My Addled Brain

Which, in turn, somehow references Winnie the Pooh (the books, not that bastardized Disney version). I have this on my mind a lot lately, as the wife and I have already begun reading to Max most nights before bed. This schedule varies, depending on time we go to sleep, what we’ve been doing the evening prior, and occasional bouts of “Where-the-hell-did-I-leave-that-book-anyway?”-itis. Milne’s approach to children’s literature fascinates me, how he introduces concepts that one might think would be way over the heads of the intended audience, like self-insertion. It’s also startling how honest the author is about how childhood can end, and places like Pooh Corner get left behind as a child grows older.

And that’s something I don’t want to think about right now. I just want to be able to enjoy the time I get with my son, and watching him grow and learn. Of course, he has to be born first, but it’s never too early to feel melancholy, I always never say!

Something else I would really rather not think about right now would be Joe the Plumber. Thank you, Barack Obama the Democratic Presidential Candidate and John McCain the Republican Presidential Candidate, for forcing me to think of people in terms of their employment - I’m certain every person on the planet wants to be defined that way. As a result, everyone has become the . I realize this is not a new concept, but it’s taken a hold of my tiny, fevered brain and will not relinquish control to the parts that aren’t completely batshit crazy. So, I shall entertain my fellow employees by referring to people like Craig the Owner, Lena the Accountant, and Tim the I’m Not Exactly Sure What You Do Here.

For those of you who stare at the screen whenever someone mentions the financial crisis, yet hasn’t the beginnings of a clue as to what it all means - this week’s This American Life is absolutely for you. It’s 60 minutes. Take the time.

I’ve listened to this episode four times. I will more than likely listen at least that many more so it all sinks in. Not because it’s hard to understand, because it’s not - more because I want to hang onto every nuance of this. It’s easily the most complete and clear explanation of why the world’s economy is going blooey I have heard to date. It doesn’t point fingers - well, it does a little, but it’s not at any one particular person or party - but it explains how our markets got into this mess.

The getting out? Not so much. It does discuss the Paulson plan, as well as a rather tantalizing alternative…which seems to have made it’s way into the final bill under the noses of those who most did not want it in there (read: big commercial banks and others who want the money from this plan without suffering the consequences of receiving said money).

As one of the reporters in this story says (and I wholeheartedly agree with), “I want people to be able make money, I just don’t want their mistakes to cost me, and that’s all I’m asking about.” That’s my question. And it seems to me it’s very easy to blame people on the consumer end - people who should not have been able to receive money to buy a house, and blame them for the system. But that’s a simplification - just as pointing the finger at one party or another is a simplification. To steal (and then bludgeon to death) a line from John McCain (who has been unsuccessfully attempting to steal the line of thought from his opponent) - Be sure my friends, blame is coming. But by the time this blame arrives, will there be a reason to care anymore? With every passing day, I’m becoming more convinced there won’t be.

Yes, I’m as surprised as you that our solar system still exists following yesterday’s exploits at the Hadron Supercollider yesterday. However, since this was only a test of the proton stream and not an actual experiment where protons collide into each other with enough force to potentially render reality asunder, it looks like we have a little while longer to breathe easy.

Not that I’m worried. In the event that headcrab zombies, miniature black holes, or strangelets make their way to this plane of existence, my family will be safe and secure in our Real-B-Sure Saf-T-Tent 2000. Made from 100% pre-shrunk cotton, it’s guaranteed not to lose it’s shape either in the dryer or while being crushed by the intense and inescapable pull of a world-devouring black hole. I feel safer already!

Not to mention that it comes with two convenient robot helpers.

In news completely unrelated to the upcoming apocalypse, Maxwell is coming along fine - apparently, he’s discovered the joys of gently placing his foot on his mommy’s bladder. My wife is overjoyed, of course - when she can get out of the bathroom. Twenty-four weeks down, honey!

