom who no longer lives with the twins' father. "I'm going to give them, give them my opinion just like any, any parent would."

Number one, it's scary to me to hear a 13-year old girl talking about "preserving our race." Actually, it's scary to me when anyone says that. Oh yeah, there are so few white people left. Whatever will we do? Sheesh. Number two, these kids' parents are crazy. Later on in the story, it talks about how the dad has swastikas all around their house. It is none of my business how a family wants to raise its children, but there is something wrong with this. I feel like I need to take a shower.

-- As usually happens at this time of the year, I'm tired of baseball, but the Astros will win the World Series in six games. Houston has too much pitching. But of course, I could end up wrong.

-- I think I'm getting sick. I have that feeling in the back of my throat when something is coming, and I am coughing a little. Perhaps I should consider sleeping normal hours again. The problem with that is that I haven't slept "normal hours" since 2001. I doubt I will ever get back to that.

-- Day 2 of utter grayness complete. According to the Weather Channel, we'll have a few more. Stupid Indiana.

Friday, October 21, 2005

Shrouded in a veil of darkness, the man wishes to speak at unnatural hours of the night

It's getting late...

-- I would just like to begin this by saying welcome to Indiana in the days following Oct. 20. It will be cold and gray until about April 15 or so, when there is still the chance of a random blizzard to occur. Have fun. Seriously, that's how it is. On Oct. 19, it was somewhat comfortable and the sun was out. Today on Oct. 20, it was cold and gray and then there came the cold rain. It's going to be wonderful.

-- On the Facebook, there are 14 Daniel Bradley's other than myself. I pressed the add to friends button on all, and we'll see what happens. If all goes well, I expect to form the Royal Imperial Army of Daniel Bradley's. We'll take over the world. No Dan or Danny Bradley's are allowed because we do not condone the shortening of the sacred name. We will also have a "No Girlz Allowed" sign on the door to our offices (clubhouse?) because girls have cooties, so I guess there won't be any Danielle Bradley's let in either. We might change our minds once the median age of the army hits puberty, but we'll see. Sweet Jesus, I have no idea what on earth I'm talking about, but I'm too tired to deal with hitting the backspace button, so it will stay.

-- Yesterday, I campaigned pretty hard at work for there to be no more TV's on in our area when we're busy. Some of the guys might start hating me now, but mistakes have been made because people have paid more attention to what's on TV than the work they're doing. The mistakes that were made are not acceptable at any level of any paper, let alone a paper the size of the one who employs me. (And yes, I am intentionally writing in non-specific terms because more and more, I read about people being fired for making specific comments on the Internet.)

-- There was a list released that gave statistics on the deadliest animals in the United States. In order by the number of people killed by them in a year on average are:

1. Horses 219
2. Deer 130
3. Cows 28.4
4. Dogs 16
5. Insects 8.4
6. Birds 5.2
7. Elephants 1
8. Tigers 0.6
9. Hogs 0.6
10. Pythons 0.5

In some ways, I am confused and in others, it makes sense. We don't have many potentially vicious animals in the United States like other countries. You don't see many lions walking around all over the place. We're not exactly a PBS nature show here, so it makes sense for horses and cows to be toward the top. However, the numbers seem low. I'm sure more than 8.4 people who are allergic to bee stings die per year. I'd hate to be the person who gets to die from being attacked by a pig. What do they do? Gum you to death? Stamp you with their little feet? I guess they're probably talking more in terms of the big ones and not Babe. I guess the good thing is that, despite my cats' obvious plotting, they show up nowhere on the list. But maybe that's how they want it. I wouldn't put it past cats to use surprise tactics in their quest for world domination.

Thursday, October 20, 2005

There are no words

Similar to how I am very easily distracted by shiny, moving objects, there are certain things that if I see in person, I have no restraint and must buy. They're usually objects that make everyone with me roll their eyes and start mumbling about how weird I am. This is one of those things, only I haven't had the chance as of yet. I have not seen it in person, but it is a snow globe. You know those things where you turn it upside down and the snow falls everywhere? But it's not just any snow globe. "It is an EIGHT FOOT TALL INFLATABLE SNOW GLOBE!" What more could a person ever want...other than, you know, eternal happiness, although this might just provide it. It's the most amazing thing I've ever heard of. For the moment at least, it surpasses everything cool I've ever heard about. It's also $149.87 from Sam's Club.

Image hosted by

Apparently, it operates with a vaccum pump that sucks the snow from the bottom and shoots it to the top. It also lights up. Amazing. Just absolutely genius and amazing. I'm swooning. I really am. And if you all love me as much I know you do, you'll create a "Buy Daniel An Eight Foot Tall Snow Globe Fund" and pool all your money together. My yard needs an eight foot tall snow globe to accentuate its features. Hell, I'd throw away my bed to have it in the house. Who needs a bed when you can crawl inside your very own eight foot tall snow globe?

(And this is a time to completely disregard everything I have to say about the commercialization of Christmas. I'm full of crap. All the time. I'm full of it. Never listen to a word I have to say because you never when something so completely awesome will come around to turn me into the most excited hypocrite of all time. I think I'm seven years old.)

Wednesday, October 19, 2005

It's just a little airbourne! It's still good! It's still good!

Nothing much to offer tonight, so here are three Internet gifts...

-- 390,127 people in Britain listed their religion as Jedi in the 2001 census.

-- Some sort of giant sea creature skeleton was washed up by the tsunami earlier this year.

-- Once again, I love Craig's List.

And some Simpsons quotes because I need to fill some space here...

