Got Milk?

Sometimes I get to do interesting things at work.  Like today, I got to write up the procedures for our new Lactation Room.

No, I didn't write about what to do in the room… that would have been REALLY interesting.  I had to write up how to secure use of the room and schedule a recurring time.

I’m actually kind of pleased that my company has something like this.  We didn't used to.  I know when my sister-in-law worked there and then had my nephew, she had to use a pump in one of the women’s rest rooms.  Women would go in there to pee and be like, “Damn, what’s that buzzing?  What the hell’s she doing in there?  Oh, HELL no…”

Shortly after that, our first room was set up, but it really wasn't more than a closet with a table and chair.  That was it.  Harry Potter’s first bedroom was bigger.

Anyway, our company was moving off the floor that held the old Lactation Room, so they had to set up another one.  This time, they’re using a converted kitchen, so there’s also a sink and a refrigerator.  Heaven knows you don’t want to store the output in the common area refrigerators.  That’s just begging for a tragic-comic misunderstanding.

I had the woman who is in charge of the room show it to me.  I’m a “Method Writer,” so I needed to experience the space before I could properly render the needed directions.  Even after the upgrade, it was still kind of “Spartan.”  It had all the charm of a hospital cafeteria.

I suggested they get some gauzy drapes and pillows and rocking chairs and stuff… something to soften the vibe.  [Snork!]  Have something to hold up a book or magazine, so they only have to use one hand to turn the page.

I don’t see it happening though… I don’t think the Powers That Be really want anymore workday down time than absolutely necessary.  I know for a fact that they keep the restrooms several degrees colder than the rest of the floor, specifically to deter people from nesting in the stalls.  (It doesn't work… they just bring blankets.)

I also suggested a snappy nameplate for the outside of the door, but they wanted to go “subtle” instead.  I say, why be shy?  Promote the place as our effort to make the office friendly to working new mothers.  I had the greatest name for the room, too…

Mommy’s Juice Bar

They never let me have any fun.

I also suggested that in the name of fair play, they also create a similar room for men.  Maybe we can’t use it for the identical purpose, but what if we had a place for men that were attempting in-vitro fertilization?  What if they needed a room where they could produce a “sample” at the opportune moment?

I see a room with some overstuffed easy chairs, a humidor with fresh cigars, some cold beverages and of course, a DVD player with a Hi-Def monitor.  We could call it:

The Spankateria

I know, you think I’m suggesting we set up a porno room.  Nothing could be further from the truth.  I could guarantee effectiveness completely without the use of any sexist or misogynistic material.  All we’d need is a repeating loop of Ravens Super Bowl highlights.  The guys around here would be done in 3 minutes.  They wouldn't make it past Jacoby Jones’ kickoff return touchdown.

Director’s DVD Commentary: If you guessed that I only included the whole bit about the special room for men was so I could use the Super Bowl highlights joke, you’d be right.  And if you didn't guess that, it’s like you don’t know me at all.

This post is dedicated to all my blog sisters who have been there and done that, and especially Cassie, who should be popping #4 any time now.

Questionable Meat

No, that is not the alternate title for the preceding post.  Ahem…

Two weekends ago, I used a coupon offer from Omaha Steaks to get a decent price on an assortment of burgers, steaks and other goodies.  Nothing says happiness like a freezer full of meat.

If you've ever had Omaha Steaks, or Kansas City Steaks, they’re pretty darn good.  The only down side?

At 5 oz, they’re kinda small.

One is probably a nice, reasonable serving, but when I go ‘meat,’ I tend to go big.  (Ahem.)  Two of these are about right for me, but I’m going to try to make these last and only have them one at a time.

In addition to a cookbook and a knife set, this package also came with several “Conversation Cards.”  They’re apparently designed to get things going at that fabulous dinner party you've been planning for ages. 

But if you ask me, if you need Conversation Cards to get the good times rolling at your own party, you need to invite a higher caliber of guest.