The results for the 2008 Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest have been posted. For those not in the know (and really, how could you not know? I’m ashamed to admit you read my blog. Probably not as much as you’re ashamed to admit you read it, though), the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest is a yearly event where writers are asked to come up with the worst first line possible to a story that will never be written.

This is in honor of Edward George Bulwer-Lytton, who’s 1830 novel Paul Clifford begins with this immortal line:

“It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents–except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness.”

Yes, that’s where the “It was a dark and stormy night” writer’s gag originated from, for those of you who were aware that at one point, Peanuts was not only funny, but clever and subversive. But I digress.

The BLFC chose their winner for this year, a rather ribald number that goes something like this:

“Theirs was a New York love, a checkered taxi ride burning rubber, and like the city their passion was open 24/7, steam rising from their bodies like slick streets exhaling warm, moist, white breath through manhole covers stamped ‘Forged by DeLaney Bros., Piscataway, N.J.’”

My favorite, however, is the runner up:

“Hmm . . .” thought Abigail as she gazed languidly from the veranda past the bright white patio to the cerulean sea beyond, where dolphins played and seagulls sang, where splashing surf sounded like the tintinnabulation of a thousand tiny bells, where great gray whales bellowed and the sunlight sparkled off the myriad of sequins on the flyfish’s bow ties, “time to get my meds checked.”

In the spirit of this year’s BLFC, I’ve decided to slap one together myself - hope you like it.

The light poured through the slats in the blinds, filtered through the dust and grime of the windows, pouring into the small office like a fine Port wine left out opened for three weeks: moldy, grey, and with a hint of cedar, cinnamon, and applesauce; “Just the way I like my day-care centers,” he thought to himself.

There is no doubt about it - my wife has Olympic Fever. (Symptoms of Olympic Fever include watching sports until 2am and occasional screaming at the television). Apparently she’s always been this way, obsessively watching riveting events like Air Pistol and weightlifting. In a previous life she was a personal trainer, so I can understand her enthusiasm for people performing at the peak of human physical condition. However, until our main television gets fixed, my personal television viewing options are, well…limited.

I’m actually not really complaining here - without her, I would have missed that insane swimming relay Sunday night, and that was sports drama at it’s finest. But I’ve never been huge on the Games myself, which I suppose would have been my loss this year. At least my wife can obsess over something relatively healthy.

Unlike some people.

The scene in question is from Tropic Thunder, which as anyone who has known me for oh, thirty seconds can tell you, looks to be right up my alley. It’s an absurd look at Hollywood. Absurdist comedy, which has been brought back to America via the full power of Will Ferrell’s marketability as a genuinely insane person, roots itself in pushing boundaries, taking risks, and occasionally making audiences uncomfortable. Don’t believe me? Let’s go with an example from the Man of the Hour, Mr. Stiller. For those of you who saw Meet The Parents, how many of you can honestly say you watched that entire movie and didn’t feel uncomfortable at least once? I spent half that movie alternately laughing and wanting to crawl under my chair.

This movie looks to be no different - in addition to Stiller playing an actor who once starred in a movie called Simple Jack (which formerly had a parody movie website before being pulled by Dreamworks a couple days ago), Robert Downey Jr. (no relation to Morton) plays an actor who, in order to properly play a role, dyes his skin black and acts like a black man ALL THE TIME. Anyone who can look at the roles in this movie and think that anyone watching will either take these people seriously, or find them to be in any way, shape, or form sympathetic must be delusional. Or, they don’t have much faith in people being able to separate reality from fantasy.

It’s idiocy at it’s finest. The people raising this fuss, who number among them the director of the Special Olympics and several disabled rights groups, are not only calling for a boycott - they’ve put together a list of demands. Now who’s being retarded?

I’m not denying there’s a very real plight involving those who have developmental challenges. As a soon to be father, I am delving into a great unknown with my as-yet-unborn boy. My only hopes for him are for his health - but if my child should encounter issues such developmental issues, I genuinely hope I will be able to handle it with the strength and the grace of parents around the world who help their children every day.

