Of Cabbages and Kings

The Murders of Jack the Tripper

2009-11-06T07:30:00.000-05:00

Jack Tripper: Klutz... Swingin' single... Staunch supporter of the Velour tracksuit... Up-and-coming chef....

And knife-wielding serial killer prowling for California's most beautiful blonds?

Yes, recent DNA evidence uncovered through a cold case investigation suggests that Jack "Come On Knock on My Door" Tripper-- successful owner of the regional Three's Company family restaurant franchise-- may have had a much darker side...

One which lured in attractive blond roomates, who he'd pal around with and gain their trust... before these women would mysteriously go missing.

DNA evidence uncovered inside the dumpster on the abandoned site of the former gourmet restaurant Angelino's indicates blood traces from one Christmas "Chrissy" Snow, former roommate to Jack Tripper and a Ms. Janet Wood.

In 1981, Ms. Snow left the two roommates unexpectedly, reportedly calling from her parents' home a few times, but then vanished completely, never to be heard from again.

Even her cousin, Cynthia "Cindy" Snow, said it was strange how Chrissy didn't make the annual family reunion that was scheduled to take place in the backyard of Chrissy's childhood home-- a modest domicile where Chrissy Snow had been visiting.

"It's possible she just lost the directions," Cindy suggested in an early 1982 police interview. "Biking the neighborhood... finding the backyard... If you turned Chrissy around, she was bound to get lost."

Interestingly, a year later, after having moved into the very apartment, the very bedroom and, you might say, the very "role" her cousin had played in the Tripper triumverate, Cindy Snow herself went missing.

Roommate Janet Wood states, "I know Cindy was headed off to college, but she never called or stopped by after that. In fact, I remember the night we found out she was missing. Jack had just come home from Angelino's. He was completely covered in blood from carving this side of beef Mr. Angelino had gotten in, you know? And he was headed off to take a shower and burn his apron, the way he always does. That's when Cindy's parents called asking if we'd heard from her."

University admissions indicate Cindy Snow had registered and paid the first semester's tuition, but never checked-in upon arrival to campus.

While Tripper was not a suspect at the time, dozens of other blond women-- all having briefly dated Tripper-- were also reported missing over the years. A connection to Tripper was finally made recently through a bartender at the popular local gin joint, The Regal Beagle, where many of the missing women reportedly went to meet men.

Police reports indicate there are no witnesses willing to testify to Tripper's presence at Angelino's the evening Cindy Snow went missing. Tripper has gone on record as stating his kitchen assistant Felipe was there at the time. But, when questioned, Mr. Gomez denied ever seeing Tripper.

The validity of this testimony, however, is in question, as it is reported by multiple sources that Gomez and Tripper have a long, complicated history of culinary rivalry.

"Filipe always hated Jack," explained Janet Wood. "He would have done anything to have Jack's job.... I don't think framing him for kidnapping and murder is entirely out of the realm of possibility."

Yet it was at the recent disappearance of fair-haired stewardess Stella Knight, that Jack Tripper has now vanished himself. Tripper, currently married to Vicky Bradford and in charge of his own business empire, was last seen leaving his old haunt, The Regal Beagle with Ms. Knight.

Criminal psychologist and profiler Siegmund Zagnut provides insight into the impulses that might be motivating Tripper:

"Zis man, he vanted to be seen as zis big ladies man. Yet here he was, pretendink to be gay to have zis apartment for cheap. It vas immasculating. Zen, he vould go out on ze dates vis vomen, and yet it rarely vorked out. He vould spill vine on zem. Or fall down ze stairs ont accident. He felt awkvard. He felt less of ze man. And zey would dump him and leave. And as ze ladies man he imagined himself, zat rejection vas somesink his ego simply could not stand...

"Zen his roommates, zeese blonds, zey would go off to pursue zeir dreams. I zink Tripper felt ze rejection again as Miss Snow unt Miss Snow both left him for zeir new lives."

When asked what Tripper might have done with the bodies, Zagnut stated, "Who knows?
-- based on ze evidence in ze dumpshter, eet eez veddy possibly zey ended zeir lives as high-priced entrees at the upscale restaurant in vich he vorked."

Mr. Angelino was unavailable for comment.

If you believe you have seen Jack Tripper, or know anything about Chrissy Snow, Cindy Snow or Stella Knight, please contact the FBI immediately.

(This post was inspired by the fact that, as a kid, I remember being confused between Jack Tripper and Jack the Ripper. I understand from friends that I was not the only one perplexed by this.)
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Slawstrodamus' Prophecies for 2012

2009-11-04T07:30:00.007-05:00

Regular readers of Of Cabbages and Kings know our beloved mascot, Old King Cole Slaw, as a devil-may-care online adventurer, raconteur, skilled dancer, and otherwise leafy wonder.

But did you also know he has the power of prediction?

Yes, much like the Magic Eight Ball and that wild-eyed dude on the alley corner who wears a bowler hat made entirely of tinfoil, Old King Cole Slaw-- known in some circles as "Slawstrodamus"-- is tuned in to the Mystic World.

Also Froggy 97 radio. He wants me to tell you there's a contest right now you'll want to get in on.

He'd also like to offer his predictions for 2012. So stare with us into the Shadowy Beyond, then bury your computers in the sand and check back here in 2012. (If you don't have sand, might we suggest the cat's litter box.)

I guarantee that when you see Slawstrodamus' accuracy, you will be astounded... amazed... (May also cause dry mouth, fatigue, nausea, vomiting, hair loss, erectile dysfunction and acne lasting seven days to 40 years. Check with your doctor before using.)

Apologies to your cat.

Slawstrodamus' Predictions for 2012:

At the full of a moon, a shining, golden-haired idol will be caught showing the full of her moon. (Translation: Some bit o' fluff is going to have an emotional breakdown and get photographed with her pants down.)

Pachyderm and equidae shall-- in the land under the stars-- unite in making both an ass. (Translation: Democrats and Republicans will prove they have one thing in common.)

A great war will wage in sand, spurred on by passion, ancient lines, and the mighty law of Tradesies No-Take-Backsies. (Translation: "War. Hooh. Good God, y'awll! What is it good for? Absolutely nothing! Say it again, yeahhhh!")

A fraternity of fools shall join in a small glass domicile filled with eyes, for the merriment of men. Also Nielsen ratings. (Translation: Big Brother might be watching you, but we'll still be watching Big Brother.)

The powers of attention of mankind as a whole shall shrink tiny as the microscopic-- what's that over there? (Translation: Can't remember now. What were we talking about? Gotta answer this email.)

Small furred friends of humanity shall embrace glittering satchels as natural transportation. They will transcend the use of their legs. (Translation: Purse dogs show new evolutionary prowess as doorstops.)

The talking woman of Rivers will discover toes risen upon the banks of her over-taut cheekbones. (Translation: Joan Rivers finally gets so many facelifts she's actually shifted her personal tectonic plates.)

Stars will dance. The dead will rise in mystical resurrection of mediocre careers. (Translation: No!... Paula Abdul... again?!)

Ancient long-snuffed prophets will make more predictions of future doom despite existential impairment and vagaries... (Translation: In a fit of embarrassment at that whole 2012 thing not working out, all ancient prophecies of the end of the world shift ahead four years.)

One in 10 will actually worry about them.

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Question of the day: So put on your swami hat and tell us-- what are your predictions for 2012? Or 3050? Or... oh... tomorrow, noonish?

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Lewis Carroll Tests Out Jabberwocky

2009-11-02T08:00:00.003-05:00

The woman was packed into her black Victorian dress, her hair piled high, bearing plumes that bobbed like an exotic bird looking to attract another exotic bird for an afternoon of passion and seed.

As the audience before her clapped, she announced, "...And next, we will have a reading from Rev. Charles Dodgson, who plans quite a treat for us. He says he's been writing a bit in his spare time, and today will recite a poem of his very own creation. I haven't heard it yet myself, so we'll all be surprised and delighted together. Welcome, Rev. Dodgson. I expect your poetry to enlighten and inspire us all."

Young Charles Lutwidge Dodgson stepped to the podium, and felt the sweat bead up around his starched collar. He hadn't shared this with anyone yet, and he knew it was a little risky.

Normally, at these sorts of functions, he just stood up and read Tennyson's Lady of Shalott and was done with it. But there had already been three Lady of Shalotts today. The lady could only die so many times in one afternoon. The moment begged variety.

And variety he would give them.

"Um, thank... thank you," he said. "It's a pleasure to be with you all today. I... I've been working on something new. Er, different, I think. And I... Um... I'm not sure how... Well, you see, this piece was... was... Well, maybe it's just best I begin."

The room grew quiet. He cleared his throat.

"Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogroves,
And the mome raths outgrabe."

He paused for effect, but could hear the murmurs in the crowd. "What language is that?" whispered one.

"Native Australian. They've borogroves in the Outback," responded another, more informed gentleman.

"I had slithy toves in my garden once," mumbled someone near the back. "Dreadful pests. Had to use lyme on them."

"What part of the Bible is this?" murmured a lady in gray flannel, flipping unsettled through her pocket Bible. "Book of Isaiah?"

The Bird of Paradise at the front of the room flushed, looking like the pressure building up might shoot her clear from corset and all. "Shhh, everyone. Please... Oh, I am sorry, Rev. Dodgson, please do go on."

Charles Dodgson gave her a tight smile and cleared his throat again.

"'Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the jubjub bird and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!'"

In the crowd eyebrows were raised. Cheeks were pale. Eyes were wide. He caught a vague, "What did he say?"

"Gloomius band of snatch, I think."

"Well, that hardly sounds appropriate for mixed company! And from a clergyman, too."

An old lady who'd only heard half of it, shouted, "Is this not The Lady of Shalott, then?"

Dodgson tugged at his collar, which was damp and wilting now, but he determined to proceed on. Perhaps the problem was he just needed to give it a bit more energy for it to really grip:

"He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought--
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought."

"Who's the fellow with the purple sword again?" hissed a lady in the front row to her sister.

"I don't know. But he's fighting someone who speaks Manx."

Dodgson decided that maybe louder was the way to go, now, and upped the volume.

