Scott Cramer wrote this.

The fact that my girlfriend’s shower is full of mysterious gadgets and more products than I could use on my car is a topic for another day.

The fact that she doesn’t use a bar of soap and uses liquid soap and big poofy body pom-poms (???) is a topic for another day.

The topic that *is* for today is that I wanted to use a manly bar of soap – you know, one that doesn’t smell like rare flowers from exotic countries – and when I got in the shower with it, there wasn’t any flat or hanging space left for me to put it. Being the industrius lad that I am (no, I didn’t resort to soap on a rope) I went to the hardware store and bought a suction-cup soap holding dish.

I noticed that the package advertised, “Holds over 8 pounds.”

Holy crap! Who in the hell has an 8 pound bar of soap?!?

My girlfriend is *very* punctual. While we were out shopping, I found her the perfect wristwatch. 😉

I stop at the gas station to pick up a Diet Pepsi for my girlfriend. There was a line so I’m standing in the open area in front of the counter waiting for my turn to pay. A couple more customers come in and are standing to the side and behind me. I don’t know if you ever feel the self concious need to “look cool” out in public. Maybe it’s just a guy thing. Anyway, I change my stance to where most of my weight is on one leg and I could tap my toe with the other (not that I think that would be cool, but I’m just describing the stand).

I make sure not to stare right at the guy fumbling through what lottery cards and cigarettes to buy and who’s taking forever. I don’t want to seem impatient – cool people aren’t rude and impatient. I pick a spot to look somewhere off to the side – not too far away from the counter, so people know I’m still actively in line and they can’t cut around me, but not too close either so they know I’ve got much deeper things to ponder than a stranger’s lucky lotto pick and menthol lights. Truthfully I’m not looking at anything. I’m the movie producer staring through that little camera lens thingy hanging around his neck. Cool people don’t have to know what those things are called. I’m concentrating on paying attention so I don’t miss it when my turn comes but not blowing my cover that I am actually paying attention to the transaction in front of me. Cool people have no need to eavesdrop.

This goes on for a minute or two. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the lady behind me glance at something and then quickly avert her gaze. She moves away from me a bit and starts shuffling around uncomfortably. Obviously not as cool as me. I looked to where her gaze so quickly averted – and it was the spot my eyes were facing – the spot that I never actually took the time to “see” what I was “looking” at.

It was a large box of brightly colored condoms. Lots of colors. Lots of styles. The kind you’d find in truckstop bathrooms. The kind for big burly men with a dollar twenty-five in quarters and a hottie waiting in the tractor cab. The kind that I’d been “staring” intently at for the past several minutes – completely lost to the world around me.

Oh yeah, there’s nobody quite as cool as me.

In an interesting development this week, the FCC and Department of Transportation have partnered to create a bill allowing them to regulate radio station playlists. Citing a precedent from Fort Wayne, Indiana, officials say, “We were lucky there were no fatalities from the nearly dozen traffic accidents that immediately occurred after heavy-metal song ‘Lick it Up’ by rockers KISS was immediately followed by country star Garth Brook’s ‘Friends in Low Places’.” The FCC chairman will not officially comment that the Department of Health might also come onboard to back the new bill. An unofficial statement from the Surgeon General, however, states, “If we can tell people to wait two hours after eating before swimming to avoid cramping and drowning, it is not a far reach to expect radio stations to avoid the kind of mental whiplash that can occur by immediately playing country after heavy metal.” In the meantime, public officials encourage drivers to avoid stations that advertise a “variety” of music and stick to “pure genre” stations instead.

I drove to pick up dinner after work and, in a flashback to my 80’s louder-the-better listening days, I pulled into the restaurant parking lot with windows shaking from hair-metal band Whitesnake’s “Here I Go Again”. The timing was perfect with the music as I pulled into the parking space. It was a good hair day, I was wearing my cool black coat. I had that slightly unshaven devil-may-care look. I got out of the car and walked through the parking lot nodding my head to the tune still echoing in my ears. It was one of those rare “I’m actually really cool right now” moments. Of course, there was nobody around to see it.