So as a party gimmick, the cards are a fail.  But as blog fodder, it’s all ‘win.’  Tonight, I thought I’d run through a couple of these and see where I end up.  What, the title made you think I was questioning my carnivorous ways?  [snicker…]  As if…

Where is the most beautiful place you've ever been?

For pure, sheer beauty, hands down it’s Carmel California.  Between the gnarled Cyprus trees and the individually named, one-of-a-kind houses, it’s the most peaceful, tranquil and stone cold beautiful place I’ve ever been.

A Cypress tree, facing the Pacific Ocean.

One of the zillion-dollar homes in Carmel, that faces the ocean.

This is the famous Lone Cypress, as seen from Seventeen Mile Drive between Carmel and Monterrey.  This was probably the first really good, artful picture I ever took.

But other than Carmel?  I have to say good old dahntahn Pittsburgh PA.  With the gleaming new buildings, the ornate old buildings, the rivers, bridges and mountains, it’s the most picturesque city east of San Francisco. 

It just reeks of "Champion."

Have you ever had an experience that made you believe there are extraterrestrial beings?

No.  But I have experienced something that made me believe there are forces at work that can’t be explained by science.

I wrote all about it here, but in a nutshell, I had a precognitive dream one spring when I was in junior high.  We were about to move 200 miles away and I had a dream about being in my new school, in a strange new classroom.  Then the next fall, in the middle of Physiology class, (a subject I’d never heard of before), I had a dream flash that played out for about 5-7 seconds, exactly as I’d seen it in my dream.  Everything was the same, from my perspective in the room, to the classroom design, to the girl that was handing out M&Ms.

There’s no possible way I could have known any of that, but yet, there it was, spat out of my subconscious six months earlier.  So as much as I consider myself to be a man of science, I always have that nagging thought that not everything can be explained.  Was it the aliens?  Was it God?  Was it just another quirk of Mother Nature?  I have no idea.  But it makes me wonder what other impossible things can happen.

If you had a chance to become famous, would you want to?

It would depend on what I’d be famous for.  I’d like to be famous the way The Bloggess is famous.  She has thousands of followers that read everything she does, she gets to do cool things like book tours, but yet she can still go to the store without causing a riot, or being harassed by the paparazzi.

(You know what would be good paparazzi deterrent?  Getting a tattoo of a middle finger on your face.  They’d never be able to run the shot.  OK, perhaps it should be a “temporary tattoo,” in case you ever want to be presentable or something.)

If you were in total solitude for one year, how would you spend your time?

Writing!  I’d take that opportunity to compile my memoirs, or write some fabulous story.  How else am I going to achieve that level of semi-fame like The Bloggess?

If you could live at any period of time, except the present, when would it be?

I’d go back to the 70’s stating around 1972, because music would still rock, the Pirates would be relevant and the Steelers would be about to win 4 Super Bowls in 6 years.  The draft would be over, gas would be cheap, politicians would still cooperate (to some degree), and AIDs wouldn't be invented yet.  Shorts were actually short, girls wore bell bottoms and teardrop glasses, Monty Python were in their prime, and kids could still go outside and play without pre-arrangements or supervision.

Sure, there would be down-sides, like rotary-dial telephones, 4 TV channels to choose from and no Internet, but any era has its ups and downs.

What would be different about the world if there were no birds?

Cars would be cleaner and PittGirl would have one less nemesis to write about.  Cats would kill more rodents.  Also, no Ratbirds!  Baltimore’s football team would be called something else, to reflect the local ethos.  Like maybe, the Baltimore STDs…

If you could become a super-hero, what would you want your super-power to be?

I would be ArguMan!  I would be able win any verbal disagreement or talk my way out of any predicament.  I’d be able to talk my way out of a ticket, my date out of her underwear, or the local pub into providing a round on the house.

What historical figure do you feel is the most like you?