"But, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock with eyes of flame
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood
And burbled as it came!"

"Isn't Tulgey somewhere near Cheshire?"

"Devon, I think. Is this fellow quite all right?"

"Always heard he was a bit strange."

Desperate to get through the poem with any degree of success, Dodgson grabbed up a nearby lady's parasol and swept it aloft like a mighty broadsword. He knew he should have brought some props, but this would just have to do.

"One, two! One, two! And through and through,
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!..."

"He's having a fit!" a woman cried, standing up in her concern.

"Someone help the poor man!"

The lady with all the plumes had gone completely crimson now, and rushed to his side-- just as the parasol accidentally popped open, sending a second potential assistant backwards into the front row.

The Bird of Paradise took his arm and made soothing sounds, patting him. "There, there, Rev. Dodgson." She was leading him from the podium now, while someone picked up Mr. Evans from row one.

"I'm fine, honestly," the young clergyman insisted. "It...It's just a bit of nonsense, really, I—"

"Alice, dear, fetch Rev. Dodgson a glass of water, would you?... There's a good girl."

"It's for children, you know," he persisted. "There were just so terribly many Shalotts and—"

"Mad as a hatter, that one," someone whispered.

"Mad as a march hare," agreed someone else sadly. "Completely off of his head."

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The School of Self-Service Voiceovers

2009-10-30T07:30:00.006-04:00

Have you ever used those self-checkout registers in stores?

Ever notice that sometimes they're completely misinformed about what you've bought, how it's pronounced, and whether it's even in a 50-foot radius of the bag?

Well, you don't think those are just simple mistakes, do you? Oh, no. Voiceover folks are trained for that sort of thing.

Just picture this...

The instructor stands at the front of a packed room of aspiring self-service voiceover talent. A sample self-service register is set up beside him, and a young woman is poised before it with a basket of groceries...

INSTRUCTOR: "Okay, class. Welcome to the School of Self-Service Voiceovers. I'm Mr. Stuffinsak. As you know, self-service is a critical area for businesses today. Designed to be a cost-saver, companies have discovered that, due to maintenance expense-- because, let's face it, if we have three of 10 self-service registers working at once, we're going aces-- it's actually cheaper to just continue to hire cashiers to talk around the customers about their drunken evenings out and bad dates.

"So with this new shift in goals, your job is more important than ever. You need to make customers want to go back to being completely ignored by real live human beings.

"So today, since it's our first session, we're going to learn the main principles of self-service voiceover. And to make it easy, you can remember them by the word: ' BUNGLE.' That's...

"Be Courteous
"Unsettle
"Nag
"Grab
"Light Flash
"and Expedite

"Be Courteous, greet them warmly. It's important to really set 'em up, make them feel at home... Ursula, can you read from that script there to show the class?"

(The Instructor indicates a stapled set of papers in the hand of an assisting student.)

URSULA: "Welcome to GroceryGuru Self-Checkout! Please scan your first item... now."

INSTRUCTOR: "Excellent! Very warm, very friendly! So now that they feel like a part of the GroceryGuru family, you hit 'em with 'U'-- Unsettle 'em. Ursula?

URSULA (reading): "Weigh your... vidaria onions."

INSTRUCTOR: (chuckling) "Now I bet you've noticed, what our grocery store shopper there has is not onions. It's a 20-pound bag of charcoal. But it's going to scan up as onions. That's very important. See, now the shopper isn't sure whether she's getting the right price on the charcoal...

"She's also confused because she knows it's actually VIDALIA onions instead of vidaria. And we like to have those little mispronunciations on all our commonly-purchased items. They'll never get it out of their heads once they hear it five, ten times...

"It's just that extra little push to get 'em back to the regular checkouts...

"Ursula, go on with the next graph of the script, please?"

URSULA: "Please put your... vidaria onions... in the bag."

INSTRUCTOR: "Okay, now here's where we hit N. That's for Nag.

"See, there is just no way that big bag of charcoal is going to fit in that little thin recyclable grocery store bag.... So, with these systems, we like to wait... oh... (looks at his watch)... five, six seconds or so... just to have 'em looking around wondering what to do... before we queue up the voice over again. Ursula?"

URSULA: "Please put your... vidaria onions... in the bag... now."

INSTRUCTOR: "Ah, see now, how our shopper has gotten frustrated and put the charcoal bag just randomly in the bagging area? Now we can move on to G. That's for Grab.... Go ahead, Ursula."

URSULA: "I'm sorry. There is an unidentified item in the bagging area.... There is an unidentified item in the bagging area.... Please remove all unscanned items from the bagging area, and bag your scanned item... now."

INSTRUCTOR: "Notice how confused our poor customer is? She knows she's scanned the item and it doesn't fit in plastic bag. So what we do is let the customer stew a minute, and then we start with the flashing lights.... Ursula?"

URSULA: "Service needed in the check out area. Service needed in the check out area."

INSTRUCTOR: "Ursula will repeat that... oh... a good 60 or 70 times before someone comes to help. And notice how that light will keep flashing. It works well because studies show it embarrasses about 82 percent of users and the other 18 are already on the floor from epileptic convulsions, so all our bases are covered...

"Okay, lastly, we have Expedite. Once you've got your customer good and embarrassed and confused-- or, you know, medics are trying to keep them from swallowing their tongues-- then you try to shove 'em out of the store. Let's give 'em Expedite, Ursula."

URSULA: "Thank you! Please remove all bags from the bagging area, and don't forget to take your receipt. Remove all bags now. This will help us keep the line moving, and provide the quality service you trust to all of our customers...

"Now. Quicker. We don't have all day.... Thank you for shopping at GroceryGuru."

INSTRUCTOR: "Very good Ursula. That will be all for today. And I'm afraid that concludes today's class. Next week, we'll learn how to do fake British accents, and will practice sounding like unfeeling robots."

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T'was the Night Before Halloween, Plus Zombies

2009-10-27T14:00:00.001-04:00

(As part of the Humor Bloggers Halloween Humor Carnival)

T'was the night before Samhain and all through the mall
The zombies, they found it a great human haul
All hungry they'd tripped to this mecca of dosh
And readied themselves for a holiday nosh

The humans had come here in bright fancy dress
With visions of prizes, for those who were best.
A few conjured witches, a few crept as cats,
Here sulked emo vampires and there-- other twats.

When out from the food court arose a great murmur,
Like massage chairs gone wonky in Hammacher-Schlemmer.
Away to McDonalds I flew like a flash;
Were they giving free chips? It would save me some cash.

The moon through the skylight above Chick Fil-A
Gave the tile floor a spotlight in silvery-gray
When, what to my red, jetlagged eyes did appear
But that gaggle of zombies in zombie-like gear.

With a corpse in the lead just so bloody and fat
Well, I ran off to purchase a strong cricket bat.
As slow as molasses these zombies they came.
(Bought baseball, not cricket-- plus thrower-of-flame)

Now Gimpy, now Pinhead, now Jason, and Freddie
On Limpy and Nigel and tens of old deadies...
From Perfumes in Macy's to the front of the stage,
The undead they oozed in their undeadly rage

I stood firm and waited, just tapping my bat
And cursed my bad luck. I mean, who would think that
I'd fly off just to meet an American friend
And wouldn't you know? Bleedin' zombies-- again!

My friend only frowned. "What's that thing for, Shaun?"
"They're zombies! Get ready. Here, turn this thing on."
As I passed the flame-thrower, and was ready to swing,
The zombies, they did a remarkable thing.

They were forming a queue, one right after the other.
This with popped eyeballs, that-- one ugly mother.
They queued and they shuffled up front of the judges
They gave their best moans, their best drools, some nice trudges

Their jaws how they slackened, their lips how they drooled
And yet no one ran panicked. "They're zombies, you fools!"
Yet shout as I did, the crowd wasn't afraid.
"Shaun, it's our annual costume parade..."

"...They do this each year," said my friend of the hoard.
And he showed me a sign. "Zombie Walk." Oh, good Lord.
"You took me to this after all I'd been through?!...
"...Ed's undead in my shed!" "Well, it's something to do."

So I grabbed the flame-thrower, I bagged up the club
I pushed past three zombies and hit the mall pub.
And my friend called to me as I stalked out of sight,
"Their mixed zombies are great. But order me a Bud Light?"

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The Completely Unfactual Facts About Writer's Block

2009-10-26T07:30:00.001-04:00

Did you know...?

The amount of beverage you consume while writing is inversely proportionate to how unmotivated you are. A writer experiencing serious writer's block can consume up to three two-liter bottles of soda, 24 12-ounce-containers of beverage, or the entire contents of the Hoover Dam (non-drought-season) in the quest to avoid actually typing or thinking. Severe writer's block has been known to lead to kidney damage, incontinence, and regional flash-flooding.

Typical writer's block has been known to skew programming choices and even Nielsen ratings. A university study of 100 bloggers with severe writer's block demonstrated that a 24-hour Full House marathon suddenly contained the riveting power of actual, quality programming for 97% of study participants. This is believed to explain the ABC Family Fall lineup. It is also believed that the entire CSI family of television shows was a result of writer's block, based on the premise, "I hear Miami's nice this time of year" and "I like New York in June."

More houses in America are cleaned each week as a result of writer's block than sticking to the floor, or any other reason. This includes impending visits from mother-in-laws, holidays, and spontaneous pet explosions.

(1) Guilt and large, (2) angry bill collectors named Rocco are rated the two highest motivators to get over writer's block. This is followed by (3) rabid writing fans waiting nearby with hobbling tools.

While it's believed Samuel Taylor Coleridge's Kubla Khan was left unfinished due to writer's block, this is untrue. He'd actually tried out several alternate endings, one eventually setting the entire plot in space where Khan seeks to destroy his enemies with deadly technology and eventually is blown up on his ship, Xanadu. Tentatively titled The Wrath of Kubla Khan, at the last minute Coleridge determined the premise was absurd, that the dialog for Khan's nemesis was stilted and over-dramatic, and nixed it.

A hot shower is the single most effective cure for writer's block. It is believed an osmotic process takes place as a counter-balance to the beverages cycle as discussed in point one.

