At last, a reason to celebrate Bastille Day. Hot, holy damn!!!
Don't be a square. Laugh. God commands you.
2 years ago
Friday, May 29, 2009
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Please shop where you park
Since school is getting out all over and rugrats are searching for loitering holes, the EPJ figured she'd do her part and grant one lucky local classroom a swimming party at Rancho Relaxo. (I know, and it's not even an election year. What a gal.) The blessed event went off last week without much of a hitch, i.e. no rain fell, no cramps were had and no one drowned. In terms of a kids swim party, that's pretty much my definition of success.
To point out that only 2 of the 35 attendees actually knew how to swim would probably be picking nits. The deep end was therefore roped off meaning there was more danger of cramped conditions and suffocation than actual cramps or drowning . But that's beside the point. I'm sure it was a bang-up time for kids to get to stand in a pool of water at the home of someone they didn't know. For a couple of hours. Memories that will no doubt last a lunchtime. Similarly, I'm sure the parents will remember the EPJ's manganimity come election time. Her slogan next go round? "A kid in every pool."
Really getting into the spirit of all the do-goodness and not wishing to exclude any potential voters, the EPJ has now turned her attention to helping the furthest reaches of humanity. She's decided that being able to reach anyone at anytime via one's cell is rather nice. One never really knows when the need to strike up a thoroughly useless conversation make come. "Ooh, honey did you see what she was wearing? Indeed." The EPJ doesn't actually talk like this but I like to imagine she does. When I'm not working dilligently for the good people of this county, of course.
Like most technological advances, however, these cellular phones have brought about a whole new set of problems for us, oh-so-connected moderners. Specifically, having to fumble for that confounded phone as it blares some ringtone that seemed clever at the time--Kenny Loggins, how do you sleep? So to combat the embarrassment of these unfortunate social situations (silence, vibrate or shutting the damn thing off is not an option for one so esteemed), she's decided it would be gear if one could wear one's phone on one's wrist. The phone rings and with the flick of the wrist and a simple "talk to me" one is able to annoy innocent bystanders with incessant talking even quicker. Gee, thanks.
When I pointed out that Dick Tracy has had such a device for years, (we all know where that's gotten him--a crappy Hollywood bomb with Madonna and Warren Beatty) she accused me of being a smart ass.
Ouch.
I then told her about my idea for an invisible jet.
To point out that only 2 of the 35 attendees actually knew how to swim would probably be picking nits. The deep end was therefore roped off meaning there was more danger of cramped conditions and suffocation than actual cramps or drowning . But that's beside the point. I'm sure it was a bang-up time for kids to get to stand in a pool of water at the home of someone they didn't know. For a couple of hours. Memories that will no doubt last a lunchtime. Similarly, I'm sure the parents will remember the EPJ's manganimity come election time. Her slogan next go round? "A kid in every pool."
Really getting into the spirit of all the do-goodness and not wishing to exclude any potential voters, the EPJ has now turned her attention to helping the furthest reaches of humanity. She's decided that being able to reach anyone at anytime via one's cell is rather nice. One never really knows when the need to strike up a thoroughly useless conversation make come. "Ooh, honey did you see what she was wearing? Indeed." The EPJ doesn't actually talk like this but I like to imagine she does. When I'm not working dilligently for the good people of this county, of course.
Like most technological advances, however, these cellular phones have brought about a whole new set of problems for us, oh-so-connected moderners. Specifically, having to fumble for that confounded phone as it blares some ringtone that seemed clever at the time--Kenny Loggins, how do you sleep? So to combat the embarrassment of these unfortunate social situations (silence, vibrate or shutting the damn thing off is not an option for one so esteemed), she's decided it would be gear if one could wear one's phone on one's wrist. The phone rings and with the flick of the wrist and a simple "talk to me" one is able to annoy innocent bystanders with incessant talking even quicker. Gee, thanks.
When I pointed out that Dick Tracy has had such a device for years, (we all know where that's gotten him--a crappy Hollywood bomb with Madonna and Warren Beatty) she accused me of being a smart ass.
Ouch.
I then told her about my idea for an invisible jet.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
The laws have changed
It's funny the way life happens. Actually, that's not true. It's usually pretty darn depressing the way things turn out but I suppose that's neither here nor there for my purposes right now. Just last night I was chatting with Seth about all manner of things. Suddenly, for no apparent reason, Seth informs me that he thinks his mother (KW, to longtime readers) is possibly a meth addict. As I already presume most of my close acquaintances are using various mind-altering substances at any given time, I did not ask for proof. Nevertheless, he provided proof for this particular pudding: her teeth are falling out.