Homer: "I take a whiskey drink. I take a chocolate drink. And when I have to pee, I use the kitchen sink!

Moe: "How are things going with that girl you are seeing?"
Lenny: "Not so good. She closed her curtains."

After Moe recommended a private detective to Homer, Lenny said, "I hired him to find out who was cobbling my shoes at night. It turns out I have severe schizophrenia."

Marge: "Now Homer, don't you eat this pieeeee!"
Homer: "All right, pie. I'm going to close my eyes and go like his (opening and closing his mouth with his eyes shut) and if you get eaten, it's your own fault!" (He then does that and crashes, but eats the pie anyway.)

Rod or Todd: ""My hobbies include: being quiet on car rides...clapping along with songs and...diabetes."

A few years after Stampy:
Bart: "I wish I had an elephant."
Lisa: "You did. His name was Stampy. You loved him very much."
Bart: "Oh yeah."

"Hi, I'm Troy McClure. You may remember me from such educational films as 'Firecrackers: The Silent Killer' and 'Locker Room Towel Fights : The Blinding of Larry Driscoll.'"

Burns: "We don't have to be adversaries, Homer. We both want a fair union contract."
Homer's Brain: "Why is Mr. Burns being so nice to me?"
Burns: "And if you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours."
Homer's Brain: "Wait a minute. Is he coming onto me?"
Burns: "I mean, if I should slip something into your pocket, what's the harm?"
Homer's Brain: "My God! He is coming onto me!"
Burns: "After all, negotiations make strange bedfellows." [chuckle] [wink]
Homer's Brain: "Aaaaaagh!"
Homer: "Sorry, Mr. Burns, but I don't go in for these backdoor shenanigans. Sure, I'm flattered, maybe even a little curious, but the answer is no!"

Kid in the meat movie: "When I grow up, I want to go to Bovine University!"

Marge: "Where were you?"
Homer's Brain: "Don't say Moe's! Don't say Moe's!"
Homer: "I was at the pornography store. I was buying pornography."

Woman: "Why do you want to become a big brother?"
Homer's Brain: "Don't say revenge, don't say revenge."
Homer: "Revenge."
Homer's Brain: "That's it, I'm outta here." (sound of brain walking down steps, getting into a car and driving off)

Trent: "The man knows what he likes."
Homer: "Just taking care of business."
Trent: "If you don't, who will, huh? Trent Steele."
Homer: "Homer Si ... uh, Max Power."
Trent: "Oh, hey! Great name!"
Homer: "Yeah, isn't it? I got it off a hair dryer."
Trent: [laughs] "I like a man who can poke fun at himself. [looks at his watch] Ooh, hey, my one o'clock cancelled. Eh, you had any lunch?"
Homer: "Yeah, but I usually have three or four."
Trent: "So where to eat? You like Thai?"
Homer: "Tie good. You like shirt."

That's all.

Tuesday, October 18, 2005

Hi, I'm a journalist. Please step into my cardboard box that is my home.

What is the value of a journalism degree? Apparently not much, according to this column in the Cleveland Plain-Dealer by Connie Schultz because journalism students realize there is no money in newspapers. Instead, they go into PR, advertising, marketing or other areas. In the column, it says...

"They want to keep the baby-boomer lifestyle to which they've become accustomed," said a professor at a school that boasts a boatload of Pulitzer Prize winners among its alumni. "The thought of starting out at $25,000 or $30,000 to expose corruption and champion the underdog just doesn't do it for them. They have no interest."

The quote makes sense, but I would kill to make $25,000 to $30,000 at this point, considering I would have made about $16,000 or so at the paper who interviewed me. Regarding a journalism degree, I don't know if it is worthless, but if you're tens of thousands of dollars in debt due to college loans before you get a job, it is no wonder people are going into other areas. I am willing to take less because I like the job and I like what it stands for in my mind, but very few people anymore are going to think that. I don't blame them, and I probably will do it too when I because angry, jaded and completely lose whatever enthusiasm I ever had for the job.

Plus with j-school, the only way it is worth anything is if the professors let you DO journalism. Sitting in a classroom listening to a professor drone on and on and on and on about the inverted pyramid (in a 400-level class, no less) is worthless. Revolt!*

* - Yes, Butler Reporting Public Affairs people, I'm talking to you. As if I didn't make it obvious enough.


And speaking of journalism, if New York Times reporter Judith Miller had a security clearance from the United States Military, that is one of the biggest journalism scandals ever. It means the U.S. government had a mouthpiece who represented this country's paper of record. It's government licensing of a journalist, and the Times allowed this? All that time she claimed to be protecting the First Amendment by not revealing her sources, she was making a mockery of what journalism represents. The Times needs to disipline or fire her, and if they don't (and they have been way too secretive on this), they shouldn't be allowed to look themselves in the mirror.


I love it when I write all angry and passionate at 4:01 a.m. I'm really not angry. I just like to write so it sounds like I'm angry. I mean, yeah, the whole thing is a joke, but I'm not mad. I have no control over any of it, so I guess passionate apathy is the way to go. I'll learn all I can about it, but at the end of the day, it's not going to determine if I can sleep at night. But right now I can't sleep because there is a monster under my bed.

Monday, October 17, 2005

What? Why did my oxen die?!?

I miss the Oregon Trail game almost everyone had to play who was in elementary school anytime between 1985 and 1995 or so. That was a great game. Just when you thought you almost made it to Jefferson, Missouri, you'd either die of dysentery, have your wagon capsize in a river, have the wagon set on fire killing you and your family or some other calamity would occur. The you would get to write the headstone message, so there was some fun in getting killed. The best part was the hunting. It gave students a chance to get rid of some of the pent up aggression that grows during the school day. No wonder the buffalo are almost nonexistent anymore. America's schoolchildren killed them a decade ago.