I get out of the restaurant with my take-out order, still feeling pretty studly. A regular midwest Miami-Vice-Era Don Johnson. This time there are people in the parking lot. Pressure. I still managed to keep the cool look as I walked to my car. I might have even swaggered a little. The cool soundtrack was still playing in my head. I got into the car and, before shutting the door, started it up. My radio, still set at I’m-too-cool-to-follow-your-rules-man volume, immediately started blaring. Oh yeah. Everybody would experience my coolness.

As plastic-pop-diva Cher’s “Do You Believe in Love” washed out over the parking lot, I’m sure the horrified look on my face as my hand shot out to turn off the radio and smashed into my two bags of takeout food showed them all exactly how cool I really was.

Radio, you are not my friend.

You know, sometimes it’s hard to even add something to the insanity. Check out the article below copied from Adrants.com. Original link here.

Just because the United States of America has a few perception problems in other parts of the world, doesn’t mean the country should go and change it’s name to something that exudes a friendlier perception. Just because everyone refers to Australia and “down under” doesn’t mean the country should adopt that name. Just because Iraq caught some crap from the rest of the world, the country isn’t running out to change it’s name so we all think differently about it.

A county’s name is steeped in history and isn’t something to be toyed with like a brand name but that’s what Al Ries would have us believe. Because Guatemala seems to be suffering some perception problems among the rest of the world’s populace who don’t realize it’s the center of Mayan culture as opposed to Belize, El Salvador and Mexico’s Yucatan Peninsula who’ve co-opted the culture, Ries, aside from disliking the country’s new slogan, “Soul of the Earth,” thinks the country should change its name to Guatamaya. Yea, you heard that right, Guatemaya. That’s like calling Australia Kangaroo. Or Brazil Bootyville.

Perhaps viewing Guatemala as some sort of helpless third world country that has no pride and doesn’t care what it’s called by pompous marketing blowhards in America, Ries would have us believe the name of a country is on the same level of importance as a product name and subject to the whim of fickle marketers who think a product name is the solution to all ills. While we’re sure Guatelama and its citizens would love to increase its tourism business, Ries’ suggestion does nothing but reinforce the world’s view of American as a country with a serious superiority complex.

2 o’clock in the morning. Staring into the bathroom vanity mirror in the dark. Unkempt hair and a two-day beard staring back wearing a brown t-shirt with a faded Batman symbol. Even in the dark, there’s grey in the beard. I can’t see my own eyes. There’s a reflection from the hall light on my glasses. I don’t want to look there anyway. I know what’s inside because that’s where I am. My daughter is sleeping in my room. My neck hurts from laying on the couch without a pillow avoiding sleep and everything else and watching a month’s worth of backed up television drama on the TiVo. I want to see what happens to these people’s lives. These fictitious people who go home from their jobs and cash their checks and worry about things like product endorsements and network executives putting their show up against another network’s runaway hit of the season. I’ve got to work tomorrow while my daughter is here, before she goes home to her mother in two days. This week is special. She has to give me first dibs on watching her while she’s at a conference. That’s what the court says. I get first dibs. And every other weekend. And alternating holidays. I get a house full of drawings and toys and no echoes ten out of fourteen days a week. It takes about twenty minutes for the Advil to kick in they say. I can’t wait. The pain shoots up the side of my neck and sinks it’s fingers into the tops of my eyes and pulls backwards trying to open me up. Another couple minutes is all I need.

Gas prices this winter have been horrible. As a result people are pulling the “gas belt” tighter to conserve money. There is a shared kitchen in the building where my company is located. An employee of another company fixes Chicken Pot Pies for lunch in the gas oven. The owner of the company she works for told her not to fix her Chicken Pot Pies in the gas oven anymore because of high gas bills. Word of mouth carried this story through the entire building within an hour.

Lets just say the company owner – for all his trying to be fiscally responsible – didn’t come off looking so good. That’s a lot of negative press caused by a little Chicken Pot Pie. So, I started thinking – How much did he really save and was it worth the negative backlash in the employee community?

