vegas baby!

Guess where I'm headed. Expect blogging not to happen, unless this here blog finally takes the initiative and does something for itself for once. Expect that not to happen. Expect to come here and see the same old posts cluttering things and making life . . . cluttered. I will try to blog about my experiences there when I get back, but always remember: what . . . Right. And you say marketing doesn't work and there your brain goes, completely on automatic, repeating tourism slogans. I'm just saying, mind controlling blogs can't be far behind. Regardless, you're supposed to keep it all there, unless you lose a finger. Bring that back as a souvenir to remember all the fun you had in Vegas.

At any rate, sorry for the inconvenience, but here are some links (the internet kind, not the sausage kind) to blogs I've recently began dabbling in (this is how heroin addictions start):

High Desert Diva regularly explains stuff about food that I didn't even know about or was too afraid to ask (and some stuff I didn't even know I was too afraid to ask). I used to think she was a diva in the high desert, but she's shown an interest in recreational drug use, so maybe she's a desert diva who's high. You be the judge!

Minuscule Thoughts is a blog devoted to . . . the advancement of humanity. I'm not sure. It's random in the same way this blog is, but with a different color scheme. All the posts are funny, but I especially get a kick out of dad. He needs a blog too.

Sarah and the Goon Squad details the wacky misadventures (and football viewings) of Sarah and her squad. Her kids make for some good stories and I'm thinking the next "in" thing will be to have kids only because they produce such good blog fodder. Especially go there if you're from Japan.

It is hard for me to carry the burden of all your internet expectations. So please go to these blogs and enjoy them. Take a little bit of the pressure off!

and now for something for completely different . . .

Ok, this story is the saddest thing I have ever read. If it were a Netflix movie, I would be like, "C'mon, laying it on pretty thick." I literally cried when I read it. (Probably because I played two games of roller hockey (goalie) and my "guy defenses" are totally down and there was no one here to judge me.)

p.s. You are 100% cold and dead inside if lack an emotional response to this story. Yah, pressure's on.

when good jelly goes bad

How long before jelly (grape) goes bad? Not bad like steal your car and knock up your daughter, but bad like, you probably don't want to eat it. Will it smell? Surely, you'll say, what is the expiration date on the label? Well, maybe the label disappeared - ever think of that? Maybe the refrigerator ate it. Whatever, just tell me what I want to know!

thanks mom

We all know I'm a big fan of people bringing in goodies for the whole office to enjoy. That glorious week of processed pastries will be fondly remember for all times. Today I came into the office and found a slightly different snack . . . a bagful of raw vegetables, mostly peppers and other sundry greens. Written on the bag, "Help Yourselves!" A fucking exclamation point??!! Don't roll into the office with some left-over vegetables and then go throwing around exclamation points like you're the Santa Claus of Christmas in September. Especially when you don't even mitigate your implication of my fatness with a nice ranchy dipping sauce. I'll thank you to limit your exclamation points to treats that are mini and powdered.

thought . . .

Have you ever unitentionally told a really hilarious joke and then you're the last one to get it? You're delivery will be exquisitely deadpan because, well, you have no idea you're telling a joke. A bit of advice - don't confess. People won't think you're funny anymore. Instead, mentally credit your hilarious joke to your subconscious. That's all your subconscious does all day anyway, write jokes. Most of them are garbage, but every once in a while it'll hit the jackpot . . . it's about time subconscious. Shutup Roger.

the blogging capitol of the world . . .

is apparently Orlando. Going over my stuff from the conference I found a couple of notes for blog posts. Yes, I know this is a new low, but I'm trying not to dwell on that. I felt I should share them with you because if I've turned into some weird blogging nerd, you can bet your sweet ass I'm not going down alone. After all, it's mostly your fault. Before I build the anticipation beyond my capacity to deliver:

• Apparently there have been a number of advancements in alarm clock technology over the past 10 years. In that time I've had only one Alarmie. We are old friends, but he is truly harsh. As soon as it's time, he starts screaming at me as loudly as possible. I get up; snooze him; sleep for nine minutes; repeat. Well, the hotel's alarm clock had a different tack. It employs a gradual waking method. First a gentle be, then a bee, beep, a little bit louder now - beep-beep and beep-beep-beep. By then, I was usually awake, but I venture that after some more beeping a rubber mallet pops out and taps you in the head. I think it was a Michael Graves design. Why do I think that? Because it was white and had big buttons. If it's white and has big buttons, it's Michael Graves. Unless it has a tape deck, then it's a My First Sony Radio.