I don’t know… is there someone of historic significance who is utterly unknown and ordinary?  OK, I do know.  How about the first guy to add the word “this” to a prior statement?  As in, “Hey, chop this…” or “bite this…” or “put this in your pipe and smoke it…”

Side Note: This was too good not to share.  I was graced with another brilliant example of Spam Comment Blather and I thought you’d appreciate. 

“What a data of un-ambiguity and preserveness of valuable experience about unpredicted emotions.”

Gotta love it.

A Touch Too Much

Director’s DVD Commentary: If you've been with me a while, you probably remember the series of stories I told back in 2011, about my first apartment and the exploits therein.  I was living with my girlfriend and a mutual female friend.  This was the place where I came breathtakingly close to participating in a naughty 3-way, enjoyed some hot monkey love with the roommate after the girlfriend and I broke up, and ended up having public danger-sex all over town.  (It was a highly eventful summer.)

Because some of my family and assorted work friends have been known to read this blog, I kept things a bit tamer than I might have otherwise, given the subject matter.  But through the comments after these posts, I was asked if I might produce something a bit steamier.  I was intrigued by the idea so I wrote another take that combined the hot monkey love story with elements of the danger-sex story.  It’s essentially the same story I posted before, but written in a more stylized manner, as a kind of cross between a romance novel and a Penthouse Forum letter.

I sent it to a blogger friend who was to run it as a guest post but unfortunately, that never happened.  The blogger pretty much dropped out of the blogosphere without running my piece, so it’s been sitting in my archives ever since.

Cut to yesterday when I was scanning through some old posts.  When I came across these stories, I remembered my “lost manuscript,” and thought that it might just be the thing to liven things up during this winter of discontent.  So here we are.

Once again, I should warn any family members or co-workers that things read here can never be unread.  You've been warned.  And now, may I present:

“It was one of those nights

When you turned out the lights

And everything comes into view.

She was taking her time

I was losing my mind

There was nothing that she wouldn't do.”

It all started with the sunburn.  He wondered if it proper to thank the heavens for a sunburn… on someone else.

For the second night in a row, she called to him to please come rub some lotion on her back… her soft, previously milky white back, which was now tinted a bright pink.

The previous night, his Ex was in the adjoining room when the call for lotion came. 

It was weird that the Ex was still there at all.  If he had it to do over again, he’d have let her leave after they broke up.  But she was paid up for the next couple months so he figured she should stay until the lease was up.  It was the right thing to do.

Idiot.

So that first night, when his roommate asked for the lotion, he knew he couldn't let anything happen while the Ex was in the next room.  No need for the drama.  But the blond girl enjoyed teasing him, so she undid her top before lying down on the bed.  He perched atop her ass and rubbed in the lotion, trying not to think about what else he’d like to squirt on her back.

They’d been friends since sophomore year but had never dated.  Now, a year after graduation, they were roommates.  He and his girlfriend couldn't swing the rent for the off-campus apartment by themselves so they asked her to move in too.  The girlfriend had no idea that he used to be sweet on the blond, or she’d have put the kibosh on that idea.

Before long, he’d gotten the blond girl a job at the store where he worked and they often commuted together.  The girl had dated a number of guys that year, but no one that stuck.  Meanwhile his relationship with his girlfriend slowly disintegrated into two parallel but separate lives.  They ended things amicably in June.  They’d all move out at the end of August when the lease was up. 

“Can you put some more lotion on my back?  Pleeeeease?”

They’d just come home from work.

“Be right there,” he replied.

The girlfriend wasn't home this time.  He put on some shorts and went into her room shirtless.  She was lying on her stomach with the straps to her top undone, like she was the night before.  She looked back over her shoulder at him from her spot on the big waterbed.  Looking at her, he recalled something he once heard Bon Scott sing:

“She had the face of an angel,

Smiling with sin,

The body of Venus with arms.

Dealing with danger,

Stroking my skin

Like a thunder and ligh-ten-ing storm.”