I had a newer version of the game, but it wasn't the same. I'm looking for the one from school. Oh memories...

Image hosted by


I just attempted an experiement that had me drinkig quite a bit of wine in a short amount of time. The hypothesis of my study was that shortly afterward, the efaacts would be quite a bit. In fac,t they seems quite minimal. My spelling most for part seems to be good or fine. My wordingi don't know.I can't freally feel my hands right now, so I would assume my hyptoessis to be somewhat correct. Drunking byw ones self might not be the best idea, but friends don't let friends drive drunk, and Im not driving anywhere. In facte, I'm going to bed right now. Goode night and I love you all.

The enemy did it

As a Cubs fan, it is difficult for me to enjoy the knowledge that the White Sox made the World Series before the Cubs. However, I am not outraged like a lot of Cubs fans are. I've never hated the White Sox with a passion. It always seemed dumb to me. Plus, in a way, I am glad they made the World Series because my grandparents' neighbor Jake was a White Sox fan his whole life. Actually, the White Sox didn't even exist until Jake was two years old. He was born in 1899 and died in 1996. The White Sox won the World Series twice in his lifetime: 1906 and 1917. They last time they even played in the World Series was 1959. To the day he passed away, Jake was bitter at the Cincinnati Reds for beating the White Sox in the 1919 World Series. That's dedication, even if the White Sox players were influenced by gamblers to throw the Series. I'm glad they made it this year.

Now if the Cubs would stop messing around and next year...

Sunday, October 16, 2005

"Why" is probably a good question as to the existence of this post

There is a petition online for a National Naked Day. This reminds me of when I was seven and my dad had me convinced there was such a thing a holiday called National Naked Day where no one got dressed. At first, I wasn't sure what to think. I was also a little terrified at the thought. But then I realized that if it was National Naked Day, EVERYONE was going to be participating. If EVERYONE was, it meant the girl in the Kroger movie department (who was probably 10-12 years older than me) was going to also. "Woo-hoo," I thought, despite the fact that as a seven year old, I had no idea what I was woo-hooing about. The day arrived. Dad said I needed to get dressed and not ask any questions. We went to Kroger. I ended up disappointed. And I accused dad of lying to me.

The end.

Saturday, October 15, 2005

Don't walk down dark streets

Things I have been asked in the last 36 hours:

"Does anyone know what rigor mortis looks like?" -- Ralph at work

"Are you the brightest student at Butler?" -- Sen. Bill Bradley

"Did you eat my sandwiches?" -- The brother

"You look nervous, like you're sweating a bit. Are you paranoid? Are you a racist?" -- The guy whose real name is Carl, but whose streetname is Bruno, who confronted me on the sidewalk when I was walking to the Star from the Pacers game. Alone. At night. Down a somewhat dark street. I'm kind of dumb sometimes.

Regarding Carl/Bruno, I was walking on the Delaware Street sidewalk going to the Star after leaving the Pacers game early. I've done it before, but it was daylight. It was pretty dark tonight, and I should've known better. I was a block from the office, when ahead of me, I heard him yell (and I'll put this as it was said), "Hey, I've never met a motherf***er like you before! Have we ever met?" I was a little confused, but I didn't know what else to do, so I stopped, turned on my journalistic self, put out my hand and introduced myself. He was dressed in a wide-brimmed hat and he was wearing headphones and had a pretty nice coat on. In about a thousand words, Carl/Bruno said he liked me because I opened myself up to him when others would run away, even though at one point, he thought I was getting nervous so he asked if I was a racist and then said that was the problem with what happened in Louisiana after Katrina. He kept asking me if I wanted to get to know him and he wanted my phone number, but I talked my way around it. I said I had to go to work, so he let me go after about three or four minutes.

I was a little nervous just because I was in my own little world as I was walking and I'm not used to being stopped on the street, but I wasn't scared of him. Obviously, I didn't want to get shot or beat up, but I doubted that would happen, so I just decided to be a nice guy about it and give him a couple minutes because not many other people will. I can imagine how it would be frustrating to be someone without a home, without a job and without much hope because you're the silent minority. You're there, but nobody wants to admit you're there, so you're swept under the rug. Nobody wants to hear anything from you. That's poverty in America. That's why when society as we know it breaks down, there is chaos. Those who previously never had a voice suddenly have one. The frustration and anger that previously existed beneath the surface rises to the top. That is what happened in New Orleans, and it is what would happen in any major city in America given the situation for it to take place.

In the meantime, I'll try to remember to not walk alone down dark streets.

Friday, October 14, 2005

Attack squirrel

The story of a man, a motorcycle and a crazed squirrel.

"Now picture a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a slightly squirrel torn t-shirt, and only one leather glove roaring at maybe 70mph and rapidly accelerating down a quiet residential street on one wheel and with a demonic squirrel on his back. The man and the squirrel are both screaming bloody murder."

Squirrels are evil.

Exotic pets, etc.

Here's a few things, whether they make sense or not...

-- I want a monkey that I can train to do my bidding. He will cook, clean, fix food and never fling poo at me. His name will be Henry--Henry the Monkey--and he will be awesome. You mess with me, you mess with Henry. He'll kick your ass.