Not being up on the specific side-effects of tweaking, I had to take him at his word. In an overabundance of caution I have already contacted the folks from the A & E's show, Intervention. We all want to be on TV. Getting there on the back of circumstantial evidence of the drug addiction of one of my closest friends is as good as any, says I.
But in a staggering display of the divine omniscience of God, knowing that I would be writing the above words this afternoon, He saw fit to have me lose a tooth of my own. Or at least part of a tooth. Oh, God. You rascal.
Though I practice good dental hygiene with regular brushing and occasional flossing, I've been blessed with the teeth of the average Britain circa 1908. (Apologies for the lazy, obvious British teeth joke) To the best of my knowledge there is not a single tooth in my head that does not have at least one filling. Some have multiple fillings, which is really quite sexy when you think about it. I'm not really sure why but it just is. Or at least that's what I tell myself.
What all this means to you, dear reader, is probably nothing. Sure, I may get another post out of it if my completely competent dentist accidentally drills my gum, or I hear a particularly annoying song on the office sound system. Hopefully that won't happen.
This is the second occurrence of a tooth breaking off all of sudden. And though I'm quite certain I'm not currently using meth, all this tooth decay does have me wondering just what's up. I suppose the 5 gallons of Mountain Dew I use to wash down the multiple packs of Oreos each day probably don't help. Oh well.
Nevertheless, it has gotten me to thinking about checking into false teeth or at least some badass grillz. Pretty much since I first started seeing them on my fave ballers, I've always thought that was an avenue I'd eventually be heading down. Not really wanting to get street cred through that whole prison route, I figure dropping a few benjamins on some gold plates would do the trick. I know it's popular to get something really street engraved on one's grillz--high rolla, thug 4 lif or what have you--but I don't really think that's my personality. I'm pretty hard, understand, maybe even occasionally thug. But 4 lif just seems a little much. I don't know that I have that much determination or stamina. So instead I think I'll probably just get "I ♥ friends" across the top and maybe two hands clasping across the bottom.
Or maybe I'll just get the dentist to pull them all and accept a life of gumming oatmeal and weeping silently.
Decisions, decisions.
Not being up on the specific side-effects of tweaking, I had to take him at his word. In an overabundance of caution I have already contacted the folks from the A & E's show, Intervention. We all want to be on TV. Getting there on the back of circumstantial evidence of the drug addiction of one of my closest friends is as good as any, says I.
But in a staggering display of the divine omniscience of God, knowing that I would be writing the above words this afternoon, He saw fit to have me lose a tooth of my own. Or at least part of a tooth. Oh, God. You rascal.
Though I practice good dental hygiene with regular brushing and occasional flossing, I've been blessed with the teeth of the average Britain circa 1908. (Apologies for the lazy, obvious British teeth joke) To the best of my knowledge there is not a single tooth in my head that does not have at least one filling. Some have multiple fillings, which is really quite sexy when you think about it. I'm not really sure why but it just is. Or at least that's what I tell myself.
What all this means to you, dear reader, is probably nothing. Sure, I may get another post out of it if my completely competent dentist accidentally drills my gum, or I hear a particularly annoying song on the office sound system. Hopefully that won't happen.
This is the second occurrence of a tooth breaking off all of sudden. And though I'm quite certain I'm not currently using meth, all this tooth decay does have me wondering just what's up. I suppose the 5 gallons of Mountain Dew I use to wash down the multiple packs of Oreos each day probably don't help. Oh well.
Nevertheless, it has gotten me to thinking about checking into false teeth or at least some badass grillz. Pretty much since I first started seeing them on my fave ballers, I've always thought that was an avenue I'd eventually be heading down. Not really wanting to get street cred through that whole prison route, I figure dropping a few benjamins on some gold plates would do the trick. I know it's popular to get something really street engraved on one's grillz--high rolla, thug 4 lif or what have you--but I don't really think that's my personality. I'm pretty hard, understand, maybe even occasionally thug. But 4 lif just seems a little much. I don't know that I have that much determination or stamina. So instead I think I'll probably just get "I ♥ friends" across the top and maybe two hands clasping across the bottom.
Or maybe I'll just get the dentist to pull them all and accept a life of gumming oatmeal and weeping silently.
Decisions, decisions.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Hand me the crayons instructions, please
I had presumed that the highlight of last week would be the arrival of Baby Zeigler since it's not too often we get additions to our family. I'd like to think that's more to do with being the perfect size for global domination. Of course, we may be such awful people no can stand to be around us for very long. That's probably a judgement others ultimately will have to make.