Again, he sat atop her shapely round behind and warmed the lotion in his hands.  He knew he could give a pretty good rubdown and it usually caused one of two results.  Either person he was massaging would get so relaxed she’d fall asleep or she’d get so turned on she’d jump him.  He was hoping she’d jump him like she was a Checkers Champion.

She purred softly as he rubbed the lotion onto her back.  It was part aloe application, part sensual massage.  He leaned forward as he used long strokes to slowly work the lotion up the long muscles of her back.  As he’d settle back, he’d encircle her trim waist with his hands.  Occasionally as he worked up high, he’d let his fingers fall along her rib cage under her arms, brushing the sides of her bare breasts.  He figured that was a good barometer of which way to go.  If she didn't get up and crack him one, it was a good sign.

But on the contrary, he found that as he fell into rhythm of the long strokes, she started to roll her ass against him in concert with his motion.

Warning lights fired off in his brain, as he desperately tried to process this new information.  Was this a sign that she wanted him, or was she just going with the flow, like a jockey rolls with the stride of his mount?

He pondered that question as he continued the long strokes and side-boob action.  Her rocking was unmistakable.  It was like they were doing a pulsating tango, completely in tune with each other’s moves. 

He decided it had to be a sign.  The next move was up to him.

With his next long stroke, he let his hands linger of the sides of her breasts and then brace him as he leaned slowly forward.  It was now or never.

He lowered himself down and gently kissed her on the back of the neck.

“Bleah… lotion…”

But he didn't have time to ponder the medicinal taste of the lotion because she abruptly spun onto her back beneath him and pulled him down to her, kissing him deeply.

He decided that was a pretty good sign too.

“It wasn't the first,

It wasn't the last,

She knew we was making love.

I was so satisfied

Deep down inside

Like a hand in a velvet glove."

The night was a blur that he strained to etch into his memory, in a series of indelible images.

They had never so much as kissed before and now she was kissing the very life back into him, as he ran his hands all over her soft, perfectly rounded body.  Her desire was palpable and her breath in his ear was hot and eager.

Wanting to savor every second, he kissed his way from her lips to her toes, stopping only to tease along the way.  A nip here… a flick there… rising back up to kiss her every so often and smile into her bright blue eyes.  Eventually he settled into that spot that he was sure he’d never get to see, let alone taste.  To his delight but not surprise, it was sweeter than he’d ever imagined.

Before long, she practically dragged him back up to eye level and pulled him inside her.  They made love like best friends and seemed to have an instinctive sense of what would please the other.  Her body seemed to have been built with different specifications than anyone he’d ever been with.  It was indeed the “velvet glove” Bon had been singing about. 

They didn't change positions much… he leaned on his elbows above her and she clasped onto him tightly as they rocked with the waterbed.  More experimentation would come later, but they were coming right now.  She cried out, “Fill me, fill me,” and he obliged, with enthusiasm.

Later, as they lay along side each other, both glistening from their efforts, he asked her, “Why in the hell have we never done that before?”

They spent the rest of the summer making up for lost time, having sex in the most unusual places.  They were creative by necessity, as they were not often alone back at the house.  So they used the hood of her car, in the middle of a farmer’s field, about 200 yards from the interstate.  They used the front lawn of a house in the neighborhood, behind a row of hedges about three feet from the sidewalk.  Whenever they carpooled together, whoever wasn’t driving would have their hand in the driver’s pants.  And sometimes, when he was very good, she would lean over him, after they parked the car in a darkened alley, and work him like he had the world’s greatest Tootsie Pop.

The things she could do with her mouth could a stone statue weep for joy.

Once everyone moved out of the house, they didn't see too much more of each other.  But that was OK.  Those two wild months were pressed deeply into his memory, like an autumn leaf in a 1985 yearbook.  He often thought back to his time with her. 

He’d chuckle and think, “That chick was too much…”

“Too much for my body,

Too much for my brain.