-- This country has an unnatural desire to find a scapegoat for every situation. Do we really need to blame someone in every situation? Sometimes stuff just goes wrong and there's nothing anybody can do about it. However, the homeplate umpire in Tuesday's White Sox-Angels game deserves every bit of blame he gets. I realize the game moves very fast on the field, and he had to listen for if the ball hit the ground or the mit, which is nearly impossible with 41,000 people screaming, but he gets paid to make the right call. He blew it.

-- Speaking of scapegoats, two years ago today was the Steve Bartman game. Poor Steve. It's not his fault the Cubs are forever cursed to pain and losing. He just happened to become a part of the curse.

-- I am not going to write about Ron Artest again after this post. I don't care if he blows up again, I'm not writing about him. That's it. Yes, I wish he were traded. Yes, I think he will cause trouble again. Yes, I feel sorry for him because I see him as someone who needs help, but is too reluctant/stubborn to seek it. It's going to really come back to get him someday whether it is on the basketball court or in his private life.

-- If you're desperate for even more of my crappy writings, go to It was my blog from May 2003 to September 2004. In some places, the tone is truly cringe-inducing. It seems to go back-and-forth between 14-year old girl and angry Socialist. What confuses me most about it are all the exclamation points. I hate exclamation points when used where a period should go. Plus, the fact that I wrote about watching and actually enjoying Jimmy Kimmel's show really shows my problems. That show annoys me. I also sound a little too happy considering, in retrospect, I was pissed off for one reason or another for a lot of those 16 months. Defense mechanism, I suppose. I think all of the above are reasons why I abandoned it, despite the pleadings of others (Hi, Pulliam!).

-- And then there's my six month flirtation with Live Journal, although I may add a post to it every couple months. Or who could forget my one post on a Xanga site? Although, my "expertise" on the sidebar is still spot on.

-- Did dinosaurs really exist, or were they faked by the feds like the moon landing? Ask Carl Everett. And yeah, I know the story is five years old. I just like it because Carl Everett is a little crazy.

-- Look! It's a cat with two tongues!

-- Why is it 4:42 in the morning?

Thursday, October 13, 2005

Kid, when I was your age, the characters didn't squeak

This is one of the funnier articles I've read in awhile. The author writes a review of a Chuck E. Cheese show as if it is a professional theatrical performance. In particular, I like this passage...

The show’s fragile plotting begins to deteriorate almost instantly due in a large part to the characters’ tendency to inexplicably break into simplistic songs, almost none of which are remotely related to the story line and therefor do nothing to advance the plot. Why, for instance, would the chicken character, “Helen Henny”, burst into “How Much is That Doggy in the Window?”, with the others joining her in turn, right in the middle of this missing pizza fiasco? Are we to suppose that the “doggy” symbolically represents the pizza, and the “pizza” is her faith in humanity, which has been lost and must now be reacquired at any cost? The audience is forced to dig for these shrouded meanings in a story that is so muddled and unfocused that it is hardly worth the effort.

It really is true. I went back to Chuck E. Cheese a few months ago, and I failed to see why it was the place I went for every birthday from age 1-13. The robotic people and animals are actually pretty scary. They probably didn't 10 years ago, but they squeak now because they obviously haven't been properly oiled, so there's no way to even consider that they're not real. I was convinced they were real back in my younger years. I loved 'em. When Chuck E. Cheese showed up after the show, I thought it was the same guy who was up on stage. I even got Mr. Cheese's autograph on a picture. I still have it.

So, what was the excitement when I was eight about the place beyond Skeeball, meeting the giant mouse, jumping into the giant plastic ball pit and trying to impress the hot eight year old girls who went to the elementary school on the other side of town with my race car video game scores? I don't know. I really don't know. It's one of those mysteries I doubt I'll ever figure out. The pizza is actually pretty good, though, and the bottom of the pizza always had these bumps that reminded me of the movie Gremlins.

Funny thing is that I still refuse to call the place Chuck E. Cheese. It will always be Showbiz to me, even though they changed the name sometime between 1988 and 1990.


Found on the message board, I am more than slightly confused by this story on a Notre Dame football website. The lead is a combination of terrible writing and just plain insensitivity...

Since Charlie Weis became the head coach at Notre Dame, a massive tsunami devastated several Asian and African coastlines, a merciless hurricane ravaged New Orleans and a horrific earthquake leveled a large area of Pakistan. None of these natural disasters, however, approach the level of destruction that the mighty USC Trojans can unleash upon an opponent. If you live in Northern Indiana, this might be a good weekend to pack up the kids and visit Aunt Millie in Ohio.

Oh yeah, let's compare USC to events that killed thousands of people. It's just bad writing. But when you consider it's the same site that used this lead for a story about the ND head coach...

Charlie Weis has balls. A big brass pair that clang when he walks and turn into nunchucks when he's calling plays. Formed in of New Jersey, they were shaped under the dome, hardened in the crucible of Parcells and polished by Belichick in a remarkable Super Bowl run. He throws them on the table like a gambler, daring you to stop the Irish on 4th down even though the odds may not be with him.

NUNCHUCKS??? What the...

Free Fluffy

This was from August, so I wonder if Fluffy lived. And the "Spam e-mail wins Pulitzer Prize" teaser on the top is pretty good, too.

Image hosted by

Wednesday, October 12, 2005


I love the Perry Bible Fellowship...