Anyway, while the whole Zeigler episode was quite grand, I was pleasantly surprised to get back to work and find that it was time for a little sprucing up around here. Not sure if the powers-that-be found some extra scratch in the sofa cushions or it was just a touch of spring fever, but upon my return, I found approximately 32 painters gathered around the windows, doors and overhangs doing some touching up.
Ordinarily this is not really the type of thing I pay much attention to. I appreciate the building looking nice and take pride in gleaming columns and such. How it gets/stays in such condition is not given much thought. Sort of like hot dogs. I enjoy them and am grateful for the workers who provide that frank goodness but I need not see what's behind the curtain. I think I have sufficiently mixed enough metaphors to move on.
So these painters did their thing and seemed to do it quite well. Trimming, etc. is indeed much brighter than it was this time last year. I've no idea how much we paid them but I suppose we tossed in a little extra to get the deluxe treatment. That additional spending bringing all manner of song and conversation in addition to stellar painting.
Not really expecting a breakdown of the new Lars Von Trier flick, I can't say I was entirely surprised when the topics ranged from women/men and sex to men/women and sex. Unfortunately for me our painters seemed to forget that the window that separated them from me wasn't soundproof so I got some fo the good suff. On a Friday night, such talk is no doubt hot, hot, hot and somewhat important to the hard-working man/woman painter (yes, they were co-ed), but unless you're beautiful/famous I'm fairly certain no one really cares about your particular situation as much as you. Certainly not me on a Thursday afternoon.
Madeline across the hall got it even worse since, unlike me, she actually keeps her window blinds open. In addition to the bawdiness, she also got an eyeful of butt crack and the physique only the old lady of a painter can love. She was smitten.
Riveting though such discussions were, they were lacking something. Some ineffable quality that would push my enjoyment over the Zeigler peak. In short, a song. My unsent prayers were answered when suddenly I hear "She's My Cherry Pie" from outside. And then again, "She's My Cherry Pie". And then once more, "She's My Cherry Pie" Those of a certain age will recognize the lyrics as part of the chorus to Cherry Pie, a song by the thoroughly unnecessary hair metal band Warrant. For those lucky enough never to have heard the song in question, imagine the worst song you've ever heard, move up six notches on that list and pretend you're in a strip club.
20 years ago when this passed for popular, I didn't need to hear the version that was honed to a radio-friendly sheen by allegedly professional and somewhat competent musicians. Today, I certainly do not need to be bombarded with an off key holler of it by a dude, cancer stick dangling from his lip, painting outside my window. I take my work seriously, you know. I'm not one to crush anybody's dream so if my singing painter envisions a world on which he sits atop Mt. Rockulus I wish him godspeed.
But.
I would advise him to learn the lyrics. For you see although it's pretty hard to top the all-around simplistic genius of "She's My Cherry Pie", there are in fact, more lines to the song. Warrant were a lot of things--shitty, worthless, lame, kitten haters--but wordsmiths they weren't. Nevertheless, they were capable of stringing several words together to form lines, lines to form verses, etc. just to make sure the point got driven home with a suitably rollicking backbeat. The point being, as you've no doubt surmised, beloved all-American dessert as metaphor for 'lady part'; Shakespeare this ain't.
Now one might argue that the was the proper venue, version and performance for such a meisterwerk. That it deserved nothing less than to be mangled some 20 years gone by a fellow passing the time until his smoke break. But Warrant, like me, was proud of their cleverness and repartee. The writer in me found it heartbreaking. I almost wept. To see all that hard work and verbosity reduced to a bare bones hook seemed as criminal as it was annoying. Much like the crimes against music Warrant themselves had committed some 20 years previous. In fairness, I suppose that any still remember them 20 years on is some consolation. I can't imagine any readers hereof remember anything I write even 20 minutes after the fact.
Of course, people still remember Jack the Ripper.
Am I comparing Warrant to Jack the Ripper? Indeed I am.
Anyway, while the whole Zeigler episode was quite grand, I was pleasantly surprised to get back to work and find that it was time for a little sprucing up around here. Not sure if the powers-that-be found some extra scratch in the sofa cushions or it was just a touch of spring fever, but upon my return, I found approximately 32 painters gathered around the windows, doors and overhangs doing some touching up.