• Khakis don't hide ink stains very well. In fact, they highlight ink stains. Not sure how khakis handle highlighter stains, but it's bound to happen. I'll let you know.


• I was tagged all week, one of those, "Hi. My name is Roger" deals. I knew this; I was wearing the thing around my neck for 5 days, but that didn't prevent the (in/e)ternal questioning . . . "How did he know my name?"


• Correlated reference in a table function call - TAB1 is not materialized; it's TOP-BOTTOM-TOP. Oh wait, that note's from when I wasn't brainstorming my next blog post.


• Let's, you and me together, establish a statute of limitations on the wearing of "yeared" clothing. Such as, Tri Kappa Gamma Summer Formal 2004. In the airport I saw a guy (not like it would be a chick) wearing an "US Open 1997" t-shirt (tennis, not golf). I'm all for a quality t that's comfortable, holey and pit-stained, but eight years MIGHT make it a little dated. Let's agree that five years is the limit and leave it at that. Unless you're talking 2000 Rocky River Coed Soccer Champs; that shit is timeless.

thought . . .

A desperate woman attracts a man's attention; a desperate man attracts the police's attention.

goodbye Orlando

My last night in Orlando I went to ESPN Grille . . . again. While the Indians were off Thursday, dinner was not so I headed out for some eats and sports. Whilst quietly enjoying my roast beef sandwich (which was the only good meal I had there), I looked to my right to see two ladies enjoying a pitcher of beer with what looked like a mini-funnel inside. Now look, if science has finally developed a pitcher of beer with a built-in funnel, I'm on board. But that didn't look to be the case. I stared at that damn thing for about an hour. What is it? Finally, the bartender came over, removed the device, dumped it out and filled it with . . . ice. It's called the "Chiller" and it keeps your beer cold. Funny, my solution to that problem has always been to drink faster.

After I solved that mystery I left to wonder the Disney boardwalk. I was lonely. Lonely enough to talk to an ugly person. Don't make me do it. I will. Nevermind the fact that most people consider me amongst their ranks. I would have chatted Quasimodo up. Alas, he must have been up in the belltower.

As I walked along I saw a lot of heavy folks, who looked to have all their limbs functioning nicely, BUT were riding in those powered tricylce dealies and there I was, using my legs like a sucker. Hey, don't get me wrong, I'm as fat and lazy and the next guy, but isn't cruising the not-very-long boardwalk with it's myriad air-conditioned buildings a mere yards away a good time to burn some calories? It's good for the ticker too . . . just throwing it out there.

Eventually, I decided to go to Jellyrolls which is a dueling pianos/sing-a-long bar. There was an eight dollar cover, which I reluctantly paid. Few things in life are worth eight bucks. I was the only person within 600 feet of the cash register, but the girl still saw fit to ask, "Just one ticket?" Right and one for my friend Harvey. I went in to the bar to start a tab. Ok, get this: Jellyrolls charges your credit card 100 dollars for five days. At the end of the five days Jellyrolls credits your account the difference between the 100 dollars and whatever your bill was (try as I might I don't think I could drink the whole allocation). WTF Minney? Is this a Disney bar or some sort of extortion racket? I said I would pay with cash so I gave the bartender all my money and she said she'd Fed Ex me a beer in three weeks.

Seeing as how I was alone, I had a lot of fun. The duelers played "Take On Me." At first I was rockin', but then I cried a little. Why? Who knows. Was it because Aha reminds me of simpler times? Possibly. Because I missed my baby? That's more likely and I did miss myMonica. When you find someone that loves and accepts you far more than you deserve, it hurts to be away. Thank you baby.