Image hosted by

This is enough to put me on the happy pills

As journalists, we write, report and stew over the most minute of facts. We're driven crazy, but we like it. Family life for some journalists is (stupidly) neglected in favor of stories about other people we don't know. We chose this life, and its justification is in circulation numbers. We believe thousands of people are reading what WE write. These number show that WE make a difference in the lives of these thousands of people. This justification makes us feel a little better that our loved ones don't see us often enough to actually know us. We had a job and the numbers show the job is successful. Then a story like this comes out and we realize we don't feel so good and we've been lying to ourselves the whole time. According to a study reported on by the Minneapolis Star-Tribune, not only are fewer people reading the newspaper, but the average reader age is 55. From the article...

Newspaper readership is down. Fewer young people are picking them up, and the average age of a newspaper reader is now 55, according to a Carnegie Corporation study. Many papers have been losing circulation at alarming rates across all age groups.

Newspaper profits and the stock prices of the companies that own them were also down during the first half of 2005. The biggest newspapers are cutting staffs, closing foreign bureaus and taking other steps to meet their owners' profit goals.

What are newspapers going to be when the 55 year olds are 85 year olds? Will today's 25 year olds be reading then? That is what the people leading this industry are going to have to determine. I am trying to not have a sky is falling attitude about this, but it's worrisome.

When I was 12, I read the newspaper and people in class were convinced I was a genius because I knew what was going on the world. I have known what I wanted to do since I was 10 or so. Now, I am 24. People my age do not read the newspaper. I wasn't expecting to find an industry that is seemingly breathing its dying breaths.

People have told me that the newspaper industry's demise has been rumored for years. That worrying is just me putting undue stress upon myself. That "today's young people" have never read, no matter when "today" is. That we'll be fine. I hope so. I also hope we're not telling ourselves that we'll be fine while the bombs are rapidly descending from the sky.


Newspaper rant:

What needs to be done is better journalism. The focus of this business has fallen singularly into making money. The news hole in so many papers has shrunk to the point that it is an ad paper rather than a newspaper. It needs to at least appear that we care about good journalism. Something that bothers me about this industry is how the bean counters complain and complain while their little gold mines are compiling 20 percent profit margins. But it's not good enough. We need 25 percent profit margins. In a lot of other businesses, eight percent is going great. You know what Gannett pulled in last year? Twenty-nine percent. And one of their biggest papers we know and love and provides for my food is in the midst of a newsroom hiring freeze. Knight-Ridder did 19 percent last year, and they're laying off people at some of their papers. What pisses me off more than anything is that the cuts always come from the newsroom. Never, ever will they come from advertising, human relations or the managment offices. I love this business, but it sure knows how to screw you over.

Tuesday, October 11, 2005

For Sale: One Daniel. $2,249,926, or best offer

Things written while wondering why I can't sleep

Two things I found on this Internet thing tonight...

1) It's the longest last name in history. Not only is his last name 588 letters, but his first name is Adolph (even though he officially went by Hubert), then he has a middle name for every letter in the alphabet. And he has Sr. at the end of his name, which means there is a little Jr. running around out there somewhere with the same name. He was known as Hubert Wolfe, and he would sign his name Hubert Blaine Wolfeschlegelsteinhausenbergerdorff, Sr. His full name is on the website. I tried to post it here, and it made the thing explode with letters scrolling forever to the right of the screen.

2) This is one of the more interesting music videos I've seen in awhile. It's by OK, Go, and it's just them dancing around their backyard with their song is "A Million Ways." I like the song. This is the type of stuff I do when no one's home. Of course, then it's probably just scary. Scary good, that is. I have tons of rhythm, dammit. (No...on second thought, it's just scary. Scratch the good part.)

Three other things that have no relevance to the previous two...

1) If you don't have a Taco Bell close to your house, you can call 1-800-TACO-BELL to get one. That is really the number. It's genius, simple and I love it. A Taco Bell in my front yard would be nice.

2) Speaking of Taco Bell, my favorite thing is the Chili Cheese Burrito. One is enough to give a large horse a heart attack, but it's so good that it's almost not Taco Bell. I always get a slight twinge of sadness when I travel to another state and find out they don't carry them. Being relegated to a bean burrito makes me feel cheated.

3) I've been trying to think of a third item for the last couple minutes because I can't leave this thing on Taco Bell, so here's a story. When I was in eighth grade, my dad cut me off from being able to use the phone for a little while. I never really was quite sure, but I think it had to do with one of my friends calling the house at 6 a.m. and hanging up as a prank. Yeah, that's probably it. Anyway, after school one day, I was walking out with my friend Jim, and he asked me for my phone number so he could call me about something we were going to do. It was kind of loud but not too loud in the hallway, but because I didn't want to admit my dad wasn't letting me use the phone, my answer was, "WHAT??? I CAN'T HEAR YOU!!" He asked again, and I sort of mumbled something. He asked yet again, and I said, "Uhhhh, I don't remember." He said, "You don't remember?" I said, "No, no, I don't remember." He replied, "What's your dad's name? I'll look it up in the phone book." I said, "Dick. Dick Bradley." He walked away laughing because of the obvious things about the name, but my dad's name is Richard, goes by Dick sometimes, but is listed under Richard. I don't remember what happened after that, but I still have no idea how Dick is a nickname for Richard, or why my dad insists on going by it.

That was the most pointless story I've ever written.

Monday, October 10, 2005

Because sometimes it's best to close your eyes, cover your ears and go lalalalala

While reading about the bird flu that is going to kill us all, this popped into my head, and now I can't get it out...

