Scott Cramer wrote this.

So, the headlights on my car suddenly would not go out. When you’d open the driver’s door the car would start beeping insanely at you – and then the lights would stay on for a good half hour before finally turning themselves off. Weird. “The darn thing is possessed” is what I was thinking. I’m looking all over for a short, a bad fuse, or some high-tech car-computer-brain malfunction as to why the lights weren’t working. Normally, I don’t ever have to think about turning them on or turning them off. These new fangled cars work off a sensor that takes care of all that for you. Night-time. Lights on. Daytime. Lights off. Shut off the car – lights off. Everything gets thrown off when these simple things stop working. Have you ever walked up to an automatic door at a store that’s not working? There’s a good chance you walk right into the door instead of opening it yourself. You just expect it to work like it always has.

So, after reading the car manual, checking the Internet, and fussing with different combinations of how I shut off the car and locked the doors to see if maybe doing it in just the right order would make it work again, I visited the car dealership.

The service manager took a look at the car, reached in to the turn signal post on the steering wheel, and turned a knob. “There, he said.”

What?!

“Somebody turned on your headlights manually.”

What?!

“Dumbass.” This part was implied, but I’m sure he was thinking it. All I needed to do was manually turn the lights off again and they would operate on the sensor – just like always.

The week after Halloween is over there needs to be a bounty on carved pumpkins, jack-o-lantern lights, and those gawd awful orange and black trashbags filled with leaves. Come Thanksgiving-time my neighborhood starts to look like Tim Burton’s Nightmare Before Christmas.

Ever notice how “hell” is part of hello and “good” is part of goodbye?

For me personally, unless you just don’t like someone, hello’s are good and saying good-bye, well…

Saying good-bye is hell.

I had Chinese food for dinner tonight. After the meal, I broke open the fortune cookie but I couldn’t get the fortune out of the center of the broken cookie. Whoever made the fortune cookies had somehow gotten the small wise slip of paper stuck to the cookie walls. Most people would have shrugged and just thrown the cookie away. No big deal. No, not me. By golly, I wanted my fortune and wasn’t about to get gypped. I tried breaking apart the cookie halves into smaller pieces in hopes of unsticking the paper fortune – but no luck. I ended up with a bunch of small cookie fragments and a fortune torn into three pieces. I was then able to hold onto the fortune pieces with my fingers and I could nibble at each cookie piece until the sugary confection completely crumbled away from the paper. Whew – almost there!

I layed out the three small torn fragments of my fortune on the table in front of me and arranged them in the right order.

“Patience is a virtue.”

Sigh.

This log entry powered by Penguin Caffeinated Peppermints (3 = the equivalent of one cola)

Driving at night with little sleep, I relied on these babies to get me through. I’m home safe and sound. I’m also actually asleep while I type this and mobile only through the sheer volume of caffeine coursing through my system. I’m thinking this must be very akin to how zombies feel; I mean, they’re dead but still mobile. Thought patterns are a little kludgy but are sufficient to type this entry. The screen is sort of swaying in and out and I believe I can see all the little pixels forming and unforming for each letter as the monitor refreshes every billionth of a second.

And my tounge is numb from all the peppermint.

So, goodnight all. And remember, cars don’t kill people, caffeine overdosed numb-tounged peppermint fiends on an hour’s sleep kill people. But their breath smells good…

Two days in a row this week, two different women I work with told me, “Scott, I had a dream with you in it last night.” I stand up a little taller, and ask in an artificially deepened (think dorky white guy does Barry White) voice, “Oh, really? So, what was I doing?” I chuckle a little, looking away so as not to compound the woman’s obvious forthcoming embarrassment as she relates the sordid details.Woman #1 – “Well, you were just sort of standing around in the background. Just standing there. Not doing anything. Really weird.”

Oh… So, in dream-land where I could get away with *anything* I’m just standing around? I could have done that at a high school dance. Oh well, not my fault she has no unconscious imagination!

Woman #2 – “You handed me a CD.”

You know, you would think after woman #1, I wouldn’t have even asked. Nope. Not me. Gotta know. This time, however, I’m some kind of store clerk. Argh!

No flying. No chasing off the bad guys. No hero saving the damsel in distress.

I *really* have to start working on my image.

Every morning when I take my daughter to her daycare there’s a guy with a leaf-blower working the grounds. He’s never actually picking up any leaves… or even piling them anywhere for that matter. He’s always in the same area, just blowing the leaves away from one spot, over to another spot. At night, I wonder if someone else comes out and blows them back to the first spot again before I show up to see him repeating the same ritual.