St. Francis de Sales is the patron saint of writers... While, St. Francis de Mist-Dedlyne is the patron saint of writer's block. He can be identified in illuminated manuscripts and statuary holding the symbol of the nibless quill, empty inkwell and the hugging sloth.

Words may hurt, but 15% of Stephen King characters are actually murdered as related to writer's block. Also possession by evil spirits, adherence to poignant horror genre cliches, and John Turturro.

Many people don't realize Descartes' famous philosophical proverb, "I think, therefore I am" was actually an unfinished sentence. He'd tried out "I think, therefore I am sleepy," "I think, therefore I am due for a holiday," and "I think, therefore I am needing an aspirin as this headache is frikkin' killing me." Yet none of them quite had the feel he was going for. Eventually he abandoned it, which became the insightful philosophy we know today.

Do you have a completely unfactual fact about writer's block to contribute? Add it here! Or don't. Have a sandwich and bath instead. And a sixth cup of coffee. You know you wanna.
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I Was a Juvenile Cacoa Dealer

2009-10-23T07:30:00.001-04:00

Call it the entrepreneurial nature of youth. Or desperation. Call it a laziness that meant I didn't have to drag my 13-year-old butt down gray Jersey streets for hours, alone, in the bleak autumn chill.

Call it meeting local market demand. Or easy money.

Hey, call it "Clarence," if you like.

But under this mild-mannered exterior...

Below this honors student halo and within these polished shoes of goody-two...

There lurked a flagrant rules-violator and illegal goods pack mule at the institution of learning we'll call Edgar Allen Poe High School.

And the benefits far outweighed any burden on my teenage conscience.

Yes... you guessed it... I was dealing in...

Band Candy.

"Do you have it? Do you have the stuff?"

Tanya "The Moo" Mueller was a big-boned, big-chested, big-bellied, big-fisted girl with thighs like a junkyard car crusher. She'd sooner block tackle you as look at you. I knew; a few of my friends had unwillingly played her tackle dummy.

But "The Moo" and I had found unexpected common ground. Yes, each time her great shadow would fall over me in the girl's locker room like an indoor solar eclipse, oh, I'd still flinch...

I'd still anticipate knuckles against my newly braces-free teeth. But what I'd get was a twenty tucked hastily into my hand. As long as I had those band candy chocolate bars... that sweet, sweet sugar rush... I had immunity.

High school was survival of the fittest and while The Moo could never be called fit, I could count on her candy addiction to keep me safe.

So my stash was secreted in my book bag. Who would ever suspect Miss Priss wasn't carrying thick tomes of Earth Science, American History, Language Arts and copies of Le Petite Prince?

Perhaps the vague whiff of mint or peanut butter might linger as telltale evidence... But nothing more... nothing more.

I was careful. I had a rep for being discreet.

So buys were made in hasty pre- and post-class rushes, slipped carefully from bag to purse, under desks, between the covers of Trapper Keepers bearing innocent kittens or rainbows. Thanks to the overall student body, plus "The Moo's" cravings, why sometimes 30-50 bars a day would change hands.

The Crispies, the Almond Bliss, the Peanut Blasts, the Mint Mind-Melts... Each one had its buyers, and I made sure the shipments kept rolling in.

Now you probably wonder-- do I feel no guilt as an illicit choco-trafficker? Do I feel no adult pang of regret over abusing the which rules our educational administration so deeply entrusted me with? Do I feel no remorse over contributing to The Moo's obvious food addiction? Or the wasteful spending of hard-earned allowances for which my smuggled goods were exchanged?

And the answer is... nah. I made it over the border to Canada. I high-tailed it to Florida once. These were, of course, pre-scheduled band trips I'd funded with the chocolate bar dough. But still.

Everyone has their price. And mine was $1 for plain, $2 for specialty.

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Question for the day: Any other former band members here? And what, if anything, did you have to sell for your fundraisers?
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Attack of Zachary Quinto's Eyebrows

2009-10-21T07:30:00.006-04:00

They mesmerize me. I cannot look away. They are unnatural. They move as one. I watch his character Sylar steal the powers of yet another "Hero" and I find I am strangely ambivalent to their dire fate... distracted... numb....

The eyebrows.

Oh, the eyebrows. Actor Zachary Quinto's eyebrows have seized my attention and sapped my mind.

I am powerless to avert my gaze.

On closer consideration, they are like caterpillars conversing in close tete-a-tete.

And even with a certain amount of man-scaping, they only seem to find follicle solidarity-- to form a thicker, more united front.

Clearly, in his role as Spock, they sent in Stunt Eyebrows. How else would you explain how Mr. Quinto went from this...

To this?...

I know I need to not think about it. When watching Netflix of "Heroes" I should be contemplating the parallels of the plight of superheroes, to real-world racial prejudice...

I should be analyzing the historic similarities of the governmental approach to handling its superheroic citizens to Nazi takeover or Japanese Warcamps...

I should be properly oogling the actor who plays Mohinder.

But alas... the eyebrows. The eyebrows have stolen my better sense.

Resistance is futile.

Wait, that's the Borg, isn't it?...

See, what's happened to me?! Run. Run while you still can!

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The Land of Oz Mobile Phone Plan and Other Gadgets

2009-10-19T08:00:00.001-04:00

The green, gruesome, disembodied head hovers over the palace room, shouting, "Who dares seek the Great and Powerful O--"

The booming voice breaks off. A synthesized version of Elton's "Goodbye Yellow Brick Road" tinkles from a small curtained booth to the side.

Suddenly the Green head flushes red around the cheeks. "Oh, hang on a second-- I've got to take this call..."

The head gets a thoughtful look. "Glinda? Yeah, babe, how's the bubble bouncing? What?... Well, yes, there is a kid here in blinged-out shoes. So you sent her, huh? What's the 4-11?"

This is what crossed my mind the other day. The Wizard of Oz might have been just some humbug from Omaha with a defunct hot air balloon. But he was clever enough to create an interactive 3-D holographic projector system with surround-sound-- way ahead of its time.

So wouldn't he have been able to cash-in on other clever time-saving gadgets?

In fact-- he did!

The O.Z.-Mobile system had coverage from Munchkinland all the way to Winkie Country, breaking up slightly in the Enchanted Forest, which is why the apple trees are so sour. They have to rely on the grapevine instead. Which is the pits.

O.Z.-Mobile also has a hands-free option which is ideal, not only for keeping in touch with Winged Monkey friends and their busy schedules, but it really cuts back on costly crystal ball minutes.

The Oz-Max theaters leverage Oz's unique patented Lev-i-Head Technology for evenings of family fun. All moving pictures are in technicolor. But soon, Oz plans to unveil a whole new way of watching pictures-- black and white. He feels it will really be a sensation-- like nothing the Ozites have ever seen before!

In the Emerald City Oz-Max, you can also take in a special midnight laser light show. Here, Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon is queued up to synchronize with a popular social documentary film, a story which follows a little illegal immigrant girl, and her challenges in Oz, given she has no proper Visa and commited manslaughter upon arrival.

And lastly, the Oz-Pod portable music improv system is a compact device that goes where-ever the brick road takes you. It offers special audio projector functions to provide appropriate background accompaniment the moment you feel the urge to break into an impromptu musical number. Sing lyrics on the fly like never before, all with perfect orchestration!

Whether you're killing time waiting for an Emerald City appointment...

Whether you're celebrating a new rust-free and heart-healthy aerobics routine...

Or whether you've finally gotten that stick out of your butt and now you don't care what anybody thinks...

The Oz-Pod offers the perfect complement to your musical self-expression!

And tomorrow?... Wonderland goes High Def!

(Or, um, okay, maybe not.)
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RoboJeeves and the BugBytes

2009-10-16T07:30:00.000-04:00

"This is your local pharmacy," said the robotic male voice on the other end of the line, cheer radiating from its diodes.

"Our records show that you have a prescription that needs to be refilled. Would you like me to refill it for you... now? Press one for yes. Two for no..."

I blinked at the phone in my hand. Really? Mr. Roboto could do that for me?

Normally, getting a refill involved long lines while 30 octogenarians in powerchairs asked whether their heart medicine would counteract with their hair bluing...

Or waiting while Handsome Pharmacy Dude talked someone down from the ceiling whose kid had just ingested a whole can of Spray Tan.

I pressed 1.

My friend Austin, who'd been visiting, was frowning curiously at me by now. Protocol was not such that I usually answered the phone and then didn't speak to the person on the line.

"It's my pharmacy's RoboJeeves," I explained. "He just called to see if there was anything I needed... Y'know, shrimp cocktail... a martini.... a bottle of hydrochlorothiazide..."

And we took a moment to marvel on the wonders of technology. How RoboJeeves was only the beginning. How this was the first in a whole new wave of customer service apps designed to make our lives easier and more... er.... Jetsonny. I hung up the phone with a sense of satisfaction, the bright gleam of possibility in my eyes.

The future, my friends, was now.

So when I went to pick up my prescription the next day, it was with a spring in my step and joy in my heart. I even oogled Handsome Pharmacy Dude more blatantly than usual, even though it's totally futile as he's ten years younger than I am and likely dates girls not on so-very-sexy blood pressure medications.

Soon, it was my turn, and they went searching for my prescriptions.

This search would become something only slightly less elaborate than the quest for King Tut's tomb.

"When did you call it in?" said Handsome finally, wiping sweat from his brow and putting down the archaological tools he'd been using to dig through the vast pharmaceutical sands. He'd found Jimmy Hoffa, the Ark of the Covenant and Paula Abdul's career, but not my little amber bottle.

"Monday," I said. "And I didn't. He called me."

He raised a dark eyebrow. "Who called you?"

"Your RoboJeeves. He called and asked me if I wanted my prescription filled. And I told him to go ahead, knock yourself out."

"Oh," responded Handsome flatly, irritation creasing his fine features. "Him."

Him. He said it like RoboJeeves was that relative who got drunk and caused a scene at the family reunion every year, but no one knew how to uninvite him. "You, um, know him, do you?"

"He calls but then never puts the prescription in the system. So people come in here expecting a prescription we don't have. Last week, he tried to refill a prescription that wasn't even valid anymore."

"Your robot pharmacist is prank calling your customers?"