A-well-a everybody's heard about the bird
B-b-b-bird, bird, bird, b-bird's the word
A-well-a bird, bird, bird, the bird is the word
A-well-a bird, bird, bird, well the bird is the word
A-well-a bird, bird, bird, b-bird's the word
A-well-a bird, bird, bird, well the bird is the word
A-well-a bird, bird, b-bird's the word
A-well-a bird, bird, bird, b-bird's the word
A-well-a bird, bird, bird, well the bird is the word
A-well-a bird, bird, b-bird's the word
A-well-a don't you know about the bird?
Well, everybody knows that the bird is the word!
A-well-a bird, bird, b-bird's the word

A-well-a everybody's heard about the bird
Bird, bird, bird, b-bird's the word
A-well-a bird, bird, bird, b-bird's the word
A-well-a bird, bird, bird, b-bird's the word
A-well-a bird, bird, b-bird's the word
A-well-a bird, bird, bird, b-bird's the word
A-well-a bird, bird, bird, b-bird's the word
A-well-a bird, bird, bird, b-bird's the word
A-well-a bird, bird, bird, b-bird's the word
A-well-a don't you know about the bird?
Well, everybody's talking about the bird!
A-well-a bird, bird, b-bird's the word
A-well-a bird...

Surfin' bird
Bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb... [retching noises]... aaah!


Papa-ooma-mow-mow, papa-ooma-mow-mow
Papa-ooma-mow-mow, papa-ooma-mow-mow
Ooma-mow-mow, papa-ooma-mow-mow
Papa-ooma-mow-mow, papa-ooma-mow-mow
Papa-ooma-mow-mow, papa-ooma-mow-mow
Papa-ooma-mow-mow, papa-oom-oom-oom
Oom-ooma-mow-mow, papa-ooma-mow-mow
Ooma-mow-mow, papa-ooma-mow-mow
Papa-a-mow-mow, papa-ooma-mow-mow
Papa-ooma-mow-mow, ooma-mow-mow
Papa-ooma-mow-mow, ooma-mow-mow
Ooma-mow-mow, papa-ooma-mow-mow
Papa-ooma-mow-mow, ooma-mow-mow
Well don't you know about the bird?
Well, everybody knows that the bird is the word!
A-well-a bird, bird, b-bird's the word

Papa-ooma-mow-mow, papa-ooma-mow-mow


That was interesting. I'll wait on writing about the bird flu, though. Kinda scary, you know?

Sunday, October 09, 2005

Bombing the Smurfs

In Belgium, they have an anti-war commercial in which the Smurfs are killed in bombing raids.


BRUSSELS - The people of Belgium have been left reeling by a public service commercial featuring the Smurfs, in which the blue-skinned cartoon characters' village is annihilated by warplanes.

The ad pulls no punches. It opens with the Smurfs dancing, hand-in-hand, around a campfire and singing the Smurf song. Bluebirds flutter past and rabbits gambol around their familiar village of mushroom-shaped houses until, without warning, bombs begin to rain from the sky.

Tiny Smurfs scatter and run in vain from the whistling bombs, before being felled by blast waves and fiery explosions. The final scene shows a scorched and tattered Baby Smurf sobbing inconsolably, surrounded by prone Smurfs.

The final frame bears the message: "Don't let war affect the lives of children.''

Image hosted by


That's Smurfed up. I bet it was Gargamel's idea. He just wants all the Smurfs dead so he can make gold out of them. George Bush doesn't care about blue people.

(I found the video of it. The quality is poor (it goes in frames), it's in French and the first part is a sad story about a boy who lost his legs, but once you get to the part with the bombs dropping on the Smurfs, it reminds me of a kid I went to school with who would draw pictures of dead Smurfs, among other things.)

Saturday, October 08, 2005

Soy Sauce Heroes

I am at work right now, but it's not busy so I can write this down because in my mind, it was pretty classic.

Walking in the Star tonight, I noticed a box of food donations. Altruism is a noble trait for a person to have, and it was nice to see two or three full boxes of food. However, the one package of food that stuck out to me was a giant tub that read, "Thick Soy Sauce." Why somebody would donate soy sauce is beyond me. In order to use soy sauce, you need to have purchased Chinese food for it to be of any use. Nobody eats soy sauce by itself. I should know. I tried once, and it was a bad experience. What I'm guessing happened was that in one of the departments, everyone was ordered to bring in some sort of food for the donation. Not knowing what to bring and not wanting to go to the store and have to spend money, they probably saw the big tub of thick soy sauce that had been sitting in their kitchen cabinet for three years and brought it in. No more soy sauce equals more room in the cabinet. I wonder what the hungry person is going to think when he or she receives the soy sauce. Probably that journalists are stupid.

Friday, October 07, 2005


Now that the Red Sox have lost, maybe everyone will FINALLY shut up about them. For the last year, it's been Red Sox this and Red Sox that. Now, it's over. Hallelujah!!

(Don't get me wrong, they're a fun team to watch and Fenway is the best place to see a baseball game, but it just got so tiring hearing about them. Now, if only the Yankees can lose, I'll be even happier.)

Thursday, October 06, 2005

Jungle Superbouts Round One = Draw

I've always had a thing with trying to guess who would win in fights between two ferocious animals. Shark vs. Crocodile. Bear vs. Shark. Giant Snake vs. Alligator

Well, we found our answer to the last one. In the Everglades, a 13-foot long Burmese python and a six-foot alligator battled. We can only guess how the fight went down in the first rounds, but the snake seemed to win as it devoured the alligator. Then came the aftermath.

Image hosted by
(Everglades National Park photo)

What happened was the snake attempted to swallow the alligator whole, and then exploded. The article says the alligator may have tried to claw at the snake's stomach from inside, leading to the blow up. That's amazing.