At any rate, the duelers played pretty much what you would expect - a lot of Billy Joel, Elton John, etc. I put in a request for Short People along with five bucks (because this is how such things work). About two hours later, I heard my song. Jeez. With that kind of money and time I could have flown Randy Newman in, bought a piano, heard the song and been asleep. Talk about the worst jukebox ever.

tribe update

The Indians are currently 1.5 games ahead in the wild card race and 2.5 games behind the Chicago White Sox for first place in the central division. In light of this, I must direct your attention to an open letter I wrote to theMonica around this time last year. For a brief moment, my Tribe was in the hunt for the postseason, but then quickly faded. Now they appear to have a solid chance at making the playoffs. Even if they don't, the last two weeks of the season is sure to be fraught with much profanity and nail-biting by yours truly. Some of the players might have changed, but the sentiment remains the same.

Also, my post about Casey Blake received a belated comment from a Casey Blake supporter??? Man, I really hope Casey's mom doesn't read my blog. If so, sorry Mrs. B, but your son just isn't that great at baseball.

fyi

I haven't forgotten you, but I, of all people, have been having some computer problems. Yah, what gives? Don't worry, everything's kosher and I have been restored to full computer dork status. Look forward to the blogging storm that is sure to ensue! Or at least a blogging strong drizzle. Speaking of, I don't mean to be a callous jerk, but I'll risk it anyway. I think we've gotten the word out about Katrina. Anyone who hasn't given by now is either living in an internet-less, electricty-free wooden shack or is so cold-and-dead inside that not even the entreaties of talking puppy dogs playing violins would get through to them. That being said, go give some money.

sing us a song you're the Filipiano Man

There's a piano player in the lobby (floor 3 for all the drooling morons out there) that plays daily from 5:00 p.m. to 10:30 p.m. I sat nearby and he asked me what was on my mind. I started to explain that I wondered what it all, you know, life, meant. Then he was like, "Is that a song?" Ohh. So I had him play Maple Leaf Rag and Linus and Lucy. Linus and Lucy is one of those songs that, when I started taking piano lessons, I was all, "I want to be able to play that song." Well, I can't. I'm not good enough (yet? ever?). And the ease with which this guy busted it out was annoying to me. It was like watching a player piano with a human attached to it. Then again, since every person that can play the piano for real (my playing is essentially imaginary) seems like some sort of robotic pianoing machine to me, a top secret government project perhaps.

After that he busted out some Stairway to Heaven. I had to laugh at that one. Freshman year at college the dude next door had to of picked up a dozen chicks with the first 3 measures of Stairway. And every Saturday morning I'd hear him practicing it. What a stud.

After that was a classical block. Some Moonlight Sonata and Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring when suddenly a passerby started clapping to the beat. No. Wasn't even drunk. Clapping along is a little hokey. How about some beatbox? That'd be pretty sweet. Anyway, I had to go. So I gave the piano guy 3 bucks and checked for circuitry. I found none.

goin' up

I've got to say that Walt Disney must have designed this building during his brain freeze years. Firstly, the lobby is on the 3rd floor, yet is still called L (for lobby, sickos). The conference rooms are named like Salon, Asia, Pacific, FUBAR, making it impossible to intuit any kind of ordering to the location of the rooms. Also, in the conference part of the building, the floors don't have numbers, but names. One floor is called Convention floor. Now if the convention were ONLY on this floor, fine, but the convention is also on the Meeting floor. Naming floors, Mickey, is stupid. Well, I should qualify. If you named your floors like WayDownLow Floor and Somethin'SkyHigh Floor and Middlest Floor Yo, then I'm down with that. Otherwise, your system is flawed.

So, I'm on floor L+2. Now, I'm fat and pretty lazy, but I think it's annoying to take the stairs 2 floors - even when ascending (I know, overachiever). I have tried a couple of times to find and take the stairs. Ha ha. That's funny. I end up in these shady looking hallways, dark and cold, fully expecting Goofy to jump out around the corner with a shiv looking to take my Disney Dollars. Undaunted, I continue. Walk the hall, down some stairs, oh a door. Ok, now I'm outside. Makes perfect sense. WTF Walt . . . WTF?

Netflix: The Others

I liked this movie the first time I saw it when it was called The Sixth Sense.