"He's got to go," Handsome muttered, more to himself than me. He asked me to wait while he filled the prescription RoboJeeves hadn't bothered to tell them about.

He also said he would set it up so my prescriptions would just automatically refill, and I would get a call saying they were ready to pick up.

Of course, it's time to refill them now. And I received no phone call.

So I bet RoboJeeves has lost his phone privileges. Sure, early in the day he might have been calling folks about their prescriptions and then not filling them. But I bet he grew bored with that.

In no time, he'd be calling bars and asking if "Seymour Butts" was there. And phoning grocers to see if they had Prince Albert in the can.

He's probably been busted down to bringing in the shopping carts, or stocking in the back room.

But I guess that's progress for you. In any Brave New World, you have to expect a few bugs. I mean, look at the first C-3PO prototype. That guy would get a little oil in him, and start flashing his motherboard at everybody.

Lucas just doesn't like to talk about it.

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Darth Vader Brainstorms Naming the Death Star

2009-10-14T07:30:00.000-04:00

The Death Star...

The. Death. Star. ®.

I'm pretty sure Darth Vader didn't brainstorm with marketing, HR, and Emperor Palpatine on naming ideas. It never would have gotten final approval.

I mean, anyone who's worked in business knows how these things go, particularly when there's a committee involved.

Just picture it:

Darth Vader is in his Dark Side Conference Room, in a swivel chair, and his right-hand men are all around him taking notes on their Darkberries and JedIphones.

And Darth Vader announces, "I have called you here today because I have decided. I will build myself a star. From scratch-- not flat-pack, assemble-it-yourself stuff or anything...

"And it will have tractor beams, to pull in and contain any rebel swine...

"And inside, it will have trash compactors, with squids in them, to squish the rebel swine once we pull them in...

"And it will have a powerful ray, to blow up the rebel swines' home towns, just because we are Evil and that is our schtick. And I will call this cosmic colossus of chaos... 'The Death Star.'"

And his Marketing Director would raise a finger and say: "Are you completely sold on the name?"

"What?" Darth Vader's visor steams up. "Who are you to question Darth Vader? What do you mean by this? You do not like 'The Death Star'? You do not feel it is a name that will strike fear into the hearts of our enemies?"

The Marketing Director looks doubtful. "Going to be hard to trademark. I'll run it by Legal, but I can tell you right now they'll say it's too generically descriptive. Never fly."

Darth Vader pounds a fist on the table. "But 'The Death Star': it says it all! It is like a star. And plus-- you know, the Death."

The Marketing Director shrugs, "Look, I don't make the rules. I'm just telling you how Legal goes..."

As the Marketing Director begins to feel invisible fingers close around his throat, he squeaks out, "Er-- but hey, hey, what was that you said earlier: 'Cosmic Colossus of Chaos'?... That had a ring."

"No, no, too wordy," a few others chime in.

"Darthy's Black Planet o' Doom?"

"Nah..."

"Wait, I've got it!" exclaims the Marketing Director, a relieved smile stretching over his face. "Titanic!"

At this Darth Vader rises from his chair. "It is the Death Star, and that is all I want to hear about it! ... I can still crush your trachea with my mind, you know."

"Question," interrupts the HR Manager, motioning for Lord Vader's attention. "So you're going to be on this Death Star of yours all by yourself then?"

"No," says Lord Vader. "I will have minions to do my bidding. And march in perfect squares. And bring in my dry cleaning, because, you know, this space suit gets a bit ripe as it does not breathe." He pauses. "Why?"

"Well, it's just with a name like 'The Death Star', you won't be able to draw in any decent employees."

"Foolish creature! Of course I will! I am Lord Vader! The Force is strong with me!.. And also, I have an account at Monster.com."

The HR Manager shakes his head and snickers. "Who's going to apply for a job at a place called 'The Death Star'?"

"What? Well," Darth sputters, "Others who wish to join me in my Dark Mission to take over the--"

"It sounds like it doesn't offer benefits. Does it offer benefits?"

"The benefit is that I let them live."

"'Let them live'? Let them live?! All we're going to get is a bunch of loonies and degenerates, backstabbing and destined to be more trouble than they're worth," explains the HR Manager.

He continues, "...You can't run a competitive Dark Side operation if you don't retain quality employees. The kind of people you'll get without a comprehensive benefits package are desperate paranoids who'll either spend all of their time lasering each other, or terrified they'll turn up ten minutes late in the morning and have their tracheas crushed. They'll be completely unmotivated. We'll have to have a corporate psychologist just to handle it all."

"They will submit to my iron hand," Vader says.

"Then you won't have any employees left to do your Evil Bidding. Look, you've got to make the place have some appeal, some draw. 'The Death Star' isn't really going to cut it."

"How about 'House of Sith'?" suggests one exec around the table.

"Or 'Rebel Scum Elimination Services Inc.? RSES for short?" suggests another.

"I know-- " cries the Marketing Director, "'Dark Side of the Moon'!"

"No, no, no!" shouts Vader. "It is 'The Death Star'! It is simple. It is clear. It is to-the-point! Why do you people interfere so?"

There is a moment of silence around the table.

Then the Marketing Director says, "You realize, you're going to have to get sign-off from Palpatine and the Sith Board of Directors for this first, don't you?"

"Er..." mumbles Vader. "Yes. Yes... I... I forgot about that."

And you just know Palpatine is one of those Emperors who has to make his mark on every project whether it improves it or not, just because he can.

Tie-Fighters were probably saucer-shaped before he got a hold of them.

The Marketing Director nods. "Right. We'll pull together a few alternate storyboards and tagline options for you, and get back to you. How's a week from Friday look for you?"

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Wonder Woman and the Lingerie of Doom

2009-10-12T07:30:00.002-04:00

When I was a kid, I pretty much wanted to be anyone but me. I still do some days, only now it's somewhat less socially-acceptable for me to tell people my name is, say, Daisy Duke.

It was my poor mother who had to deal with the aftermath of my enthusiastic imagination. And looking back, I can see now why I might have owed mom an apology... or five.

Ladies in the local mall would see ol' mom and I out for the afternoon, lean down to knee-level and query: "And what's your name, little girl?"

"Mary Ellen," I'd reply promptly. Or "Erin," or "Elizabeth," or even-- on one occasion, I'm told-- "John Boy" would escape my lips.

I wasn't particular. As long as you lived on Walton's Mountain, you were in the rotation.

"Oh, Mary Ellen! Such a pretty name!" the nice lady, aka, total dupe would coo.

"Her name's not Mary Ellen," my mother would clarify, looking like she wished the mall's tile floor would just swallow her up now...

Anywhere far away from the humiliation of small people who had more creativity than front teeth.

"We need to watch fewer Waltons."

Of course, the Waltons were just one group in my vast repertoire. I also spent a lot of time being Nancy Drew, the aforementioned Miss Duke, and my perennial favorite-- Wonder Woman.

And Wonder Woman was especially great because that involved two key wardrobe sets-- the second of which became a big reason for apology.

One was my official Wonder Woman swimsuit, printed in stars, a strategically-placed eagle and the words "Wonder Woman" at the waist-- the latter of which I was sure the Amazon princess herself would consider total overkill, as I did.

This dazzler in man-made fibers was complemented by my Wonder Woman accessory kit, complete with plastic tiara, utility belt, bracelets and Magic Lasso (read: a length of yellow string). I'd saved my fifty cents a week allowance from chores to get this for myself, at a piggy-bank-breaking $6.

It was worth every penny.

Sure, the bulletproof bracelets cracked about a month into it-- proving that even on Paradise Island, the manufacturing can be shoddy. These were replaced by two gold-plated slave bracelets I bought from an elderly lady at a garage sale at a quarter a piece.

At six, sometimes you had to improvise.

And improvise I did. The second Wonder Woman ensemble-- and the day of its official unveiling-- became one my mother was not soon to forget.

Let me start by saying, for any of you who didn't watch the Wonder Woman TV series in the late 70s, sometimes the character would go home to her Amazonian birthplace-- Paradise Island-- and visit her folks.

The fashions there leaned toward early Greek couture, filmy toga-esque creations in whites and pastels.

But to my six-year-old mind, they were not entirely unlike... say... a one-piece slip with a push-up bra built into it.

As luck would have it, I had one of these! It had been my mother's and its function as a garment, I learned later, was to go under the dress-up dresses I'd been allowed to play with.

Yet it was inconceivable to me that something so silky, so lacy, so... automatically built-in with boobs... would have to be hidden under a lot of stupid clothes.

And darn, if it didn't look so right with my utility belt, bracelets, tiara and two small ends of Leggs egg-shaped pantyhose containers put into the boob holders!

Now, I'd worn my Paradise Island outfit in my room many a day, when I'd needed some motherly advice from the Queen of the Amazons... Or, y'know, just to get a little vacation from my secret-identity in the military.

I had not, apparently, showcased it to the world.

So when my mother had a couple of friends over with children my age-- why, as soon as we began playing superheroes, I knew the Paradise Island costume's day had finally come!

I recall rushing upstairs to put it on... To secure that utility belt... To get that tiara tilted just right. I cracked open the Leggs Pantyhose egg containers and tucked those in, too-- instant boob job!

A quick glance in the mirror showed the regalest princess-superhero North Central Jersey had seen in a while.

I ran back down the stairs into the basement rec room, where everyone was congregated, and I expected all the super-heroic action to be met with cheers...

Wonder Woman had arrived!

Instead, a shriek emanated from my mother, echoing off the wood paneled walls like the final cry of a dying Canada goose.

"GAAAAH! What are you doing?!"

"I-I'm-I'm Wonder Woman!" I stammered, thinking this was abundantly obvious. I indicated the tiara. I pointed out the utility belt as evidence.

"You go back upstairs right now and put your clothes on!" Mom's face was a deep brown-red tomato color, like a sauce that had been simmering on a too-high burner.

The faces of mom's friends were pale and blank.

It was some time before I came to realize what I had done wrong...

To me, yes, I had shared the greatest, most perfect costume improv in the history of superhero dress up.

To mom, I had just showcased her skivvies to half the neighborhood.