You can barely tell where one ends and the other begins. That's weird. The thought of being eaten alive by a snake is not a very pleasant thought. It's sort of like the bad movie "Anaconda" when Jon Voight and others are eaten by the giant snakes. It's not a nice way to go.

I found a video. It provides some explaining.

Wednesday, October 05, 2005

This and that

There's a few things to cover before I consider sleeping...

-- The last several years, this weekend has been my fall break. This year, I work four days in a row. That's fine, but it's quite a difference. The first year of graduating is one adjustment after another. Most adjustments have been remedied by sitting on the couch because that seems to be the thing to do. The strangest adjustment was at the beginning because I was so used to going back, and it was my favorite part of the year. You know, other than the end.

-- I want to see "The Aristocrats," and I wish I had when it was in theatres here. If you don't know what it is, it is 100 comedians telling the same basic joke. The beginning and ending are the same, but it is the middle that is each their own. And it is also the most obscene joke known to human beings.

-- The NHL is back today. I am glad. While the Blues are going to be terrible, it is just nice to have the sport around again. I can't skate, I've only been to one NHL game and it was in the preseason, and Indianapolis' team is now in an amateur league, but I love the sport.

-- Whichever way you lean on bunnies, here is one you can poke. Just keep poking.

-- This is one of the more sacreligious things I've seen lately, but I guess we will soon be going to the First United Church of Danny Tanner.

-- Finally, I'm serious about this, and I don't care what anyone else says. I'm tired and defiant and I am in the mood to fight anyone to the death over this right now because no one seems to be agreeing with me. Bill Murray is the best and funniest actor of our time. There. I said it. Name me one actor, one, who has stayed as consistently good as Murray has in the last 30 years. A lot of actors and their comedy gets old over time, but not his. AND NEIL DIAMOND IS STILL COOL.

Tuesday, October 04, 2005

Dumb things

I am not exactly the most graceful person in the world. More times than not, I will find a way for others to make fun of me. I take it well. If I didn't, I would probably go crazy. Here are a few examples...

1) I was seven or eight when I was at a wedding reception for one of my mom's cousins. I don't remember anything about the wedding, but I do remember one part of the reception. Some of the other kids and I were huddled in back of the stage. We were bored. Wedding receptions aren't made for kids that age. So we decided to run across the stage as the band played. What could go wrong? We would run across and into the room over, the old people would have a laugh and all would be fine. So we did it. Unfortunately, I was running caboose. All the other kids got through fine, but the drummer caught me. As I went by, he stuck his handkerchief in front of my face and said "Hey buddy! Where do you think you're going?" I escaped, ran over to my mom, saw a security officer out of the corner of my eye (it was a big place), and told mom we had to go. She said we would soon, but I started panicking. Somehow, I didn't get caught, but for the next few months, whenever I heard a police siren, I thought they were coming for me.

2) In kindergarten, I had to wait for my dad to pick me up from school. Usually the third graders waited outside also for their rides. There were four or five of them, and they kind of enjoyed giving me a hard time. As a six year old, I was a scrawny kid who dressed pretty bad. I made it easy for them. One day, I was out there waiting for dad when I decided to start pacing back-and-forth, walking from one end of the sidewalk to the other for no apparent reason. One of the third graders asked me what I was doing. My responce? "I'm playing with myself."

3) I also:
--shot milk out my nose laughing during a class party
--thrown up on the table at school lunch
--ran out of a classroom while throwing up
--Charlie Browned twice in a row at gym class when trying to kick a football
--held the door open for a woman to a men's restroom and said "there you go" (didn't realize it was a woman despite the obvious)
--nearly walked into the girls' lockeroom in middle school before being asked where I thought I was going (accidentally)
--the same with the girls' bathroom in high school (accidentally)
--judo kicked open a bathroom stall door in elementary school when a kid was in the stall (I thought the door was just stuck)
--forgot my speech about rainforest destruction in my freshman year of high school and started mumbling about how it was "just so terrible" for about five minutes before the teacher said I could sit down
--continually asked my third grade teacher for a Kleenex while taking the ISTEP test even though it was on her desk two feet in front of me and could reach because she told us to not get up (she got frustrated)
--broke an egg all over myself in fifth grade by playing around with it while waiting to do my presentation in front of the class with the egg
--ate a potato that had huge spuds growing all over it because I was hungry and then got sick
--hit a girl in the face playing dodgeball and made her cry and made the gym teacher yell at me
--started laughing uncontrollably during seventh grade sex education and was told to settle down
--slipped on a grape in the elementary school lunch room and did the splits. Very painful splits.
--jumped over a pile of gynmastics mats in eighth grade and wrenched my right knee (It still swishes when I bend it)
--slipped about seven or eight times my one time ice skating and bruised my right elbow so bad that it was purple for four months (I didn't know when to stop)
--was throwing rocks into the stream at the park across from my house and for some reason decided to heave one that nearly hit someone above the cliff (they yelled, "What the hell? Who threw that?")
--wrote a blog entry about all the dumb things I've done.

I also once crashed the riding mower into the front porch because my dad was talking to me. The suspension was messed up, and I never had to mow the grass again. It ended up being a good thing.

And in a strange twist of fate, I will become a trash man.

This was posted on the message board under the title, "Look under 'sobering realization' in the dictionary and you'll find..."


Solid Waste Driver

Pay Range: $1750 per month plus benefits
Department: Solid Waste
Duties: Drives refuse truck on assigned routes servicing approximately 1,500 containers per route, per week. Collects trash from residential and commercial areas. Residential containers are serviced twice a week and commercial accounts are serviced as required


What is sobering is that I could make more money per month transporting solid waste than I can as a journalist. Although, if I did it for a month, I don't see myself being too thrilled.

