Undeniable Outcome

We're buying a car. It's cool, we can afford it.

Not a bad looking one either. It's a funny story, though, if you get in to it.

About a year ago... I was looking at a new car. I started with the Yaris. And I test drove it. It's got some pickup, but overall, the sedan version of the Yaris was not comfortable with me. It's extremely roomy on the inside, however, if you're afflicted with LTS (Long Torso Syndrome), like I am, the Yaris is not the option for you (your head will hit the front support beam).

I was slightly disappointed, since I had absolutely convinced myself that this was the car for me. Great gas mileage, low price, nice features package (not great, just nice). It took a couple of days, but eventually I ended myself at a Honda dealership looking at the lovely Honda Civic LX Coupe. It's a great ride, quiet and luxurious. The back seat is no place for anyone over 16 or 180 pounds to enjoy, but I never have people in my backseat. It's a fast car, too.

This was the car for me... that or the Mazda 3. Well, all and all, I didn't get what I wanted for a trade in on my car. I chose to forgo getting a new car at that time, and got by with my car.

Now... a year and 12,000 miles later...

I find myself with my wife... at that same Honda Dealership looking at a new 07 Honda Civic EX Coupe. Ain't life funny?

Opposing Indentification (Dedicated to my friend Lupe)

I've recently become aware of a phenomenon which I have termed "New York City Syndrome".

You might be aware of it. You are definitely aware of it, if you have any friends from or living in "the city", but not any city. The City. New York City.

Much like our own "United States Syndrome", or "USS" (where we have come under the belief that all countries outside of England, France and Japan are third world and desolate, impoverished and violent), New York City Syndrome, or NYCS, is the believe that all land outside of the 5 boroughs and Staten Island is a post-apocalyptic wasteland, akin to movies like "Mad Max" or "Judge Dredd".

Also, extreme followers of the show "Sex and the City" can become immersed in NYCS or Remote NYCS, these are often the most severe cases, as they have only fabricated experiences in "The City".

You can help a sufferer of NYCS by bringing them to a more rural area for a period of more than 72 hours and allow them to drive.

Suffers of remote NYCS must be brought to the city for a period of no less than 3 weeks, and made to commute 5 days a week 2 times a day, then brought back to their home town. You, too, can help an NYCS sufferer.


I've provided an example dialog to help you to identify individuals who suffer from NYCS:

(In this example, there are two individuals: Bob, who is from Minneapolis and Tim, who is from New York City, and therefore suffers from NYCS.

"Hey, is this Tim?"

"Yeah, who am I talking to?"

"Hey Tim, it's Bob!"

"Oh, Bob, how the hell ya been?"

"Good, good, say listen, I don't mean to bother you but my wife and I are going to be in Trenton, New Jersey on business. Do you want to meet for dinner at that little Mexican joint in Newark we used to go to every weekend? You know, the place with the tequila taco special?"

"Uh... sure... wait... Newark? Isn't that outside of The City?"

"Yeah, Tim, is that a problem?"

"Well, Bob, I don't really leave The City if I don't have to... it's just.. a thing, but hey, know a great Chinese place on Mott Street in Chinatown, how does that sound?"

"Fine, I guess. I'll call you when I get in, then."

"Great. So Bob, how's married life?"

"Good. Find a woman yet?"

"No, it's been a difficult find. I bet I could a find a nice girl if I moved to Minneapolis... that's right next to Chicago, right?"

A Parable of Human Intuition

Ever read the book I, Lucifer?

I'm almost done with it. It took a while. My brother harangued me about it constantly until I simply extracted the book from his hands. It lay on my dresser for months after that, docile, a scarlet reminder of a promise that I had left unfulfilled. I had flirted with the idea of actually reading the thing. A page here, there, on the can. The book never got my attention. It was too obnoxious, which I'm sure was the point, but that doesn't make it any more readable.

I moved, and finally said to myself, I said, "Self, you have to get down and just read this fuckin' book." So I started. It's been hard, the book itself isn't terrible, it might even be good if I could get past the voice that Glen Duncan uses to write the book in. The name of the main character "Declan Gunn", get it? Glen Duncan? Declan Gunn?

Ok, not that clever. The book is trite, Lucifer says "It's not my fault." Blah, blah, blah...

But the book brings up an interesting thought: Do we need the justification to do something wrong, or is it simply enough for us to believe that we will not get caught?

Don't think about the big things, try the smaller things. Sure we'd all have liked to have hurt someone... or rob a bank, that's just life. But really think about it.

Would you have stolen something... A movie, or a CD or would you have urinated on that cop car, that day the party got busted at the frat? Had sex with your friend's significant other?

You couldn't justify these things until after you did them... until you were asked for an excuse.

What would you do if you knew you could get away with it?

UPDATE: Just finished the book, and I'd say the last 10 pages out do the first 250. Justify them, maybe not... but definitely better.