Of course, saving the world from super-villians has its price. But a savvy six-year-old superhero realizes that that bit of philosophy is probably one best kept to herself.

Did you have a favorite character you wanted to be when you were a kid? And did you... accesorize?

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Why Your Photo ID Must Frighten the Locals

2009-10-09T07:30:00.000-04:00

Your one eye is closed just enough to give you a vague, Popeye-esque aura.

Your hair--which you're sure was in place when you'd arrived-- has managed to spring aloft, in a fine Gorgonian tradition, like lethargic, yet mildly curious snakes.

But only on one side.

A zit has appeared from nowhere to perch in the center of your forehead, a red pustulant beacon to the inevitable.

Your lipstick, which had been glossy in prime Angelina Jolie fashion (male readers, just go with me on this one), is now smeared and crooked, causing you to look less "Sexy Single" and more "Septegenarian Recovering from Severe Stroke."

Yet this-- THIS is what has been immortalized on your passport. The legal document used to identify you to the world for the next decade. This is on your driver's license, that everyday identification you will share with people in the places you patronize, to give them something to laugh about in the break room.

How does this happen?

Well, it's a little-discussed axiom I'd like to call the "Queuing Personal Degeneration Principle."

You see, what most folks don't realize is this:

The photo is not designed to show you.

It's designed to give a realistic depiction of what you will look like after you have traveled thousands of miles, sitting in the center seat of a plane the size of a tuna can, with a 400 pound man snoring lightly on your shoulder with scotch-and-peanut breath.

It is the projected visual estimation of how you will appear after you've waited in the airport for an extra three hours only to learn your flight has been canceled and now they're sending you to Vancouver via a brief stopover in scenic Greenland.

It is the view the police officer will get of you the moment you roll down your window and he says, "License and registration, please?"

It is the most accurate way to ensure you are who you say you are, and Make Our World A Safer Place.

And while you might think these photo-takers in the post office and Driver's License Renewal Center are just slap-dash amateurs paid too-little to embrace the joys of working with the vain and surly public, this is also a common myth.

In fact, these individuals are artisans, highly-trained to uncover just the most perfect, most uncomfortable position in which to seat you, to get the optimum photo results. To light you such a way that that emerging pimple stands proud...

That once-tempered hair showcases its wild side...

That glossy mouth slides its southernmost.

They are trained in the the art of One-Shot Hideous Masterpieces.

It's exactly like painting the picture of Dorian Gray. Only, y'know, with film and stuff.

So remember, friends--

The next time you sit in the Post Office on the hard stool in front of the poorly-lit white screen that brings out the circles under your eyes...

And the Postmaster/Photographic Expert before you asks you to sit up straighter...

No, straighter...

Now stick your neck out...

Now tilt your head to the left, no, the other left...

Then lowers the camera long enough so you blink and yawn and he can snap the picture...

Well, remember, this is not Glamour Shots.

This is For the Good of International Security. Feel glad. You're doing your country proud!

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Questionne du jour: Are you happy with your license and/or passport photo? Has it ever scared small children or, say, liquor store clerks?

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Facebook Users Found Massacred in Mafia Wars

2009-10-07T07:30:00.003-04:00

Of Cabbages and Kings Gazette-Post-Tribune-Press
by Shannon Maydup

UPPER PODUNK, MO-- Mary "The Homemaker" Johnson was taken into custody today, believed to be the Facebook Mafia Queenpin responsible for the slaughter of rival mob boss Carl "Double-Click" Willis, and members of his gang.

The Facebook Labor Day Massacre, as it has come to be known, began when both players in the popular Facebook Mafia Wars game got into a virtual territory dispute and "The Homemaker" used a secondary app to lob a horse's head at Mr. Willis.

The violence escalated to a series of taunting quizzes, poisoned virtual beverages and eventually led to a full-out physical assault by Johnson, busting into Willis' recroom with an unregistered AK-47 on the Labor Day holiday, leaving 22 picnic guests dead and seven critically wounded.

Ms. Johnson was reported as shouting, "That's for sending me that sad black sheep who needs a home for my Facebook farm app, jerk! Day after day, I had to look at that thing's stupid, sappy eyes and I couldn't give him away! So who's crying now, Double-Click? Who's crying now?"

Some Mafia Wars competitors are nervous.

Says Stephanie "the Knitter" Nelson, a first grade teacher and leader of The Needles crime family, "Today alone I saw two of my former high school classmates get iced, which is a real shame because our 20th year reunion was coming up next month. I'm not sure where it will end. Soon there'll be no one alive on Facebook to post about their lunch and stuff."

And under condition of anonymity, one Mafia Wars participant indicated he wants out and he's getting ready to flee the social media venue under an assumed name.

"I hear it might be safe over at Twitter. I get a new avatar, a new username... I keep an eye on any suspicious Followers, I block who I've gotta block... I might be able to make a new life for myself. We'll see."

But others remain swept up in the power and intrigue of the crime syndicates and plan to continue on their current path.

George "Mouseman" Evans, financial accountant and Facebook user, stated, "What, stop-- Me? Why? I just got made yesterday! Happened right between my toting up accounts payable and accounts receivable. I tell you, I've never been so proud. I had my microwave Spaghetti O's with a small bottle of Chianti just to celebrate."

Unfortunately, as of the time of publication of this story, Mouseman was found dead, face down in his microwavable lunch. Coworkers report he'd just been advising a woman he'd said he knew from college.

The case is currently under investigation.

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Today's Questions:

Do you play Mafia Wars and every time you try to get out, do they keep dragging you back in?
Have you ever found a horse-head in your bed-- or a lost sad sheep on your Facebook page?
Do you think this is funny, do I look like a clown to you?... Or, say, Joe Pesci?

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Shadowing Raoul, Deflector of Stuff

2009-10-05T07:39:00.015-04:00

The wallet was tell-tale. Slim, black, velcro and bearing the word "KISS" in jagged letters. My friend Raoul had been here. And as this was the third time I'd retrieved that flea market KISS wallet for him that week. I was seriously considering desperate measures...

Like stapling it to his thigh.

It was high school. The 80s. KISS was in its heyday, and so was Raoul's insomnia. It made him beat the school record for most "Tardies" in a single marking period...

Which, of course, gave us the opportunity to say the word "tardy" a lot-- which was always fun because, honestly, how smart can any school system be to call "being late" a goofy word like "tardy" and not expect it would be applied to our classmates as an adjective as well as a noun?...

The insomnia also caused a remarkable phenomenon in physics, which had the science teachers scratching their comb-overs.

It seemed that during the course of any class, all loose objects which belonged to Raoul automatically lost their grippiness and were quietly and subtly repelled from the three-foot radius around his person. There, they would be left at random around the school, like part of some less-than-rewarding scavenger hunt.

We, his friends, spent much of our time collecting the items that insomnia and physics left behind.

I'd watch my cousin Jay clomp into the class on thick-laced, untied high-tops and plunk Raoul's oboe before him. "I found this in the locker room," he'd say flatly, knowing an oboe would be so much harder to staple.

I saw my bud Josette brandishing a collection of KISS and RATT bumper-stickered notebooks, and plop them down on the desk for the umpteenth time before his pale startled face. "I believe these are yours?" she'd intoned dryly, the cheer having drained from her normally-musical voice.

And then there was the wallet. Always that stupid wallet. Once again lost and found. And once again missing the cash that had been in it.

It was the one thing that prevented us from demanding Finders' Fees.

So we flash forward 18 years, and my friend Raoul is now a doctor.

No, a real one.

No, of medicine and stuff.

The world is nothing if not a beautiful and amusing place.

Yes, apparently Raoul's innate intelligence, pleasant personality, and that strange sleep schedule has paid off in unexpected ways for my ol' pal. And every now and then, when I see a black velcro wallet sporting the logo of the latest, hottest band, I think of that fine fellow, and how very far he's come.

I'm also somewhat relieved he's not a surgeon.

Oboes and Trapper Keepers are a whole lot larger than medical sponges and clamps.

And there are some places which even your closest friends cannot follow.

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Today's Question: Did one of your classmates end up in a occupation you never would have expected?

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Halloween on The Doll Lady's Doorstep

2009-10-02T07:46:00.011-04:00

Eyes... so many, many eyes.

When I was a kid, in the center of the block between my house and that of my Great-Aunt Bess was a distinctive home...

For the sheer quantity of plastic dolls which decorated the exterior.

Big dolls, small dolls, staring dolls. The neighborhood watch, relentless... tireless... glassy-eyed... all-seeing...

The stuff of many a footy-pajama nightmare.

As long as I could remember, this house had been decorated in weather-blighted plastic children.

Dolls were strapped to chicken-wire across the front door in a layered collage like the bodies of a thousand less-fortunate Hansel and Gretels-- their dirty, faded faces appealing to passersby begging release from this infinite imprisonment.

Dolls jutted up from sticks in the flower beds, their shredded taffeta gowns gone gray, frayed ribbons blowing in the wet autumn wind.

There were naked dolls, decapitated dolls, and heads alone... Dolls with soft matted hair, and dolls with no hair at all. In between these, metallic pinwheels spun, like the rides on a traveling carnival... Reflective like a hall of mirrors.

It was enough to make you dizzy.

The old woman who lived there, her name was Grace, I recall my dad saying. And those dolls had been there as long as he remembered, too. I only caught a glimpse of her once or twice, but she didn't disappoint-- with her gray soft curls rolled under at the nape of her neck, and a black blouse and skirt.

Dad said she always wore black, but whether in mourning of some lost husband, some swept-away childhood, some beloved infant that went missing from life's path, I don't recall.

As a kid, it was enough that she just was.

So every Halloween, we kids would roam the neighborhood scouring it for treats. And every Halloween we would give the house of The Doll Lady, as she was called, a good wide berth. It remained dark, just those cool garden lights to illuminate the sidewalk... to reflect on the residents in the garden.

Until one year when I was about ten.

"Look," breathed my friend Sarah-- or rather Sacajawea-- pointing an anachronistically mittened hand from her fringed tunic. "The Doll Lady. Her light. It's on."