Little things I like

I've been working on a list...

--the sound lawn sprinklers make and then running through them
--the noise it makes when you move hanged up clothes in the closet
--the sound the rain makes when it hits my window in the morning
--that instant when you see someone you want to see, but didn't expect to
--the roar of hapiness 40,000 people at a stadium
--the groan of instantaneous sadness of 40,000 people at a stadium
--the shadows in my yard around 6 p.m. on a summer evening
--"When The Stars Go Blue" by Ryan Adams, not that crap version by Bono and the woman from the Corrs
--when my grandparents would look through their window and wave when we'd drive up to their house
--when Grandpa would ask me if I "got any good ones" in my baseball cards
--the feeling of doom in the pit of my stomach going away when something goes better than expected
--running on cool early mornings (when I'm actually able to wake up early)
--Hinkle Fieldhouse for a 2 p.m. Saturday game when the sun shines through the south windows
--the crack of a baseball bat
--"Jesus, Etc." by Wilco
--that pain in my side when I've run after eating, for some reason
--feeling like my stomach is going to shoot out my mouth when driving over a hill too fast
--driving on the country roads with nothing but cornfields for miles around
--driving into Chicago with the traffic and tall buildings and the lake
--walking through fog (it's like walking through the sky)
--turning on Jack Johnson's Brushfire Fairytales cd when I wake up early and need to relax and not be mad about it
--the smell it makes when the oil furnace is turned on for the first time in the winter (terrible smell, really, but it's my terrible smell)
--the smell outside on a summer night at the old house in Mooresville in the woods
--trying to sled in my yard, but inevitably running into a tree
--deafness after a concert
--any Josh Rouse cd (why doesn't anyone know who he is?)
--sleeping on clean sheets
--my old sandbox that is probably filled with huge spiders now
--playing basketball on my driveway until late under the moonlight
--sleeping on the driveway
--recognizing all the little idiocyncracies of the people I know and care about
--when a story comes out right/when the tape recorder doesn't break/when the person gives me perfect quotes/when I don't get hit in the head with a flying basketball or flying basketball player while sitting on press row...they're all one
--some Italian restaurant in Durham, NC whose name I don't remember
--the way the Arch in St. Louis gleams late in the day
--when the Star people start ranting
--the smell of a newspaper when it is just off the printing press
--watching a storm approach
--cursing at the Cubs because it's the least I can do

That's it for now.

Monday, October 03, 2005

The Burger King

They should make a horror movie with the Burger King guy as the killer. While most corporate mascots are nice and cuddly, The Burger King is freakish and scary. The one where he shows up behind a tree a lumberjack cuts down gets me the most. It's almost like you expect The King to murder the guy with an axe and then take his hamburger back. I like the football one because it's not everyday you see a guy with an unhelmeted, oversized plastic head catch a pass and run for a touchdown with his purple cape flying behind him.

Image hosted by

Thank you, Internet.


While I'm bored with the teams in the playoffs, here are my predictions like I do every year...

American League Division Series
Boston vs. Chicago: Red Sox in 5.
New York vs. Los Angeles: Angels in 5.

National League Division Series
Houston vs. Atlanta: Astros in 4.
St. Louis vs. San Diego: Cardinals in 4.

American League Championship Series
Boston vs. Anaheim: Boston in 6.

National League Championship Series
St. Louis vs. Houston: Cardinals in 7.

World Series
Boston vs. St. Louis: Cardinals in 6.

I would have been much more interested had the Yankees, Braves and Astros not made the playoffs. I am sick of them.

Saturday, October 01, 2005

Things written while I'm waiting for the monster under my bed to leave

Saturday was the last night for one of the people I work with at the Star. He and I got along, even if we didn't talk as much as I do with some of the others. He is moving to Idaho to work at Idaho State University. It's always kind of strange how you know you're probably never going to see someone again, yet you say "see you later" or something similar. It was the same way whenever people who weren't my best friends would graduate, and I'd say something like, "Good luck. Yeah, yeah, I hope so, too. But I'll see you around." Then I'd walk away and realize a few seconds later that I might never talk to whomever it was again. It's one of those things that weird on a certain level.

In other less jumbled, but slightly more rambling news

--I have noticed that on the days I don't work, I avoid anything that has to do with sports at all costs, except for football on Sundays. On the other days I am off, it is the last thing I want to think about. It probably has to do with being surrounded by sports for hours on end with nothing to interrupt it. It's almost irritating when my brother or dad decide to talk about the Pacers or baseball or whatever because I just don't want to think about it. I'm fine with going to a game, but I don't want to talk about it in my off time. I am glad I am this way because I don't want to be shallow.

--Craig's List is one of those things I could read for hours. Where else can you find job offers, appartment deals, people saying how much they hate Indiana and others saying how much they want someone else to die in a public forum?

--From the end scene of Ron Burgundy
"Brick, will you be holding your celebrity golf outing again this year?"
"No. Too many people died last year."

--Is it really too much for someone to keep some cookies in this house? It's after 3 a.m. There have to be cookies somewhere. When I was little, my parents didn't let me eat sugar. This meant no cookies. No cake. No ice cream. No soft drinks (or pop or soda or Coke or whatever you want to call it). No cupcakes. No candy bars. No pie. No cereal with candy. No candy, in general. No chocolate-covered peanuts. No whatever else you can think of. Maybe this explains a lot of things.

--Thank God that the Cubs' death march finally ends tomorrow.