A Topic of Accumulated Interest

Fark.com had an interesting thread today, which posed the question: What do you want your famous final words to be. Far be it from farkers, especially non-truefarkers to take anything about it seriously, the thread is filled with nerdy movie quotes, nerdy book quotes, nerdy music quotes and "boobies".

I know, I know. Fark is the pinnacle of anonymous news and comment posting, and unless you've met any of these people in real life... say... at a fark party, there's no accounting for what is being said in the forums.

But I digress.

Imagine for a minute...

Your family and what's left of your friends have surrounded you. Cancer, the doctor explained. After a few months, it's progressed quickly. There wasn't much they could do, it had already spread so much. You didn't want to go to the doctor, but you couldn't breathe that day.

They've come to say goodbye. Each looks upon you, some are uncomprehending on how you're taking it so well. "Everyone gets cancer if they live long enough," you used to say. Now, saying things has become difficult. It's too hard to move your mouth, it drains you. Your communication has become a one way line. They've stopped asking questions, when they knew all you were doing was shifting your head in a nod, to simple acknowledge that you had heard what they said to you.

You know that the pity people once felt for you has shifted to relief, and sadness. Your children know that there is nothing they can do, and are grateful for everything you've done for them. They understand everything, now. And your grandchildren know only disappointment. Their parents have explained to them what death means and that you're not going to wake up from this.

You smile weakly at your friends. There are less here than you remember. Some couldn't make it, for many reasons. They make a frail attempt to smile at you. Your death reminds them of many things. You had good times together. You've shared a lot; drinks... stories... life. But your death also reminds them of their friends now passed. And others passing. And their own mortality. You smile to remind them that this is life. There is nothing to be afraid of from here.

You take your last breath. It is a jagged inhalation. Deeper than the others you'd struggled thru. No one wants to scare you, but they've all turned to you.

You feel relieved, you know that this breath will be proceeded by no other. That this is your last opportunity to impart wisdom, or to express regret, or a hidden feeling... love or hate... remorse. To confess? Repent?

"I'll never forgive Fox for canceling FireFly."

And now, introducing, Gina.

My wife has expressed an interest in joining and posting occassionally on my blog.  You'll see her from time to time, but really, I'd do anything to promote a little foul-mouthed hijinx.

Way of the Warrior

I could safely say that my best non-work buddy is ScottyP. The sad thing is... I still work with him. We don't hang out much, and I don't have any real life outside of work.

What you don't know is how awesome ScottyP is.

Scott plays games. A lot of men my age do, that's demographics, again. Scott has a child, she's lovely, just a joy to watch. Her name? Marin. Scott isn't married, but he doesn't have himself a life partner, who goes by Amanda. She plays games, too. He owns a house. Has a car. And a budding career as a graphic designer/artist (and a damn good one, too).

Scott, so far, seems to have things under control. Much like any other responsible 24-30 year old male.

Until you talk to him.

Then you know that Scott is the most awesome-fucking-person in the world.

Scott... well... how do I explain this? Scott is the fucking warrior-of-today, except the dialog hasn't changed much.

His blade? A newly christened Xbox360 Controller. His dagger? A Nintendo DS. He's run special ops missions in Vegas, and defeated thousands of ninjas in combat, climbed mountains, murdered Gods and saved princesses. And if you ask me, I'd believe he's done it all.

So, to you ScottyP, I salute you, the Norman Mailer of our time. Now go kick some ass.

Moderation isn't a Quid Pro Quo Relationship

My wife would like to point out that I say (write?) the word "fuck" alot. So, let it be written, that I may or may not use the word "fuck" mid-rant in more than a contemporary sense.

Get the fuck out of the aisle

You're in the way. Yes, you, the woman who is talking on her cellphone while 3 kids are screaming in to your face about wanting this toy or another.

The first thing I should tell you is that you need to set your fucking kids straight. You think ignoring them is going to stop them from screaming? Try again. He looks like he's fucking 12 years old, and I think I see a mustache forming. Smack the little son of a bitch. He's setting an example for the other 2, who will think screaming and playing jungle gym on the fucking shopping cart is an acceptable public behavior.

Number 2. Get the fuck off the phone. If you are calling to confirm what kind of olives (yes, it's the black ones) that's understandable. I don't, however, think it's important to tell us the results of your appointment with your gynecologist. It would make for some great pillow talk, so spare me the fucking details.

Number 3. Don't block the middle of the god-damned aisle. I understand that we're at Target and it's busy, so have some fucking consideration for the other 3000 people who want to get down the motherfucking aisle before the end of the week. If you really have to talk to your friend, who just so happened to be at Target with the same annoying fucking shopping habits, about something that happened at Jimmy's fucking soccer practice, don't park your carts in the same 3 feet of aisle directly across from each other. Go have a fucking coffee at Starbucks and discuss your shit there. Your BMW 323i says you can afford it.

Next time, take note of these behaviors, and I won't have to follow you home and slash your tires.