Passing from the House of Cocker Spaniels, to Mr. Esposito Who Worked at the M&M Mars Factory (always a primo place to stop), and on to my Great-Aunt Bess, we were forced to go past the Doll Lady's abode.

And sure enough, Sacajawea had scouted out the truth of the matter. It was Halloween. And there, displaying the Universally-Accepted Symbol of "Candy Distributed Here" was the golden porchlight glow of The Doll Lady's home.

We stopped dead on the sidewalk.

"Should we try it?" asked Sacajawea, who'd been dreaming of candy since about June, and the sugar and endorphins were probably screwing with her better judgement.

"It's gotta be a mistake," I said, muffled inside my giant Garfield head. Per the criteria of my family's Halloween tradition, (you can read about that here, if you like) I was once again head-to-toe costumed in a hand-made creation of my mother's so well-done, it had won an award at the town costume contest the night before... And so confining to my senses that I actually needed an Indian guide, just to see where the heck I was going.

"But the light is on," Sacajawea pressed. "Is it ever on at night?"

"How would I know?" I said, strained. "I'm usually in doing math homework now."

"I'm going to try it," the Indian maiden said, stepping a moccasined foot forward.

"Mr. Esposito just gave you, like, five Twix bars," I argued.

But clearly, the cacao addiction was having its effect. My friend was already moving silently down the walk.

I followed, a reluctant Lewis and Clark, peering through my styrofoam eye-ball slits to watch the plastic piked heads watch me as I passed.

In the damp light of day, the dolls held a weary forlorn appearance. Under the cold harvest night, they took on a taut, ready look I didn't like.

"She's never given out candy before," I hissed to my friend's back. "Let's go. There are plenty of other places to hit anyway."

But now that we were standing on the porch, in front of the giant chickenwire and dolly shrine, we were frozen into place.

There were so many faces. So many eyes. Some fluttered gently in the breeze. Some were faded to white, blind with years in the elements. Some had sunken clear back into their heads.

The display was trimmed with bows, once possibly pink, but now faded to a sickly orange-gray, like some macabre birthday present straight from Tim Burton's mind.

In layers of fake orange fur, I broke out in a cold sweat.

As if in a trance, Sacajawea pressed the doorbell.

Bing-BONG.

Silence.

Why would anyone do this to so many playthings? What was missing in the lady Grace's heart, or jagged in her mind that would craft this torture chamber of youth? This warning sign to the curious?

And what in the name of Mattel were we doing standing on the woman's porch?!

Silence.

Then a squeak.

And we were down the sidewalk and all the way to Aunt Bess's before you could say Hundred-Thousand-Dollar Bar.

Looking over our shoulders, the door of The Doll Lady's home was still tight as a toy drum. The squeak? It had to have been nothing... Nothing.... Just the wind on a pinwheel...

Just the slip of a doll's reaching arm.

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Today's Question: Anything in particular-- rational or irrational-- kids in your neighborhood were scared of, growing up?

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Lee Majors Bionic Hearing Aids and TVLand Personal Care

2009-09-30T07:30:00.000-04:00

"I wonder, if you go jogging, it makes that 'Eh-eh-eh-eh-cha-cha-cha-cha' noise."

It was the first thing I thought when I saw the ad for the Lee Majors Rechargable Bionic Hearing Aid. And while it doesn't mention it in the commercials, I really hope it does come equipped with some six-million-dollar sound-effects.

I mean, how cool would it be to not only be able to hear things you couldn't before, but a brisk walk around the mall before it opens has you sounding like you're about ready for take-off or to fight some baddies?

I could totally get behind that! Talk about empowering!

"What's that, Mildred?" you say smugly. "I'm sorry, I couldn't hear you over my bionic 'eh-eh-eh-cha-cha-cha'."

That would just make me happy.

So that got me wondering what's next in the world of personal health care products for older Americans?

You're probably not too surprised that I have some suggestions:

The Eric "Ponch" Estrada Denture Set. Finally you can get the refrigerator-sized, white flawless teeth you weren't born with! These quality, glow-in-the-dark choppers are perfect for driving around on your chopper-- in uniform or taking the Mrs. for a late afternoon early-bird special. Patented Teflonite coating makes bug splatters drip right off! Meaning now you can feel free to smile and smile, along every mile!

The Evil Knievel Turbo Roundabout Power Scooter. The fastest power-chair of its kind, the Evil Knievel Power Scooter can go from 0 to 120 in six seconds. No more spending hours just trying to do simple grocery errands. No longer will you be passed on the sidewalk by energetic squirrels. And transporting it is easy. Simply use its special "Daredevil" setting and it propels from the ground to your trunk, up to six feet in height. Best of all, it's safe. Extensive tests show only one in 50 of these innovative scooters spontaneously combust in a fiery pit of flames. Get yours today!

The Henry "Fonzie" Winkler Hair Replacement System. Turn your hair from "meh" to "ayyyyyyyy!" with the new Henry "Fonzie" Winkler Hair Replacement System. This self-adhesive D.A.-style hair layer is both comfortable and discreet. Plus it's all-weather and, when used in combination with our special preparatory oil, complete water resistant! Comes with free Official Fonzie comb and mirror, just pay an extra $39.95 shipping and handling.

Catherine Bach's Daisy Duke Brand Support Hose. Having trouble walking and feeling less confident due to the pain and embarrassment of ugly varicose veins? Well, you'll be sliding in and out of the windows of your Lincoln Towncar in no time with Catherine Bach's new Daisy Duke Brand Support Hose. With these strong, stretchy, sexy hose, your legs will gain the kind of young, more alluring appearance that will have you cutting-off those polyester, elastic-waist trousers into some shorts! And the pain? Gone quicker than a mug of beer at the Boar's Nest! Yeee-haw!

George Peppard's "A-Gleam" Anti-Nicotine Tooth Whitener. This crack-commando whitener will fight the underground battle against tobacco stains, particularly those from your favorite cigar. Yes, when you have a whitening problem, when no one else can help, call the A-Gleam. Find it on your pharmacy shelves inside the box with the cheesy rubber-nose and mustache disguise. But act fast! Government agents should be trying to remove it shortly.

Raquel Welch Prosthetic Breast Augmentation Bra. Not getting the attention you used to from the 60-year-old hunks at the bingo parlor? Feeling lost and invisible, your confidence as deflated as your sagging boobs? Well, no more! Simply slip into the Raquel Welch Prosthetic Breast Augmentation Bra and you'll feel robust, your spirits uplifted! Guaranteed to make the most of any mu-mu!

Well, those are my ideas. But you're a clever bunch of folks, so I imagine you all have some to add to the list, too.

But for now, I have to go. I'm currently pitching Linda Carter's people my idea for the "Wonder Woman Bulletproof Lifecall Bracelets"...

"Pa-chaa! Pa-chaaa! Peeeww!"

Complete with realistic sound effects, of course.

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Haiku for My Japanese Spammer

2009-09-28T07:29:00.009-04:00

Remember the old days when spammers just used robots to spread their life-changing messages of tungsten wedding rings, all-natural erectile dysfunction drugs, conspiracy theories, and Nigerian princes in peril?

They were so impersonal. So detached. So... off-the-shelf.

But every now and then, some innovative spammer looks at the state of spamming today, and decides to avoid all the cold, calculated spamming hustle-bustle. Yes, she determines to take a more hand-crafted spam approach.

This is a person who truly appreciates the subtleties of the spamming art. Who knows that irritating the hell out of a blogger takes time, a gentle hand, and adding a new spam message daily in a language that said blogger not only cannot filter out, but cannot read.

This passes the torch to the blogger, sparking another lost craft-- the need to take a thoughtful moment to hand-delete that new message. Every. Single. Frigging. Day.

It hearkens back to a simpler time, really.

Regular readers know that I have been the recipient of this regular spamly gifting, from a spam artist in Japan, whose agenda-- according to the Babelfish translator-- seems to be some sort of woo-woo psychobabble. And as we are now approaching, oh, the second month of this intercultural exchange, I have now been moved to another art form-- haiku-- in her honor.

I started with this one, but while it captured some of my feelings, it didn't quite say all that it needed to:

Inbox reveals you
Anger flows like heavy rain
Mouse clicks 'Delete'

Then I decided to try encouraging my spam artist into a more productive direction...

Eyes see. Mind reads not.
Kanji sits so alone here
Spammer finds new friends

I hoped to use a metaphor she might understand...

Culture is cuisine
Flavors please... unite
Yet Spam tastes of hoof and snout

And then I just decided to stop beating around the bush...

Japanese spammer
Blood pressure you raise so high
Knock it off, will ya?

Just doing what I can to keep the art alive in blogging, don'tchaknow.

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Today's question: have I missed any important angles I should be embracing in this ode to my persistent fan of the spam?

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Bugzilla Versus Bathra

2009-09-25T07:30:00.004-04:00

Nature: I embrace its mind-boggling beauty and awe-inspiring wonder.

I cannot embrace its many legs, multiple eyeballs, and parts that go "chomp."

I mean, if I go to a zoo and spot a furry tarantula... or an armored scorpion... or a local politician campaigning... I examine it there behind three inches of glass or perhaps surrounded by bodyguards, and think:

"Cool! You are interesting to observe, my friend. You stay there in your contained area, and I will remain here. And all will be both hunky and dory."

Not so was the case last week in my bathroom.

Lightly-caffeinated one morning, I entered this room of revitalization for a refreshing shower. And no sooner was I about to step into the tub, unclad and distinctly vulnerable, when-- from some dimly-lit corner of the room-- charged this giant, multi-legged freak of nature. One undoubtedly spawned from years of sewage, radiation, Pixxy-Stixx and half-eaten Twinkies.

I leapt back to let it pass, but this was apparently not good enough for its nefarious intents. No, it needed more.

It was going to start with the bathroom, yes. Then it was going to conquer the house... the block... the city... and possibly take a flight to Japan so it could really get cracking on Tokyo.

Y'know, like the Monstering-For-Morons: How To Stomp a City Real Good manuals tell 'em.

Okay-- sure, he'd probably get delayed in security, given all of the legs with explosive shoe potential. But I doubted he'd be deterred-- just a little petulant by baggage claim.

So when I moved out of Bugzilla's way, did it thank me for the courtesy? Did it show me its FastPass?