There was something in the air that night Orlando!

My conference is at part of the Disney compound, the Dolphin resort. I swear I have never seen so much pink and teal in my life. Anyway, here are some notes from the first few days:

• The room are equipped with motion detectors. If it thinks no one is in the room, it turns the thermostat up, turns of the tv, etc. Well, I've learned that I don't move enough when I'm watching TV. Apparently, I need to incorporate a few dance moves into my regular watching routine.


• Escalators - leave the walking to us!


• I've been spending my evenings at the ESPN Club watching sports. Something about these venues that makes strangers want to talk to you. I think they do it because they smell my fear of them.


• Diced tomatoes are my arch-nemesis.


• During one of the sessions, I was sitting at the end of the row and a woman went by three or four times. Upon returning the last time as she passed me she said, "I have stomach problems." Thanks for sharing.


• Does it cost more than 13 bucks to treat skin cancer? Because that's how much I paid for sunscreen here in and I was none too happy about that. Why does Mickey gotta hate on albino people?

Once again in honor of reliving my college years, I'm off to puke on something.

step down from the ledge

I am not home this week. Now relax, I clearly have an internet connection and am able to post on my blog. Unfortunately, I am at IBM's Technical Conference in Orlando where I'm learning about DB2 (IBM's database product). The boss likes to send me to this probably to seek reprieve from my hilarious banter and the side-splitting and eye watering that said banter ensures.

The good news is that I'll be able to post while I'm here. The bad news is that, due to the environs, all my posts will be in the form of SQL statements:

SELECT FUNNY_JOKE
FROM SMARTASS_COMMENTS
WHERE SUBJECT = 'COMPUTER PEOPLE'

Ok, I know nobody got that, but whatever, just a shout out to my techie peeps. So far I've had two meals and one seminar. I'm liking that ratio. Actually, it's a lot like college: a lot of eating and drinking occasionally interrupted by attending a class. This whole place is like one giant college for super-dorks. I'm serious. I'm like the coolest guy here.

To keep the ball rolling on reliving the college years, I'm off to take a nap.

p.s. I spell checked this entry and blogger doesn't have "blog" in its dictionary . . . WTF?

righteous indignation

In case you’ve been keeping your head in uncomfortable positions – and judging by the attendance lately some of you have been – the Indians have moved into sole possession of the wildcard lead. WOOT! They are currently 1.5 games ahead of the Athletics (Speaking of dumb team names. We’re Athletic! Look out! Aren’t you scared, we can run around and jump and do sh1t like Athletes do? At least I would respect them if they were decatheletes or even biathletes - huh-huh.) and a half-game ahead of the Yankees. This is the first time the Indians have solely possessed the wildcard lead all year. In honor of the occasion, I will list the reasons I hate the Yankees (any list will be partial as in reality the reasons are too staggeringly numerous to account):

• Firstly, I hate their stupid 3,000 World Series championships, which they rub in your face every chance they get.


• I hate their stupid pinstripes. Wow, they stole an idea from haberdashers of yore. Whoop-de-freakin’-do.


• I hate the Yankee lore and all the stupid awesome hall of famers they’ve ever had.


• I hate their 1.5 trillion dollar payroll and the fact that their 1st base line ball boy makes more than the Indians entire roster (41.8 million dollars).


• I hate that they have their own television network and its call letters are YES. That’s a terrible name. It should be NO! I HATE YOU.


• I hate how ESPN is so obsessed with the freaking Yankees to the detriment of their reporting on every other team (except the Red Sox, a team I also hate. Now, the Royals – that’s a team I can appreciate.) Uhhh, note to ESPN – they have their own freaking network. I know you love them and want them to win the World Series every year, but looks like the Indians are ahead of them now. Uh-oh. Yah, eat it! (At the very least for the next few hours.)


• I hate Derek Jeter. Undoubtedly he is a serviceable shortstop, but since he’s a Yankee, he suddenly becomes the GREATEST SHORTSTOP WHO EVER LIVED (by all baseball standards that are unquantifiable)! Derek Jeter is the most overrated human EVER. You thought it was Frank Sinatra; you were wrong.