Ordinarily this is not really the type of thing I pay much attention to. I appreciate the building looking nice and take pride in gleaming columns and such. How it gets/stays in such condition is not given much thought. Sort of like hot dogs. I enjoy them and am grateful for the workers who provide that frank goodness but I need not see what's behind the curtain. I think I have sufficiently mixed enough metaphors to move on.
So these painters did their thing and seemed to do it quite well. Trimming, etc. is indeed much brighter than it was this time last year. I've no idea how much we paid them but I suppose we tossed in a little extra to get the deluxe treatment. That additional spending bringing all manner of song and conversation in addition to stellar painting.
Not really expecting a breakdown of the new Lars Von Trier flick, I can't say I was entirely surprised when the topics ranged from women/men and sex to men/women and sex. Unfortunately for me our painters seemed to forget that the window that separated them from me wasn't soundproof so I got some fo the good suff. On a Friday night, such talk is no doubt hot, hot, hot and somewhat important to the hard-working man/woman painter (yes, they were co-ed), but unless you're beautiful/famous I'm fairly certain no one really cares about your particular situation as much as you. Certainly not me on a Thursday afternoon.
Madeline across the hall got it even worse since, unlike me, she actually keeps her window blinds open. In addition to the bawdiness, she also got an eyeful of butt crack and the physique only the old lady of a painter can love. She was smitten.
Riveting though such discussions were, they were lacking something. Some ineffable quality that would push my enjoyment over the Zeigler peak. In short, a song. My unsent prayers were answered when suddenly I hear "She's My Cherry Pie" from outside. And then again, "She's My Cherry Pie". And then once more, "She's My Cherry Pie" Those of a certain age will recognize the lyrics as part of the chorus to Cherry Pie, a song by the thoroughly unnecessary hair metal band Warrant. For those lucky enough never to have heard the song in question, imagine the worst song you've ever heard, move up six notches on that list and pretend you're in a strip club.
20 years ago when this passed for popular, I didn't need to hear the version that was honed to a radio-friendly sheen by allegedly professional and somewhat competent musicians. Today, I certainly do not need to be bombarded with an off key holler of it by a dude, cancer stick dangling from his lip, painting outside my window. I take my work seriously, you know. I'm not one to crush anybody's dream so if my singing painter envisions a world on which he sits atop Mt. Rockulus I wish him godspeed.
But.
I would advise him to learn the lyrics. For you see although it's pretty hard to top the all-around simplistic genius of "She's My Cherry Pie", there are in fact, more lines to the song. Warrant were a lot of things--shitty, worthless, lame, kitten haters--but wordsmiths they weren't. Nevertheless, they were capable of stringing several words together to form lines, lines to form verses, etc. just to make sure the point got driven home with a suitably rollicking backbeat. The point being, as you've no doubt surmised, beloved all-American dessert as metaphor for 'lady part'; Shakespeare this ain't.
Now one might argue that the was the proper venue, version and performance for such a meisterwerk. That it deserved nothing less than to be mangled some 20 years gone by a fellow passing the time until his smoke break. But Warrant, like me, was proud of their cleverness and repartee. The writer in me found it heartbreaking. I almost wept. To see all that hard work and verbosity reduced to a bare bones hook seemed as criminal as it was annoying. Much like the crimes against music Warrant themselves had committed some 20 years previous. In fairness, I suppose that any still remember them 20 years on is some consolation. I can't imagine any readers hereof remember anything I write even 20 minutes after the fact.
Of course, people still remember Jack the Ripper.
Am I comparing Warrant to Jack the Ripper? Indeed I am.
Friday, May 15, 2009
You could win a cash card
The hubbub surrounding the newly born Baby Zeigler still hubbubs. He made it home Wednesday evening and continues to do pretty much what he did in the hospital: eat, sleep and poop. This is somewhat reassuring to all involved, interested and otherwise aware. I suspect he hasn't noticed his surroundings have changed but sleeping 22 hours a day as he does, I suspect he doesn't notice much of anything. Given some of the things he's been through--you cut what off of where?!?!?--this is just as well.
The blessed event went off without much of a hitch. Or at least on my end. I was able to listen to my ipod, watch Seinfield, and drink Coke and not say much of anything to anyone. The plush chair in the waiting room was fairly comfortable. I even pondered a nap. More or less, it was a typical evening for me with little discomfort or drama. Well, there was the terrible inconvenience of no internet access. The hospital was a Wi-Fi hotspot but they didn't provide a computer so thanks for nothing. I can't be expected to provide my own. This is 2009 and I demand free computers everywhere for everyone. Make it so, Obama. Nevertheless, I'm thinking about going back there in a few weeks just to recharge my batteries and take advantage of the free services. Thanks, hospital maternity ward. You're the best.