No. It decided to charge at me.

Yes, friends, it let out a mighty roar, reared up on 500 of its hind legs, shot morning breath of fire and Liquid Plumber, and ran straight at me.

And me, I did The Naked Mile in under five seconds.

I searched frantically around for something to barricade it. Something to stop it in its fleet-footed, galloping tracks. And that's when I spotted it. The metal lid to the container that holds extra toilet paper!

Wham! went the lid (which proportionately is, of course, seven stories high and flame resistant).

"RAWWWR!" echoed the enraged monstrosity from its dark chamber, shaking 300 angry fists.

I sighed, and sunk to the floor. Phew! Crisis averted...

Until.

See, a good shower does wonders for the ol' attitude. With some happy suds and good hot water, the trauma of my battle with the mutant beast from the netherworld swirled from my memory and down, down the drain of the past.

I got ready for work.

And I forgot all about my plans to slide some cardboard under its confinement cell and release Bugzilla back into the wild, far far away from my own personal self.

Here I should mention, I have a housemate that shares the facilities.

Yes, it was evening by the time I saw the friend who rents from me. As she was headed into the bathroom, I glanced at her retreating back and something sharp jabbed my memory.

Wasn't there something I was supposed to tell her? Wasn't there something fairly important that she should know?

She was mid-toothpaste-on-brush when my recollection kicked in, and I rudely busted in to her moment of Aquafresh and meditation.

"AGH! Don't lift that metal lid!" I shouted, pointing at said item on the floor.

She glanced from it to me with a single eyebrow raised, and the same expression she gave me the time she caught me making a Great Escape episode starring Marshmallow Peeps.

"I noticed that earlier," she said calmly.

Yes, it was the Marshmallow Peeps tone again. A friend who knows you're inclined to set Easter candy up for an action picture photoshoot, pretty much knows to expect weirdness as a part of the rental contract.

I explained the incident of the morning. The terror, the running legs (some of them not even mine), and pointed out the scorch marks on the tile walls.

And with this, that brave girl... That battler of underworld demons... That Buffy the Bugslayer who I call 'friend,' she grabbed a tissue, lifted that lid and...

No.

The battle was simply too ugly to describe.

But suffice it to say, the house... the block... Pittsburgh... and even Tokyo...

Has been saved.

At least, until next time, good readers. At least, until next time.

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Question for today: Is there any part of the animal kingdom that completely freaks you out? And why... why must they always charge us? What's that about?

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Neighborhood Watch or The Tale of Old Fat Naked Guy

2009-09-23T07:30:00.001-04:00

Dawn! It crept over the Pittsburgh horizon like a wise and careful mouse, slipping stealthily over the slopes and wriggling around the buildings of my post-college neighborhood with hungry, all-encompassing ambition...

...To illuminate the round, bald noggin of Old Fat Naked Guy, my neighbor next door, staring in my living room window.

Yes, each day he sat on his stoop, chair turned at the perfect angle to watch me work-out in the wee morning dim of my first-floor apartment.

Early rising slugs kept him company-- no doubt chatting about my pitiful lack of form-- and a layer of dew shone on his great domed brow, his sandpapery jowls, and his perpetually shirtless Buddha belly.

"Not again," I'd grumble, tossing my workout jacket over my shoulder and wiping sweat from my forehead. I glared at him through the window, vowing to remember to close the curtains next time.

Which is what I vowed every time. But at 5am, pre-coffee, vows are like rice cakes. They don't amount to much.

So he just sat there, still and unmoved by my glare, like a TV watcher who went from gameshow, to soap, to Oprah blindly... indiscriminately. Just because anything else involved rising to change the channel.

I imagine he felt this program had it all; girl in spandex plus pratfalls. The quintessential combination of sex and humor. How could I expect anything but his regular audience?

It was my own fault, really.

Of course, Old Fat Naked Guy didn't just tune-in to the Good Morning Pittsburgh Workout Comedy Show. No, he enjoyed Upstairs Housemate Walking Dog. And Downstairs Housemate Going to Work. He took in Drunk Unemployed Dude Fourth of July Party Week to our left. And the Landlord Letting Herself In Without Notice show that, while airing sporadically, did have quite a few episodes.

Yes, he sat outside on that stoop for hours, watching the world go by, sometimes nursing a beer and occasionally shouting inside to Mrs. Old Fat Naked Guy to fill in the lulls.

And like actors who don't actually know the people they touch the most, we-- the players in his regularly scheduled programming-- did not actually know his name.

This was not because we hadn't spoken to him...

It was because we couldn't understand a single word that came out of his mouth.

"Grumma tumma whaddaya mumble mum," he'd say, pointing at Upstairs Housemate's dog in the language which-- from the effects of beer, false teeth and perhaps a colorful youth-- had become all his own.

"Pardon?"

"Whaddaya grumma tumma mumble mum," came the reprise.

Upstairs Housemate would pause, then smile. "His name is Barkley," she'd say, working the art of statistical probability, wave, and then politely slip away.

Or if I were taking out the trash:

"Flamma jamma ramma lamma dingdong!" he'd shout, waving a finger with some perturbation.

"Yup, garbage day tomorrow!" I'd exclaim cheerfully, sensing I was actually getting a lecture on something, but realizing that without the first edition of the Old Fat Naked Guy to English dictionary, I would just have to miss his words of caution.

Or if my roommate's brothers were visiting:

"Sheeg glabba frabja ya blonga!"

"Good morning! Yes, it's always nice to get together with family, isn't it?" she'd sing, and flee quickly into the house.

Soon, I became a homeowner myself, leaving that first floor apartment and Old Fat Naked Guy behind. But every now and then, when I struggle into my exercise clothes and the autumn light just begins to creep into my windows, I wonder how he is.

Is he still alive, sitting there on the stoop, enjoying a whole new Fall Lineup?

Perhaps Young Man Rocking Out To Guitar Hero? Or Ambulance Driver Carting Drunk Unemployed Dude Away for Heart Testing?

Yes, I wonder... I consider those tender semi-stalking moments we shared... And the unexpected piece of wisdom he once imparted to me. Wisdom which, in his honor, I will share with you right now:

"Pooka snooka dooka ga-bungee wa-chingee!"

Just something to think about.

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Today's question: Any memorable characters in your neighborhood?

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How to Set Up Your Home Entertainment System, Ocean's 11 Style

2009-09-21T08:00:00.002-04:00

Since when did setting up a television suddenly become more complex than executing the plot of an elaborate caper film?

Yet that's what I discovered this weekend when what I thought would be a simple Swap Maneuver-- my housemate's tube TV for the new HD one I'd bought-- turned into a tangled, sadly Clooneyless remake of the Ocean's variety. Only minus the high-stakes payoff, rakish wit, crack team of rag-tag experts, and with 200% more cursing.

Otherwise, just the same.

For instance, in a caper film, there is always the use of high technology. Ziplines, cables and the like.

Well, in setting up the television, you wanna talk cables? I had cables coming out of my butt!

(I mean, not literally. As that would, even to my untechnologically-inclined eyes, be a pretty sure indicator that things were, in fact, hooked up incorrectly.)

But still.

S-Video, FR cables, RGB cables, HDMR cables, PDQ, LOL, and YMCA cables... All sorts of cool high-tech cables with initials going to all sorts of different devices with more initials, just to get the most out of the alphabet.

And like a caper movie, these different cables were all planned out in a big overarching schematic, to guide the step-by-step process.

The difference here is, where the Ocean's 11 team tends to work from one main, finely-tuned, well-timed plan, the Television People don't want us to be boxed in like that.

No, friends-- they want us to have options.

So you can hook the S-Video and the red and white audio cables from the TV to the DVD. Or the VCR. Or from the cable box to the DVD. Or the Wii to the garbage disposal. Or the garbage disposal to your cousin Vinny's power mower which has this really sweet hum.

Or you can use the HDMR cable and connect everything to your cell phone and the IMAX theater in Boston.

Or you can use the YMCA cable to connect the TV to the all-male review down the street's video poker.

It's really entirely up to you!

Now, any good caper movie has to have a safe with a secret code. And setting up the television requires a secret code, too!... Well, maybe.

See, in order for the TV to talk to the cable box, the instructions explain, it needs a special code from the cable company. Or not. But it might. But it depends on your cable company. And your cable plan. And your television model. And the number of planets aligned when the clock strikes 12 noon, only not your time, in the place of manufacture of your television and...

You don't know it, do you? The code?...

No, we didn't think so. Just pick a three digit number at random. Or a four-digit number. Or a five-digit number. How many digits you need depends upon the people who haven't told you the code in the first place.

Just give them a quick call... Their phone number is unlisted.

Also, in order for your set to work, don't forget to set it to channel 03. Or 04. Or a different channel which you'll need to get from your cable or DirectTV provider. Or possibly your first grade teacher if she is not, in fact, dead by now.

Got all that? Great!

Now you have officially set up your home entertainment system! Proceed to pop in the original RatPack version of Ocean's 11, sing all of Dean Martin's 14 reprises of "Ain't That a Kick in the Head?" and have a martini.

You've earned it.

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Question for today: What was the most frustrating item you've ever had to set up?

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Snuggie Fashion Show Inspires Infomercial Couture

2009-09-18T08:00:00.001-04:00

"I'm too sexy for my Snuggie... too sexy for my Snuggie..."

This past Wednesday, those infomercial winter warmers, Snuggie slankets, stepped into the spotlight in their first runway fashion show and--

What?

Oh. I see.

You're thinking: "This is just another Cabbages Making Bizarre Things Up post."

Well, friends, sometimes real life doesn't even need spoofing. Check this out.

Yep, with its new "designer colors" like Zebra Print and Leopard Print-- (who knew all this time the zoo had been so, um, designery?)-- the Snuggie slanket has done a little turn on the catwalk.

And has given me the opportunity to repeatedly use the word "slanket." Sleeves + blanket = slanket. Say it with me: slanket. Let's all try working it into a sentence today just to see the looks on people's faces.

Ah, but I digress.

Due to the roaring success of the Snuggie fashion show--which NBC reports a whole twenty or so people attended, meaning each guest did some very enthusiastic roaring per person -- other makers of infomercial products are seeing their products in a whole new light.