A quick unscientific search led me to a website from the Gas Foodservice Equipment Network. I’m sure this isn’t exact but I’m willing to bet it gets me into the ballpark. The quote I found is, “Looking at it from a “pure cost” view, the gas oven costs during the one hour test ranged from $0.15 – $0.43 cents per hour…”

We’ve got an old gas oven in the shared kitchen. Assuming it’s not very efficient let’s boot the gas cost up to $.050 cents per hour. I think Chicken Pot Pies take about 45 minutes to bake. Figuring some fudge factor and time to warm up the oven, let’s just call it an even hour. If the employee in question ate Chicken Pot Pies cooked in the gas oven every day of the work-week, we’d have the following:

5 days * 1 hour * $0.50 cents/hour gas cost = $2.50 per week

So, this employee – worst case scenario of being a total Chicken-Pot-Pie-aholic – can assume she’s not worth an extra $2.50 per week to eat her half-hour unpaid lunch onsite where she is available to her coworkers if needed.

To be fair to the company owner,figuring a 40-hour work-week, that comes out to $0.0625 cents per hour raise. Not to mention (but I will) that if a person eats that many Chicken Pot Pies a week, there’s probably an extra cost in water for toilet flushes. (Do I really have to explain this part?) I didn’t do the cost-sleuthing to determine this cost (but I did find an odd site about cats on the toilet if you’re interested).

Since we’re talking about postive/negative opinions, the company owner is also notorious for visiting a coffee shop in the morning before work and carrying in a Starbucks midday. Let’s just guess about $4-5 a coffee on average. That’s about $20 to $50 a week. Not to mention (but I will) the extra cost in water for toilet flushes. (I’m still not going to go into detail on tihs part.)

Conclusion:

Disgruntled, hungry employee. Negative community opinion. Going down the road to putting in pay toilets.

Bad move on the owner’s part.

I’m activating this anti-crime technology into everything I own! This Superbowl ad from Sprint will show it to you in all it’s glory.

Freak’n hilarious. Of course, I still think it’s funny when someone gets poked with a stick…

If the video doesn’t load below (there’s been some trouble with this) then here’s a link for you. CLICK HERE IF VIDEO DOESN’T LOAD

Found these. Don’t ask. Just thought I’d share…

I’m Batman! No, I’m Batman!

How about, I’m saving myself! Eek.

I had a dream that you and I were coming out of a store – grocery I think – and I was in the parking lot ahead of you waiting by the driver’s side of the car. The car in our dreams was a much nicer black SUV than the beaters that we drive now. I turned my back to the car and your brother Darrell was leaning up against the car beside ours. He had sort of an annoyed impatient look on his face. Or since I don’t know your brother Darrell extremely well and I’ve seen that look before, perhaps that’s just the way he looks.

In any case, I think he and I talked but I don’t remember the conversation. I do remember turning back around and you were in the driver’s seat of our car – even though that’s the side that I was waiting to get into. I briefly thought “I usually drive” quickly followed by “how’d she get into the car without me seeing anything”. Oh, to be more self-aware that you’re in a dream.

Anyhow, before I could walk around and get into the passenger side of our spiffy black SUV, Darrell – who’s car had magically turned around 180 degrees and who was now in the driver’s seat and somehow I was now on the other side of his car instead of right beside ours – backed up at about forty miles per hour. I don’t know if your brother really drives like this, but you might want to mention to him that it’s not very parking lot friendly. I was smashed up into his rearview mirror and pinned against the side of his car – painlessly, much like something out of a cartoon. I remember thinking in the dream how odd that was. I was less annoyed with Darrell and more worried you were going to be upset that I hadn’t gotten into our car yet.

Now, suddenly, I’m in the back of a small single engine plane and your brother Darrell is flying with his young son Braxton in the passenger seat. As we are taking off, I’m like, “Excuse me, but I’m in your back seat.” It’s not weird to me that we were just in a grocery store parking lot and now are in an airplane taking off over what appears to be Colorado wilderness. I’m actually a little annoyed that if he doesn’t land that I’ll end up going to their house and you’ll have to drive all the way (I don’t actually know where but it felt like it was a long way away) to their house to pick me up and somehow the whole incident was going to be my fault.

Your brother doesn’t bother replying but instead seems to think this would be the perfect opportunity to scare me and he points the nose of the plane skyward and does a full loop. Once the horizon returns to normal I say, “That was fun.” Now he’s challenged and somehow manages to defy all physics and “skid” the plane in a one-eighty like some airborne version of the Dukes of Hazzard. I’d swear little gravelly pieces of clouds went flying into the tops of rediculously high pine trees we were flying toward. Just as things were getting interesting, I woke up. Of course.

I can’t wait for leftovers tonight so I can see what happens next! 😉