He seems happy, though, displacing the leaves every day. The kind of guy who would have starting bailing water on the Titanic. Everything comes pouring back at him, but for the moment, he’s in charge. The leaves are moving because of him. He points the blower and rank and file everything moves aside and there’s a clear cut path in front of him.

Every day he clears out his path, never minding the forest around him with all the next day’s obstacles waiting to descend.

Every day he stays his course there’s one less obstacle to clear.

Every day.

One day at a time.

A friend sent me some information about Topps, you know – the bubble-gum card people (except they don’t include bubble-gum anymore). It seems they have a new line of cards out, “Enduring Freedom Picture Cards” – A NEW SERIES DOCUMENTING AMERICA’S GREATEST CHALLENGE. Geez.

Maybe I can dig up my Viet-Nam Happy Meal toys or Korean Conflict cereal box stickers to display in the same case as these?

I can’t wait for series two of these cards. I’m just itching to get one of the holographic body-bag special collector’s cards. Ooooo!

My friend Jen read the article I wrote yesterday about how I was looking at her artistic t-shirt, and not actually staring at her breasts. She asked me one question – “Did you see the really cool map that was on the BACK of the Jimmy Buffett shirt I was just wearing?” *insert Jen’s smug smile here*

Umm… well… uhh… No.

Of course, to make the situation all the better, I blurted out the only thing that came to mind. “I must have been staring at your ass.”

I hate when I get flustered.

Okay, it’s about time someone spoke up about a particular problem in our society. Don’t tune out – I’m not going to bombard you with more information on AIDS, tobbaco company attrocities, or the plight of unwed mothers. These are all fine causes, but they have enough champions without my tiny little soapbox. I’m here today writing to you about the female chest. Less broadly speaking, their breasts. Now, hold on, I’m not saying that female breasts per se are a problem. It’s the unfair way in which females call attention to them that causes unsuspecting men (usually me) to get in trouble. Unsuspecting men who may not even be ogling at them (yes, sometimes – rarely, but sometimes – we’re not actually just staring at women’s breasts and praying for x-ray vision).

Now, women, I’m not saying that men don’t look at your breasts. We do. We take every opportunity we can get to look at them. However, there are times when we actually are innocent. Here’s a recent example for you… A female friend of mine and I were sitting up talking. She was wearing a t-shirt with characatures of the characters from X-Files. Well, I’m a fan of the show, and the shirt caught my eye. So, throughout our conversation I find I’m trying to figure out which characature is which character from the show. So, I’m staring blatantly at her left breast – then her right breast – then dead center between them. Back forth, back forth. Now, mind you, I’m not thinking about anything beyond the cartoon characters on the shirt – Scout’s Honor! At a certain point I went to ask her a question about one of the t-shirt images and I realized I couldn’t even ask the question or I’d be calling out the fact that I’m obviously staring at her chest. It’s like, “Excuse me, but could you stretch your shirt a little more tight over your left bosom so that I might better make out the satirical nature of your wardrobe?” Yeah, and this is the part where her husband comes in and kicks my innocent ass.

So, I end up jumping right in with, “Jen, I’m not actually staring at your breasts, but can you identify the character on your shirt an inch to the left of your left teat?” Err… quickly followed by, “Not that I can see your left teat. I mean where your left teat would be if indeed I were looking at it, which of course I’m not – I’m just looking at your shirt.” Then followed almost as quickly (with typical male reasoning that saying you’re not looking at a women’s breasts might be tantamount to insult), “Not that I wouldn’t look at your breasts, but in this particular case, I’m only looking at your shirt.” Sigh. And all I wanted to do was pay tribute to a shirt she chose for what I’m assuming she thought was interesting content for others to view. Others to view – so long as others aren’t male and aren’t staring at her tits.

In the end Jen was pretty cool about the whole thing and even gave me a guided tour of the shirt – that is, pointing out the characatures and telling me which one represented each of the X-Files characters. Pretty cool – but it would have been SO much easier if they had just put the pictures on the back! And with that out of the way, we could continue our conversation unencumbered by the normal male inclination for breast watching.