• I hate their freak of nature, sometimes mullet-wearing, starting pitcher Randy Johnson. The only man that looks BETTER wearing a mullet than not. As a general rule, Randy, the more you cover, the better off we all are.


• I hate that their 3rd basemen (ARod) is a 50 times better shortstop (offensively and defensively) than their actual shortstop, but nobody cares about that.


• I hate their stupid steroids lovin’ DH/1st baseman Jason Giambi. I especially hate that he CRIED during the press conference announcing his signing with the Yankees. Where was Tom Hanks when this was going on? Beats the hell outta me.


• I hate that George Steinbrenner was born in Rocky River (a suburb of Cleveland).


• I hate that rat-lookin’ Jorge Posada.


• I hate Bernie Williams as he is the only human scientifically proven to have absolutely no detectible personality. Not even when looking with a scanning electron microscope. Not one atom of personality. Shocking.


• I hate the mega-ultra-awesome robotic closer, Mariano Rivera. MUST MAKE SAVE. MUST STRIKE OUT ALL BATTERS. MUST PLEASE GEORGE. BALL 1? DOES NOT COMPUTE! DOES NOT COMPUTE! DAISY, DAAAAISSY, GIVE ME YOU ANSWER DOOOOooooOOOooo . . .


• I hate Kevin Brown and the stupid ’97 Florida Marlins. It cuts so deep. Damn you Kevin Brown. Damn you to hell!!


• I hate Gary Sheffield and his stupid mustache. Gary, on a good day you look like Charley Chaplin on a bad one, Hitler. Might want to rethink the facial hair choice.


• Isn't Hideki Matsui one of the Howard brothers?


• I hate that paper-mache armed Jaret Wright . . . well, who doesn’t?


• I hate their stupid other players that I can’t think of right now, especially Ruben Sierra.


• I hate all their young guys who next year will be super-awesome and even if they’re not all we’ll hear about is how super-awesome they’re going to be or how super-awesome they were supposed to be and let’s all be sad they're not.


• Lastly, I hate that we’ll have to win the wildcard from you. Oh wait, I was totally being sarcastic. BOOYAH! It’s gonna be sweet when we win the wildcard and we’re freezing our asses off at Jacob’s Field and you’re all sitting in your mansions drinking pina coladas (what kind of men are you?) and rolling around in 100 dollar bills on top of 3000 dollar bed sheets! Take that Yankees!

Netflix: Fingers

I've got blisters on my fingers!

Fingers is one of those gritty New York-based dramas (think Serpico, Mean Streets, The French Connection) that compels you to take three showers afterwards, all the while scrubbing, clawing at your skin stammering, "Won't . . . come . . . clean." It doesn't matter that you didn't do anything wrong.

Harvey Keitel portrays a dichotomy of sorts - on one side a wicked-sweet pianist and on the other side a heavy for his dad's loan-sharking outfit. He also annoys everyone in the movie by constantly toting a radio and playing his mix tapes - loudly. (You see, this was before the widespread distribution of the walkman or Harvey had incredibly poor social skills.) I'm sure there's a lesson or a message somewhere in the hour and a half, but I will have to concede to smarter folk to decipher.

(Fyi, I just learned that Mia Farrow has a sister named Tisa who is also in this movie.)

team names

The Metropolitans, the Nationals, the Expositionists (?) (RIP) - was the marketing department on vacation those weeks? Granted Indians isn't the height of creativity, but it was named a LONG time ago back when people didn't know about being cool and naming teams with cool names like: Eviscerators; Emasculinators; Embarrassors; and from the classic, squash, Kids in the Hall sketch, Eradicators!

Overall I think the letter E is a vastly underused tool in the stuff naming arsenal . . . Ashton Kutcher, I'm looking at you.

linkin' logs

I do heart Lincoln, but this isn't about that. Just spreading the blog love and pointing out (and linking) some stuff that I read regularly. (And you will usually find me commenting as well!) I mean, face it. After you get your coffee and have a go at your favorite blog or two, you need another place to go . . . right? I mean, it's not like you want to do work during those first few hours of the day - huh?