But God forbid I should lose my sense of humor as a result.

As previously Twittered, we’re having a boy. The name is decided upon: Maxwell Damon, because our child will be kick-ass, and as such, requires a name to equal his supreme awesomeness. In this, I believe we have succeeded.

Little Max was ready for his sonogram close-up yesterday, shakin’ it (but not quite breakin’ it) for his mother, his aunt, his cousin Jack, and myself, which leads us to believe that not only will he lead the simian revolution when he comes of age, he will also succeed Michael Flatley as Lord of the Dance and lead us into a new era of disco-pop dance fever. However, he will not wear polyester while doing so. Sorry, man-made fabrics manufacturers.

We’ve got some pictures (incuding one with a mouse pointer directing attention to his maleness, which I’m sure is something involved in about 75% of my nightmares), but I currently have no way to scan them since my fabulous all-in-one printer/scanner/copier/stapler/geiger counter/defibrillator/coffee maker thought it would be a fantastic idea to clog an ink port, thus completely disabling every other device on it, including ones not related to printing. HP, you truly are one of the world’s great evils.

Thought I’d keep things a bit simpler this time, so instead of creating a design from scratch, I just decided to modify something that already exists. Of course, I can’t just tweak one or two little things - so right now the only things that remain are the font and link styles - and those won’t be around for much longer either.

Still, it’s nice to bring this site somewhat back to it’s roots; for those not around for the first few years of this website’s life, Robby here was our original mascot and occasional guest blogger. If you’re interested, you could read up on Robby’s ridiculous escapades. Or, not. But that’s up to you, my friends.

I figure that if I’m getting back into this blogging thing, I should probably spruce up the place. I’ve had the same theme for several years, dating back to when I used to update regularly.

Yes, that long.

So, for now you will suffer with this drabness until I get the new look complete. yes, I have one in the works. Yes, there will still be a simian of some sort involved. No, I don’t quite know what the rest will be. Yet.

But you have to admit, the new theme involves a certain amount of effort on my part. You’d think I might actually be serious this time…

But since I’ve done away with just about every other form of stress relief in my life, I’m considering this whole “blogging” thing again. I certainly do have a lot to talk about these days - married, child on the way (yes, really), and more. Plus, I’ve been playing with that twitter thing, and while I find the text entry limitations…intriguing, sometimes I gots more to say than a measly 140 characters.

But we’ll see.

So, my employer had decided that moving our corporate office members out of our extremely overcrowded main office (which is shared with our Tampa division), into a new building, was finally necessary. I guess when all four of your company’s main officers are forced to share one office, one is finally forced to realize that maybe, just maybe, you’ve managed to finally tap the last shred of space from your property.

And doesn’t THAT sound like a riveting reality show:

This is the story of four strangers who run a successful multi-million dollar business, who find out what happens when people stop following the corporate HR policy, and start being real.

I’m calling my cable operator about that one right now.

Wow, I’ve exhausted my italics quotient for the day, and it’s only the fifth paragraph. I can still impress myself when I try. But I digress.

We moved into the new digs last weekend. The place still smells faintly of paint, the food processing/packing building behind us is a new experience every day (today, it’s roasted bell peppers and vinegar), and the office stereo system is permanently affixed to one of those crappy radio stations that has been calling themselves “new” for over three years and still plays Unwell Every. Fucking. Day.

And every five minutes I get asked horribly obvious computer questions by our HR staff (I feel myself turning a little bit more into Nick Burns every day); but on the other hand I have air conditioning (in my old office, it was more of a concept than a reality, being located next to our warehouse), and I’ll even have my own office once they can get one more desk in the door, which means I can turn off the incessant tide of Shania Twain and Uncle Kracker, and crank out whatever I want from Ye Olde MP3 Player at will (thanks, Creative! Thanks, copyright infringers!)

Now, if I could just figure out why the site-to-site tunnel from the new office to Tampa only works one way…