Millicent had a different experience but that's what she gets for getting knocked up. I think that's in the Bible or something. I keed. Everything went fine and there were no complications, which was both a blessing and a relief. A blessing for her and a relief for me as before Andy called and gave the all clear, I'd had just about all I could stomach of the David Letterman/Tom Hanks love fest on the boob tube in the waiting room. (Remember when he used to be funny?) So after some time we were allowed in to ooh and aah which we did willingly and accordingly.
Though this weren't my first rodeo, this was the first one where I had a horse in the show. Not to say Millicent, Andy or the babe are in any way equinely, understand; they usually walk upright, generally avoid oats and smell somewhat better. Anyway, the usual feelings were a bit more intense this go round than previous ones. Usually only when one reflects does the actual impact of an event register, however, this was a situation where I knew that a profound change had taken place in my life and for once, it was a positive one. As I like to say, sometimes God smiles.
Every hack never fails to point out how there's something reviving and hopeful about a newborn. What this insight lacks in originality it makes up for in truthfulness. A cliche ringing true, imagine that. A hope that maybe we'll finally get it right this time. That never happens of course, but even for a brief moment it's a nice feeling.
The blessed event went off without much of a hitch. Or at least on my end. I was able to listen to my ipod, watch Seinfield, and drink Coke and not say much of anything to anyone. The plush chair in the waiting room was fairly comfortable. I even pondered a nap. More or less, it was a typical evening for me with little discomfort or drama. Well, there was the terrible inconvenience of no internet access. The hospital was a Wi-Fi hotspot but they didn't provide a computer so thanks for nothing. I can't be expected to provide my own. This is 2009 and I demand free computers everywhere for everyone. Make it so, Obama. Nevertheless, I'm thinking about going back there in a few weeks just to recharge my batteries and take advantage of the free services. Thanks, hospital maternity ward. You're the best.
Millicent had a different experience but that's what she gets for getting knocked up. I think that's in the Bible or something. I keed. Everything went fine and there were no complications, which was both a blessing and a relief. A blessing for her and a relief for me as before Andy called and gave the all clear, I'd had just about all I could stomach of the David Letterman/Tom Hanks love fest on the boob tube in the waiting room. (Remember when he used to be funny?) So after some time we were allowed in to ooh and aah which we did willingly and accordingly.
Though this weren't my first rodeo, this was the first one where I had a horse in the show. Not to say Millicent, Andy or the babe are in any way equinely, understand; they usually walk upright, generally avoid oats and smell somewhat better. Anyway, the usual feelings were a bit more intense this go round than previous ones. Usually only when one reflects does the actual impact of an event register, however, this was a situation where I knew that a profound change had taken place in my life and for once, it was a positive one. As I like to say, sometimes God smiles.
Every hack never fails to point out how there's something reviving and hopeful about a newborn. What this insight lacks in originality it makes up for in truthfulness. A cliche ringing true, imagine that. A hope that maybe we'll finally get it right this time. That never happens of course, but even for a brief moment it's a nice feeling.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
I like to smile
Earth meet Baby Zeigler--8 lbs 1 oz 20.5" of pampoosed awesomeness.
The current leader for coolest uncle evah. Your humble correspondent even more humble than usual. Due to the above and various other things, i.e. the real world, normal posting probably won't resume until next week. But it might be sooner. In the meantime enjoy some linen trousers.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
cheap signs = quality revolution
At this point I should probably rename this "No Baby Yet" because it seems like that's about all I say these days. I'm most glad everyone cares and certainly don't mind the questions, but all should rest assured that they will know when Baby Zeigler arrives. Actually, everyone is probably even more ready for the arrival than Millicent just so I'll shut up about it. Which reminds me.
Continuing our unbelievably accelerated rate of technological improvements around here, Andy and I finally got around to hooking up our webcams. We gave our Dad one for his birthday back in February. Since time was not even taken to wrap it, the camera left Andy's hand went to my Dad's who then handed it to me. I, in turn, placed it on top of the telly which is where it remained, staring at me like some Orwellian overlord.
Because I have an awful lot of free time and figured my imaginary overlord was easily bored, I'd occasionally reenact favorite scenes from T.J. Hooker and The Fall Guy to entertain. Sometimes I'd ruminate on various aspects of life. In short, that still-packaged camera became my best friend and we made all sorts of plans for things we knew we'd never do. About how we'd start up a pay service and people even more sad than me could watch me watch tv, read a book or occasionally eat. It would be magical and we'd get so, so rich but I've probably said to much about that and would prefer it never be mentioned again.