Aimlessly Rambling - which is actually much more directed than this blog.

Conversations About Famous People - a site devoted to ripping celebrities and what could be more fun?

Enjoy!

miscellany

• If you were applying for a new job, would you use your preferred name for the first week and before? OR would you apply and be introduced to everyone as your "other" (though official), unpreferred and dissimilar to preferred name name? That has happened here in the office. I just discovered new guy isn't quite who he claimed to be. Annoying, yes? Possibly shady, no? I agree on both counts. Strike one new guy, strike one.


• If someone is selling candy bars to raise money for a high school band, I'm essentially like morally obligated to buy some, right? Visions of losing weight notwithstanding, of course.


• I bought a pop at the convenient-type store, one of the 20 oz. jobs. It was $1.08. I gave the women 2 dollars. She's standing there with the register open and repeats, "One, oh eight." "Didn't I give you two dollars?" I clearly phrased the question so as to lead her to say yes and give me my change, but instead she says no and kind of motions towards the register where she had already filed the dollar bill($). I'm not sure how the stack of 20 or so singles established anything, but whatever. We all know my propensity for giving in to social pressure of any kind. I also quickly deduced that there was pretty much no way to prove that I had given her 2 dollars, barring recalling the serial numbers on the bills . . . unfortunately I had yet to commit them to memory. I added, "I'm pretty sure I gave you two . . ." in an innocent-type, trailing off kind of voice and promptly handed her another GW. Is their no end to my financial benevolence? Or my stupidity?


• Speaking of money, though I try to keep this blog completely detached from all serious matters, don't be a cheap bastard. Give the hurricane folks some money. All the cool kids are doing it. Don't you want to be cool? Mainly I write this because I don't want to seem cold and heartless. I know 3 of the 8 of you have been thinking, "This idiot is writing about jlo's ass when New Orleans is completely submerged?" I do care, but I figure you don't come here for the important stuff. If you do, God help us all (but especially you).

back to the past

Sometime in 1990 . . .

Girl: Mom, what's the ethnic distribution of Ghana?
Mom: I don't know dear.
Girl: Well, how do I find out?
Mom: You could go to the library and look in an encyclopedia, see if it's in there.
Girl: I did already, no luck. Besides, the encyclopedias were five years old.
Mom: Did you ask any of your teachers at school?
Girl: I annoyed them so much about it they said, "If you don't shut up, I'm Ghana give you a detention."
Mom: Oh dear. Maybe you could find the number for the Ghanian Embassy and ask them.
Girl: Where is the Ghanian Embassy?
Mom: I'm not sure sweetie.
Girl: Thanks anyway mom.

The point of my little story is to demonstrate how powerful the internet is. Not powerful like a jet engine, but powerful like knowledge deluging. The oddly curious girl in our story would now, 15 years later, sit at her desk and maybe check out the CIA World Factbook to find that 16% of Ghanians are Moshi-Dagomba.

How did people find stuff out back then? The sheer difficulty of searching for these types of answers must have deterred all but the most determined of inquisitors. I was never one of those people. I was content to wallow in my own stupidity. I didn't know much, but I did get a lot of sleep.

I was thinking of this when I was looking at my Sitemeter stats. Sitemeter is a web service that counts how many people come to your website. In and of itself, not very compelling information since I figure I'm 80% of my own visitors. Sitemeter also tells you where the visits are from. This is where it gets interesting.

Of random visitors to the blog, some get here from search engines. I get a good number of visitors looking at my Planet of the Apes image . And a few take a gander at Brooks. But overwhelmingly, the most frequent search that shows up in my stats is "jlo's ass." Why? you ask. Well, I once wrote a whole thing about jlo's ass. (Before you click through, I should warn you - you will see no booty on that page. It's one of my stupid, imaginary celebrity news stories.)

Certainly, my story is about jlo's ass. While the internet is powerful, it is also easily confused, because if you were searching for jlo's ass and you came here, you would surely be disappointed. You don't want to read about jlo's ass personified; you want to SEE jlo's ass. My blog has nary a cheek of jlo's in sight. For that, I'm sorry. And maybe this will make it all better. I give you . . . jlo's ass: