Five O'Clock Shadow

Thanks to my father, I can grow fully-developed facial hair virtually overnight.

So every once in a while, I decide to mix up my look and leave the Gillette Mach III on the shelf. However, because of genetics, a bit of stubble left unchecked turns me into cro-magnon man by morning.

Dad looks about like this:

So when I go to bed looking like this:

I wake up like this:Now everyone asks me: "So, growing a beard, eh?" As if it takes any effort. If the razor doesn't make any appearance for a day or two, I turn into Grizzly Adams.

It's a blessing and a curse. My wife runs and hides from me. But so do street toughs, so I'm safe walking around downtown.
Thanks dad.

Your Worst Nightmare

The original Rambo (actually titled First Blood) is one of my all-time favorite movies. I've seen it more times than I can count. I actually watched it the morning of my wedding to pump me up. The sequels were underappreciated cinematic gems of the Reagan-era 80s. A time when - although I was too young to appreciate at the time - a movie didn't have to feature a complex storyline, computer generated graphics and a gay sidekick to be successful.
So when I heard that Sly Stallone was cooking up Part IV to bookend the series, my attention and curiousity were immediately piqued.
After months of waiting, and quaking with unfettered anticipation, I suffered through endless previews and AMCs 'Silence is Golden' PSA to watch the third sequel in the most beloved movie franchise ever made - Rambo.
By the time I had finished my oil-drum-sized bucket of popcorn and my 239 oz. coke, I bore witness to the final(?) installment of the greatest action series ever to be memorialized on celluloid.
Quick synopsis - Twenty years after laying waste to the Russian forces in Afghanistan by teaming with the insurgent Islamic freedom fighters (probably not the best move politically in hindsight), we find our noble hero wrangling snakes in Thailand. He also does some blacksmithing, but I'm pretty sure that it's just for show. A group of Christian missionaries come calling on the aging warrior to guide them through the Bhurmese wilderness so they can provide aid to villages decimated by the country's 60-year civil war. Rambo, who coincidentally, also 60, reluctantly agrees (he's obviously had some RAMBOtox done). He's a bit ambivalent to their cause. Or should I say RAMBivalent.
The action doesn't get going until the missionaries are attacked and captured and it's up to our guilt-ridden protagonist (and a rag-tag group of monosyllabic mercenaries) to come to their rescue.
The dialogue is laughable, the barely-there plot only exists to facilitate the bullets, and the gore is so over-the-top that it makes Saving Private Ryan look like Driving Miss Daisy.
But it's still awesome.
Why? Because the character is iconic. Stallone's Rambo is a throwback to the days when you knew going in that good was good and evil was toast. From the moment he takes out his Rambow and arrow, those Bhurmese baddies stood no chance. Let the RAMBush begin. They were merely fodder for his hunting knife, his trip-wire claymore, his tree-mounted .50 cal machine gun, and his bare hands (he can use both - he's RAMBidextrous). No one puts bad guys down like John Rambo. Those fools are gonna need a RAMBulance.
Best picture of the year, it is not. A RAMBunctious good time? You bet. A RAMBitious political statement? Nope. A worthy conclusion for a time-honored RAMBassador of justice?
Of course.

I'm Divorcing My Dog

Dear Indie Anna:
There's no easy way to say this, so I'll just go ahead and put it out there: I don't like you.
Please let this blog post serve notice to you that I'm seeking a dissolution of the dog-owner relationship.
You've seen this coming. I could say, "It's not you...it's me". But that would be a lie. Because it is you.
You see, for the past five years, I've put up with you running away, barking incessantly at the neighbors, eating my socks and, quite literally, biting the hand that feeds.
But enough is enough.
Granted, you were an adorable six-pound rottweiler puppy who sat calmly in our laps at the pet shop - eager to please and longing for affection.
Then we brought you home.
If you remember (which you don't because you're a stupid dog), the minute we invited you into our house, you immediately began to take advantage of our seemingly infinite patience. Between savagely ripping apart our couch cushions and chewing holes in our drywall, you barely found time to our terrorize guests and eat out of the trash can.
I mean, seriously. How do you chew a hole through drywall!?! As always, you figured out a way.
But we persevered. We hoped you would grow out of the puppy stage.
We've been giving you a pass because you're relatively cute and we don't exercise you as much as we probably should. But you've pooped on my carpet for the last time, sister.
No more freebies. The next time you choose to use my sneakers as a chew toy will be the last decision of your canine life. And that whole drinking out of the toilet routine? It's gross. And unsanitary. You're better than that.
We've brought in training specialists into our home. We've taken you to classes. In an effort to keep you healthy and behaved, we've tried spaying, drugs, doggy therapy, walks, specialized toys, electric fences, and spent thousands of dollars at the vet. We even bought another dog so you could have companionship when we weren't at home. You've spent the last several months trying to eat him. You would think it was the Vick household the way you fight.
Your bark isn't worse then your bite. In fact, your bite is much worse. I know this because you've bitten me. And you've barked at me. So I feel adequately qualified to make that determination.
You snarl and growl at me when you have a toy, a bone, or your food dish. Please believe me when I say that I have no interest in those things. I'm just passing through. So can I please make it through the living room without fear of having my nuts chewed off? It's too much to ask, you say? Okay, but I won't put up with this forever.
The final straw was last evening. No sooner had I set my Chinese take-out on the counter, when you hopped up, stole it, devoured it in seconds and whined at me for more. And then you have the gall to look hurt when I yell at you? ...please.
So please take note: I've met someone else. He's a shepherd mix named Jake and he's cute and smart and cuddly. But most of all: he behaves.
Basically he's everything you're not.
So be thankful that you won't be taken out behind the utility barn like Ol' Yeller. The only thing that's stopping me is your mommy. And I get the feeling that her patience is wearing thin.
Until then, sleep with one eye open.

Sincerely,

Your doggy daddy.

Gaining Weight in '08

I looked in the mirror this morning and didn't recognize the person staring back.
Actually I did. That statement was dumb and a bit melodramatic.
It was me. Why wouldn't it be? That was stupid.
But the person was bloated and pale, hadn't shaved for two days and desperately needed an unibrow pluck. Kinda sweaty too.
2008 has started out as being the year of the slob. And that's exactly what I've become. Ever since I found out that I didn't make the cut as an FBI agent, I've been spiraling downhill. Last month I was working out five times a week, doing push-ups, sit-ups and sprints every day.
However, last night I polished off a 2-liter Diet Dew and a bag of Quaker Cheddar rice cakes.
Before dinner.
Then I ate half a large Pizza King deluxe topping thin cruster and four packs of the Captain's Wafers with my salad.
The floorboards of my car are covered in fast-food bags and pop cans. I can't fit into half my dress pants and I get winded taking the elevator.
I've lost all motivation to work out, watch what I eat, or even think about preparing for the marathon that I'm running in three months. Maybe it's the fact that it's minus-54 wind chill outside. But I just don't really care right now.
I just want to sit in my bathrobe and watch football.
If anyone has any idea how to break out of this rut, I'm all ears. Until then, you'll know where to find me.
Just follow the Twinkie crumbs.

Tort-Weezer

I picked up Rivers Cuomo's new solo demo CD last night. For those unfamiliar with the geek-rock genre (See The Rentals; They Might be Giants; Fountains of Wayne), Cuomo is the lead singer of the rock group Weezer.
I'm not totally down with much of the music they've released in recent years, but their pre-millennium rockin' was stuff for the ages. Everyone knows 'Buddy Holly', 'The Sweater Song', etc., but the album Pinkerton rocked my socks (even when Rolling Stone named it one of the worst of 1996 then retroactively gave it a 5-star review ten years later) and was a formidable album of my high school years. I have two copies of it. One's autographed by the band. Totally geeked out on that one.
Well, Cuomo's demo album isn't earth shattering, but his warbly, insecure voice reminded me why my Sony Walkman was my most prized possession of my youth. So I got to thinking - what are the albums that have stood the test of time as the sounds of my formidable years? You know, those disks/cassettes/vinyl albums that stayed in the rotation just a little longer and never really wore out their welcome. They meant a little more and maybe got you through a tough time but putting on the headphones and tuning everything else out. Some kind of emotional renosance. You don't care, but here are mine with standout tracks in parethesis:

1. Weezer - Pinkerton (The Good Life, Tired of Sex) 1996
2. Velvet Underground - Loaded (Oh Sweet Nuthin'; Train Round the Bend; Sweet Jane) 1970
3. Pixies - Surfer Rosa (Where is My Mind; Gigantic) 1988
4. R.E.M. - New Adventures in Hi-Fi (Leave; Be Mine) 1996
5. Radiohead - OK Computer (Paranoid Android; Exit Music; No Surprises) 1996
6. Nine Inch Nails - The Fragile (Somewhat Damaged; The Fragile) 1999
7. Bob Dylan - Time Out of Mind (Lovesick; Not Dark Yet) 1997
8. Nirvana - Unplugged in New York (Something in the Way; Where Did You Sleep Last Night)
9. The Beatles - the white album (I'm So Tired; Dear Prudence; Helter Skelter) 1968
10. Bob Dylan - Blood on the Tracks (Meet Me in the Morning; If You See Her, Say Hello) 1975
11. Pearl Jam - Ten (Black; Porch) 1991
12. Smashing Pumpkins - Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness (1979; Thirty-Three; Muzzle) 1995

Home Alone

I'm a 28-year-old Latchkey kid.
My wife doesn't get home from work until 6:30 in the evening (can you imagine? a forty-hour workweek?).
I get home close to 4:00, (government employee=bankers' hours) so that's an awesome two-plus hours where I can chill in my man-cave by myself. By man-cave, I mean damp, dark basement with a mini-fridge of Banquet Beer, a recliner-equipped sectional and a 106-inch projector screen.
The biggest decision in these two hours is whether to pay attention to the current Blockbuster Rental or play spider solitaire on my laptop.
After shedding my pants and workshirt for boxers and bathrobe, I fix a delicious and nutritious snack (stale tortilla chips, string cheese, snak pak) before heading to the lower level where the lights are low and the Coors is cold.
I can't argue that I am the luckiest man on the planet. I retain the bachelor lifestyle while enjoying the benefits of married life (see: double income, occasional hot meals). But after 25-some-odd years of having homework every night, I can finally relax after school. I mean, work.
So I disconnect the phone, don my slippers, and reflect on my super-sweet existence.

As Promised...

Like it or not: some photos from my Mayan Vacation...

Okay, so this last one is me having a dance party...by myself. My wife is sooo proud.

An Inconvenient Truth

I receive an error message on my work computer this morning - 'Unexpected shutdown due to thermal event'.
Naturally, I press F1 to continue instead of F2 to enter safe mode. When it comes to computers I tend to live my life on the edge. Safe mode is for pansies.
It shuts down again. I pay it no mind and reboot. Sounds like a challenge.
Me not being an IT guy, I don't realize that a thermal event means that the fan is not working on the motherboard and the computer has been slowly cooking in its own juices. I should have realized this because the term 'thermal event' usually means something along those lines. It had me thinking that hot lava would be spewing from my PC tower, but as that sounded totally awesome, I continued working.
Finally, it quit for good.
So now I have a decision to make. Do I call the IT help desk, thus risking the exposure to my violation of the Internet usage policy? (See: blogging, online mahjong, et. al.) Or do I try to continue my career eschewing the computer altogether? (See: relearning how to handwrite).
Throwing caution to the wind, I called IT. They were surprisingly helpful and friendly and replaced my computer in less than an hour.
But this thermal event got me thinking. Is it a sign of the times? Did my computer shut down because of the greenhouse effect? Have the effects of global warming infiltrated the office setting? Will it have other ramifications Agency-wide? Will the fridge in the break room spontaneously defrost? Will the ferns on the secretary's desk wither and die? Will the water cooler dry up? Will the paralegals become extinct?

I'm buying a hybrid.

Medieval Times

So I attended a wedding this weekend. For the sake of anonymity I won't reveal the names of the bride and groom, but I will say that they're relatives (by marriage, thankfully).

I've been to my fair share of bizzare weddings (see barefoot; hay bales; best man's speech referencing the size of the groom's bowel movements).

However, this one topped them all.

I'll preface this by saying that I'm not a gamer. I have never played Dungeons and Dragons, World of Warcraft or any of the role-playing video games that have inexplicably become part of our culture. I don't stand in line for Star Wars movies and couldn't begin to hold my own in a conversation about comic books.

But as you may have guessed, this was a themed wedding incorporating many of those motifs. The wedding party walked down the aisle to the Final Fantasy XII soundtrack (proudly listed in the program). The groom wore medieval garb and swords (to fend of any thief attempting to steal the bride). The groomsmen were dressed similarly although they looked more like pirates than noble serfs. The bridesmaids were adorned in princess costumes that quite obviously were purchased from those Halloween warehouse stores that are only open in October.

Guests were encouraged to dress the part as well. Not surprisingly, no one did.

A reception followed. But instead of stout mead served in gem encrusted goblets and a freshly slain stag roasted on a spit, we had to make due with cheese cubes and wine in a box.