So last night, I blew a somewhat thick layer of dust of the packaging and went to work. Because only everybody uses a webcam these days I was expecting a somewhat tedious installation. Tedious it was if by tedious I mean a quick depackaging and installation I mean plugging the cable into the USB port. And just like that, I was on the computer. Leaping lizards. So for the next 10 minutes I sat there staring at myself on the screen like some stoned moron. Ooh, look there's my hand. And it can move. Far out. This would all be sad enough if that was the biggest time wasted last evening. Alas, it was not.
We signed up to use the totally free, totally fab service Skype for our video calls. Like most things interweby these days, a screen name is required. Because Andy and I aren't content to just be "Cool Dude 1" and "Super Guy 2" or something equally simple we have to come up with a name. Not just any name, but one that is a knowing reference that incredibly awesome to us but probably incredibly stupid to most folks with a brain. So for the next 45 minutes (yes, really) we ran up his long-distance bill trying all manner of names. The duration wasn't my fault however. I suggested "Castrated and Domesticated" for him pretty early on but he nixed this for some reason. In the end, he went with the oh so sweet, "We Love Baby" and I decided on "Neville Chamberlain".
So after getting all that tedium out of the way it was finally time to test out with an actual video call. Fingers were crossed as he suddenly appeared on my screen and I, his. At last, we can now experience the electrifying presence of the other via the computer. And make no mistake we are electrifying as we sit and stare at each in silence. I'd like to say the silence stemmed from out awe; sadly, we're really just that boring that my pulse quickened when Andy glanced to look at his television. Andy's did the same when I got up for some pudding. It was very touching and poignant. Pretty much exactly like EPCOT had promised us all those years ago. Minus the cartoon characters wearing jetpacks, of course.
Continuing our unbelievably accelerated rate of technological improvements around here, Andy and I finally got around to hooking up our webcams. We gave our Dad one for his birthday back in February. Since time was not even taken to wrap it, the camera left Andy's hand went to my Dad's who then handed it to me. I, in turn, placed it on top of the telly which is where it remained, staring at me like some Orwellian overlord.
Because I have an awful lot of free time and figured my imaginary overlord was easily bored, I'd occasionally reenact favorite scenes from T.J. Hooker and The Fall Guy to entertain. Sometimes I'd ruminate on various aspects of life. In short, that still-packaged camera became my best friend and we made all sorts of plans for things we knew we'd never do. About how we'd start up a pay service and people even more sad than me could watch me watch tv, read a book or occasionally eat. It would be magical and we'd get so, so rich but I've probably said to much about that and would prefer it never be mentioned again.
So last night, I blew a somewhat thick layer of dust of the packaging and went to work. Because only everybody uses a webcam these days I was expecting a somewhat tedious installation. Tedious it was if by tedious I mean a quick depackaging and installation I mean plugging the cable into the USB port. And just like that, I was on the computer. Leaping lizards. So for the next 10 minutes I sat there staring at myself on the screen like some stoned moron. Ooh, look there's my hand. And it can move. Far out. This would all be sad enough if that was the biggest time wasted last evening. Alas, it was not.
We signed up to use the totally free, totally fab service Skype for our video calls. Like most things interweby these days, a screen name is required. Because Andy and I aren't content to just be "Cool Dude 1" and "Super Guy 2" or something equally simple we have to come up with a name. Not just any name, but one that is a knowing reference that incredibly awesome to us but probably incredibly stupid to most folks with a brain. So for the next 45 minutes (yes, really) we ran up his long-distance bill trying all manner of names. The duration wasn't my fault however. I suggested "Castrated and Domesticated" for him pretty early on but he nixed this for some reason. In the end, he went with the oh so sweet, "We Love Baby" and I decided on "Neville Chamberlain".
So after getting all that tedium out of the way it was finally time to test out with an actual video call. Fingers were crossed as he suddenly appeared on my screen and I, his. At last, we can now experience the electrifying presence of the other via the computer. And make no mistake we are electrifying as we sit and stare at each in silence. I'd like to say the silence stemmed from out awe; sadly, we're really just that boring that my pulse quickened when Andy glanced to look at his television. Andy's did the same when I got up for some pudding. It was very touching and poignant. Pretty much exactly like EPCOT had promised us all those years ago. Minus the cartoon characters wearing jetpacks, of course.
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