Except for that necklace she was wearing hanging down on the outside of the t-shirt. Was that a pendant of a monkey? Maybe if I stared a little closer…

when I go to hell? or (got milk?)

when I go to hell I might take some duct tape with me – because I imagine there are a lot of things that need fixing

and if I start fixing things I might want to have a few business cards on hand since it might become a pretty good business

and if I’m meeting a lot of people in hell I’ll need to take along some good clothes because I’ll probably get invited to parties by my satisfied customers

and if I’m going to parties I may want to take my autograph book since I imagine there are a lot of celebrities in hell

and if I make friends with a lot of celebrities they might agree to endorse my business

and with endorsements I’ll probably have to hire a staff to help me fix things because I’ll be so busy

and once I’m management I’ll want an office with a view of the fiery lakes

and while I’m staring at the molten pits of despair, I’ll probably come up with some other cool business ideas – since screaming and despair don’t bother management

and one of my ideas would be to build a bakery – since there’s already a lot of natural heat

and once I have my business plan I’ll need to get some funding

and in hell I know I can find venture capitalists and bankers whenever I need them

and after I’ve started my new business I’ll make chocolate chip cookies and sell them at an inflated profit

and everyone will buy them because chocolate chip cookies make people happy

and because, hey, let’s face it,

we’re in hell

It started snowing earlier than normal this year. I can only imagine how many calls the health department got.

“Oh my GOD! There’s white powder falling from the sky!!! It’s covering the entire city!”

*insert Christmas music here – It’s beginning to look a lot like… ANTHRAX! Everrrry-where you gooooo…..*

Sigh. You gotta wonder how much I’m actually joking here.

Went through the drive thru at Rally’s for a hamburger. While I was waiting at the pick-up window I saw some superhero promotional stickers on the sliding glass window. Cool! I didn’t order the kid’s meal, but I really wanted to get some of these – hey, I’m a fan! The girl came to the window and I tried to be all suave, cute, and charming as I asked if I might be able to please have a few of the superhero stickers. I thought about throwing in that they were for my young child (but, hey that would be a lie!) and besides I could see I was already in the zone (so I didn’t need the “for my child” line I had already prepared).

The girl looked to both sides behind her quickly and then whispered that she would give me a couple of them – and smiled. Yes!!! So, along with my change, I got Spider-Man AND the Incredible Hulk – the two coolest ones they had! Cha-CHING! I pulled my car forward and at the same time one thought popped into my mind.

Whoa, I’m a ho!

I looked down at the two mass produced (but, hey, still COOL) superhero window stickers in my lap emblazoned with the words, “Rally’s. Gotta Eat!” on them. And I changed my mind.

I’m a CHEAP-ass ho!

Man, I can only imagine what it must be like to be a hot chick.

You know when you say a word over and over and over again, how it disassociates from the actual meaning and starts to sound silly? Well, with all the news coverage of Afghanistan, I’ve come up with a top ten list…

Top 10 New Associations for the Word “Taliban” (after you’ve heard it fifty-million times in one day)

10) Fun for all ages – Parker Brothers new game Taliban!

9) The new Dodge Minivan – Taliban!

8) What was Johnny Quest’s dog’s name? Taliban?

7) Foot Fungus – I’ve got a bad case of the Taliban.

6) Some kind of European dark beer – pint of Taliban.

5) Slavic greeting – “Taliban!”, “Taliban to you also!”

4) Netscape’s new browser. Taliban 7.0.

3) Nascar race – The Taliban 500.

2) Villainous Star Trek alien race – Romulan, Klingon, Taliban!

1) Group of idiots about to be obliterated. Oh wait… That one’s real.

The War on Terrorism

The U.S. is airdropping food to Afghanistan at the same time that we’re bombing them. I’ve thought of a way we can better combine our collective efforts to fight and feed. You know those chain burger stands, like Rally’s or Checker’s, that pop up over night like weeds? They drive in a flatbed truck at midnight and offload the whole building in one trip, pop up a sign, and it’s fast-food breakfast time at 9am! We start loading those on those big airforce cargo planes and – here’s the secret ingredient – we staff them with inner city New York restaurant workers from the, shall we say, rougher neighborhoods.

Feed the refugees, shoot the terrorists.

Finally, something fast food can do to HELP America.

Nothing much new today in the “War on Terrorism”.

I would like to point out, though, that I havn’t heard much from Microsoft since September 11th. I’m not meaning court battles or restitution (or more appropriately, lack thereof). What I mean is you’d think that there would be at least SOMETHING heard from the camp of the richest man in the world. Something along the lines of, “Hey survivors of the attack, you’ve suffered enough without having to worry about financial crisis too. Let us here at Microsoft give all the support you need to get through this terrible time for America, nay, [dramatic Microsoft pause] for the free world.”

The only Microsoft I’ve seen is the “MS” in MSNBC.