And I mean really seeing them in a whole new light. Like these simply brilliant Tap Light Nighty-Bike ensembles!

These easy-to-stick, long-lasting lights give you illumination right where you need it-- even sweaty spandex! Now you can walk, bike, or jog any time of the evening, getting that important daily exercise, all while playing it safe in dark, dangerous alleys.

Then there's the Space Bag Self-Storage, for that person looking to be vacuum-sealed from the effects of naughty Mother Nature...

Helps keep skin fresh, too!

And not to be forgotten, the Pasta 'n' More Pasta Cooker Chapeaus are really taking off. Perfect for that person on-the-go who otherwise might not have time for a good wholesome meal...
Stylish and useful!

Yes, this year in fashion, it's really about combining artistic form with function. It's a busy, more practical world these days. Why not dress for it?

...

...

Slanket.

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Cells and Sensibility

2009-09-16T07:53:00.016-04:00

Hell is experiencing a light frost. Dogs and cats are finalizing their Anti-Animosity Treaty. And sharks have voted on it and decided to go vegan...

Yes, the world is topsy-turvy, and the impossible is now:

I have finally purchased... a cell phone.

I know; I am the last hold-out on the entire planet. These days, babies are handed a cell phone and given their Daytime Babble Minutes the moment they make their goopy grand entrance.

Toddlers are texting, plotting their next Chuck E. Cheese adventures and conferring on potty successes.

Dogs are barking into their Flea-Mobile wireless saying, "Red Rover, Red Rover, walkies on over?..."

And then there's me. Cell-phone-less. Fervently combating the laws of probability that I would never... oh... completely lose my traveling dad on Christmas Eve, somewhere between Fort Lauderdale, Charlotte, North Carolina, and Upper Tarnation, USA...

Or that I would take up residence in Panera waiting for someone so long, management sprinkled me with sesame seeds and slapped on special Day-Old pricing...

(There were no takers.)

Or that I would never get stuck in the middle of a 15th century Ren Faire field with a broken down electric carriage, and no Ye Olde Steed-4-Let in sight.

It was this last incident that served as Her Majesty's Wake-Up Herald on the matter.

I suppose I should explain that my resistance to the technology all this time had been more of a frugal and self-preservationist nature than techno-fear...

For years, I'd worked for a Bill Lumberg type, a driven fellow who thought nothing of tracking me down to my parents' home in New Jersey on Thanksgiving Day to ask me about a project...

Who was at a tradeshow in England and decided it would be okay to ring me up--- 2 a.m. U.S. time-- just to "test the phone."

Who called HR twice because my hour-long, pre-scheduled dentist appointment was apparently taking too long.

Being reachable 24/7 would have had me a cell, all right-- a softly padded cell with stylish, comfy jackets that were just a skosh long in the sleeves.

But now that I have changed jobs, and cell phones come with "I Only Want to Use This Every Other Month With an 'R' In It" Plans, I have seen the light.

Of course, this also means I may have to make a few other changes:

Switch from dial-up, where my computer was powered by three really energetic hamsters-on-a-wheel (cheers to you Squeaky, Hammy and Kenneth), to something that allows me to watch a 30-second YouTube video in under 12 hours.

Contribute to American unemployment, by letting my fleet of carrier pigeons go. I'm sorry for the downsizing, but these things must be done in the name of progress. Please: no flaming comments from the Pigeon-American community. They're getting a nice severance package, after all.

Shift from an abacus to one of those freaky new-fangled calculators. I'm going to miss this one in particular, since the six-foot wooden abacus looked so stylish in my livingroom, and the Chinese wisemen I brought in to consult around tax-time each year were some super-fun guys. "Chow har kew?" "Fine thanks, and how've you been?"

But hey, the world marches on. And if the cell phone works out, maybe I'll even consider buying clothes not made courtesy of the Spinning Jenny.

Jenny's gonna be pissed. But... that severance package. It's a good'n.

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Today's question: are you a late or early adopter of new cool technologies? And have you ever used an abacus or carrier pigeon?

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Lady Anachronism and the Six Cylinder Wizards

2009-09-14T07:43:00.019-04:00

It wasn't exactly a phrase I ever expected to say in 15th century Europe:

"Um, could you tell me if there's a pay phone around here I could use?"

But given my electric horseless carriage had completely lost its giddayup in the middle of the Renaissance Faire parking field, well, now was really not the time to be a stickler for historical accuracy.

I elaborated on how ye olde bewitched torches had accidentally been left to burn during the course of the jousting... During yon marketplace pillaging... During the enjoyment of grog and delicacies from ye locallle chippe shoppppeee... And thus had drained the carriage of its goodly magyckeee.

I shared the tale of how I am stupidly not keeper of the phone of cells... And how I had thoughtlessly not yet sought protection of the roving, rescuing band of the Three A's, wizards who specialize in the reanimation of stranded carriages.

I spoke of all this-- in four-part verse accompanied by lutes and dancing minstrels, two of whom I had to run through with sharpened sword just to get the whole story finished...

By Tudor's codpiece, those skipping minstrels do strain the nerves!

But once the woman in the wimple and velvet gown at Ye Olde Tickett Boothee heard my tale of woe, she leapt to action.

She picked up her own enchanted phone of cells and rang up His Majesty's Royalle Carriage Magycker-Uppers. This noble king--well-prepared for most contingencies which is undoubtedly why he is in charge (that and, y'know, being a legacy kid)-- had druid advisers on hand for just such an occasion!

Huzzah! Huzzah! And whoop-whoop-whoop!

I waited for their arrival, reading my carriage's Booke of Spelles, hoping to glean some bit of new knowledge. But alas, my powers of magyckkke in the area of horseless carriages are weak and silly and do sucketh.

A kindly knygggght came by with his lady and offered assistance, if I had the Bewitched Cables of the Jump. But alas, no. Miserably unprepared was I.

This Lady felt a fool.

He then offered me weaponry, to fend off any carriage-jackers that might come by to plunder my meager wealth, or my minstrel-less portable player of the tunes.

But soon, from over the field on a powerful steed-- I believe it was a Ford Bronco-- came the King's sorcerers. They were from the far land of Colorado, they said, and rescued dudes and damsels in this particular sort of distress at least once a fortnight using their talents of automotive necromancy.

Consulting a bit on the right spells to use, they coaxed my horseless carriage back to life.

And hey nonny-nonny! We were prepared to journey once more!

Ah, but wait!!-- good people of the land of Cabbages... What would this story be without a concluding moral?

When dark skies grow and winds do blow
Ye ask, "Will ye get threwghhht it?"
But hark!-- one call can do it all
As wisemen say: "Just Druid."

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Blogging Birthday Lessons Learned

2009-09-11T07:30:00.001-04:00

It's hard to believe, but as of today, I've officially been blogging for three years. Yep, newborns have grown into full-fledged, "NO!"-proclaiming humans in the time my first blog has been a virtual quickie-mart stop on the Internet Highway.

And in that time, I've learned a few things. Things which I will share with you today:

Spammers know no sense of irony. I have a Japanese spammer. She spams both of my blogs daily, in Japanese. My readers and I don't speak Japanese. She doesn't speak English. Each day she specifically spams the post about my deep loathing of individuals of the Spamacious nature, such as herself. Each day I delete her spam. What we have here is a failure to communicate.

When you discuss the film Aliens, do so with the reverence normally reserved for the Pope and crispy bacon. Back when I was just a baby blogger, I made the mistake of thinking I had some funny observations about the film Aliens. Due to the wonders of Social Media (meaning about 10 angry Reddit-haunters who apparently sleep under Aliens sheet sets on their parents' pull-out sofas, dreaming of how different their lives would have been if only Sigourney Weaver had gone to the prom with them), I learned that my observations about Aliens are, in fact, wrong and distinctly unfunny. So from here on out, I shall refer to Aliens as "That Space-Oriented Film Of Which I am Unworthy To Speak, What With Not Having Thoroughly Digested Its Entire Catalogue of In-Depth Mythology." For your own safety, I recommend you do the same.

No, they've already heard that story. No, really. Really. I'm lucky enough to have a few real-life friends who read my blogs. This, I understand, helps them keep up with all the fast-paced, budget-conscious, telemarketer-flaming, furniture-refinishing, anti-zombie activity that surrounds my oh-so-riveting life. This also means that when I see them in person, I begin to regale them with my latest plan for better human-zombie relations or, say, the cool new purse I thrifted, they cut me off quicker than the Stig test driving a Lambo on the Autobahn. "Yes, I read that," they tell me, offering the polite pained smile you give that aged relative with Alzheimer's who's just opened her birthday slippers for the fourth time. Let me tell you, the conversation dies quicker than Meryl Streep looking for another Oscar. Always have new material.

If they're not laughing at your jokes, at least you can't see their faces. Blogging has allowed me to share all the things that have struck me funny, some of them not even involving infomercials. But the best thing about blogging is, I don't have to see your faces. Not that you guys aren't all really beautiful people, who I wouldn't totally enjoy staring at until you started nervously sweating and tugging at your collar, because of the High Art involved in your perfect profiles. But 1.) I don't have time for that crap. And 2.) when I make a joke that totally bombs, I don't have to see your expressions of weary bewildered tolerance. This has been great for the ol' self-esteem. Thanks!

You can't turn back the hands of time on a bad post. Believe me, I've tried. I've scoured the city, looking for Doctor Who. And not just for a brief vacay of interstellar travel and cheeky banter, but also to intercept the latest, mutant blog issuance I'd given birth to. How do you unmake that three-eyed, humorless child you adored for 3.5 seconds? Well, you don't. You can't. You can unpublish, but it's already out there, limping through the cities and breaking up the place. So just slap a tux on it, sing a duet of "Putting On the Ritz," and move on. Maybe no one will notice.

Well, I could go on and on about this, but I won't because of the last thing I learned from blogging:

Know when enough's enough.

And since I know a lot of you readers out there are bloggers, too:

Care to share your bestest blogging lessons?...

And do any of them involve a "Space-Oriented Film Of Which You're Not Worthy to Speak"?

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