Perhaps Bill is being quiet – you know, not wanting to take advantage of the situation and doing his charitable deeds anonymously. Perhaps. I’ll give him benefit of the doubt. Heck, why not? I thought Windows 2000 was going to really kick butt too.

I havn’t updated this blog in a while. First there were billable jobs to attend to, then Mr. Mom hours started taking their toll, then on Septermber 11th, the terrorist attacks on the WTC and Pentagon set me in front of MSNBC every night offsetting 34 years of blissful ignorance.

I am, like the rest of the non-terrorist brainwashed world, saddened deeply by the events. However, I’ve reached the point where I’m pissed off at the news media and their countless bleeding heart psycho-babble “talk to the children” and “mother/wife of the victim” reports. If you keep picking at the scab, the wound will never heal.

And speaking of the media, how about we broadcast even more information about troops and weapons? Let’s see a few more reports on possible Taliban attack/defense scenarios. Hell, the Taliban doesn’t need military strategists. We supplied them with many of their weapons years ago and now, courtesy of CNN, MSNBC, and others, we’ll supply them with endless battle scenarios to use against our troops. All they need to do is set their decadent western-made VCR’s to record, get together the troop leaders and make a few adjustments to the plans. Deadly plagiarism. The irony is our news agencies help thwart the armed force’s very efforts to protect our news people’s right to such stupidity. Let’s put them on the front line and see how much information they want to report then.

I was, shall we say, indisposed, when I heard my wife call from the other room asking if I had gone to bed.

“No,” I replied. “I’m indisposed.”

“Oh, I thought I heard you in the bedroom.”

“No, I’m indisposed.” By this point, it was starting to sound odd every time I said it. IN DIS POSED. IN DISP OSED. INDA SPOSED.

Oh hell. “I’m in the bathroom!” I yelled.

“What are you reading?” she asked.

“Umm… I’m – in – the – bathroom.”

“Yes,” she said, “I know. You’re ‘indisposed’ in ‘da library.” My wife has a habit of being annoyingly cute.

“Blah Blah.” Okay, I didn’t reply with “blah blah” but I’m withholding the author and title to avoid even the one in one-billion chance they find out where I read their book. How embarrasing would that be?

“Hello Mr. So-and-so… fancy running into you at the local Qwik-E-Mart!”

“Oh, why aren’t you the fellow I read about on the web who finished my book while indisposed?”

I don’t play the lottery, but I worry about stuff like that. For those of you that are still with me, back to the tale at hand. Now where was I? Oh yes, indisposed (like you shouldn’t have seen that coming).

My wife, seemingly having nothing to say about my choice of reading material says, “I psychically sent you in there anyway.”

Annoyingly cute sometimes turns into just plain weird. I refrain from further comment because she wasn’t like that when I married her so any comments may be held against me some day when it’s proven how this behaviour is somehow a result of her exposure to me. It’s a safe bet. You learn a lot about safe bets after you’ve been married a few years.

“Okay, umm, thanks.” Smile and nod. Smile and nod. Then, “You must have psychically told my brain to make me come in here, but can you psychically tell my [expletive for hind quarters deleted] to get the show on the road so I can get out of here.”

She replies, “You’re weird.”

Suddenly, me, the psychically induced indisposed interrupted reader is the one that’s weird!

“Okay, umm, thanks.” Smile and nod. Smile and nod and shut up.

Next house – soundproof bathroom.

Mr. Mom takes care of 15-month old daughter – Scene One:

(wife) “You fed her plums!?”

(me) “What!? It was in the cabinet!”

(wife) “There’s all kinds of fruits in the cabinet! You chose plums!?”

(me) “It was a dark color. I got bored with all the other ones.”

(wife) “You’re choosing by color?”

(me) “Umm… It’s not like it was prunes or anything! Geez.”

[for the adolescent-challenged, certain fruits process rapidly through the baby digestive system, exiting unpleasantly along with anything else inside ready to be expelled]

(wife) !

(me) “Oh, yeah…”

[note for any other Mr. Mom’s – prunes gotta come from somewhere… doh!]

(wife) “Prunes (Plums) – Unplug. Bananas – Plug.”

(me) “You really ought to color code these things! A little brown sticker on all the “unpluggables” would help!”

(me) “Get it? Brown sticker… Ha!”

(me) “Hey, where ‘ya going??? Hey, come back!”

(me) “Umm… If it’s the sticker thing, we can use markers……..”

Things you don’t want to hear…

“I was taking out the garbage and I remembered I wanted to call you.”

Thanks Mom!