This damn woman’s gonna drive me insane,

She’s got a touch, a touch too much.”

(Song lyrics borrowed from “Touch Too Much” by AC/DC.  RIP Bon Scott.)

Director’s DVD Commentary: When I started writing the story, I really had no idea how I was going to do it.  But then I latched onto using AC/DC’s Touch Too Much as a recurring theme.  See, I’d always identified that song with this girl.  A line from the 2^nd verse, “She had the face of an angel, smiling with sin / the body of Venus with arms,” was a perfect description of her.  I used that as the anchor and went from there.  I never intended to write it in third person either; it just kind of happened that way.  The rest just jumped out and wrote itself down.  Much like most of my posts…

Lastly, if you've never heard the song, by all means, click the link and check it out.  It’s kind of uncharacteristic for AC/DC, kind of slinky and sexy, like a hot Bayou night.

You Know You Wish We Worked Together

I was going through an old folio notebook I used to use back in my former department and came across an old gem that I thought I’d share.

I've mentioned before that prior to Pinky coming along, I used to run all my Match.com dating decisions past a couple of married co-workers who I referred to as “The Sisterhood.”  My work-wife, Sunshine, was one of them.  The other was a redhead (geez, another redhead in my life) I used to call “Newman.”

I don’t remember how that started, but we often addressed each other the way Newman and Jerry did on Seinfeld.

“Hello, Jer-ry.”

“Hello… New-man.”

Anyway, when it came time for Newman to leave the company, we put together our customary scrapbook for her.  It was a copy of my page that I found in the folio.

There were two parts to my page.  First, I wrote a limerick, because everything is better in limerick form.  The problem was that I didn't really have anything specific I wanted to say in it.  I just wanted to use “Newman,” and her oft-repeated phrase to me when I was giving her grief, “Shut it.”  From there, I backward-engineered the rest.

If you give her a fish, she will gut it.

If you give her a wall, she’ll head-butt it.

So watch out for Newman,

She’s one rotten human.

But say so, she’ll tell you to “shut it.”

That was kind of a throw-away.  Aside from some pictures, the main portion of the page had to do with the reason she was leaving the company.  See, she was pregnant with her first child, but she didn't want anyone to know about it just yet.  Sunshine and I knew, but we kept it on the down-low.

But as her last day drew near, more and more people got in on the “secret,” so it became one of those things that everyone knew, but no one was supposed to mention. Except me, of course, because there is nothing I like more than stirring the pot.

Obviously, I didn't want to be overt about it.  I figured I’d just drop a few subtle hints in my farewell message.  I’m all about the subtext.  It was probably the best thing I wrote all year.

“We will have a hard time conceiving of office life without Newman.  While her absence may be hard to bear, we will take a pregnant pause as we remember what a unique breed she was.  Although our numbers may be contracting, and the friendship that Newman delivered us will be missing from the office, we will push hard to breathe… breathe life into a newborn form of friendship.  Like water breaking over a dam, our resolve to stay in touch will be unstoppable. Like eggs boiling in a pot, or little swimmers riding a wave, we will seek to keep our memories afloat. Good luck to Newman; may our warm feelings never be expelled from our swollen hearts, and may she always be laden with good fortune.”

Like I said, I’m all about the subtlety.  Without the subtext, that paragraph looks like one of my spam comments.

I’m proud of that little bit of whimsy, as I look back on it, but I also see room for improvement. In the part that said, “Like eggs boiling in a pot…” I totally should have made it “Like eggs over-easy…” That way, I can work in an “ovaries” joke.  Now, if I could only come up with some kind of context to use the phrase “computer us.”  Or maybe "tutor us." And I could have called her the “High man” on the department totem pole too. 

Excuse me while I lament my missed opportunities.

Director’s DVD Commentary: I went back and forth on whether I should italicize all the pregnancy references, but decided against it.  I respect your intelligence too much to underline the jokes.  That would be like adding a laugh track.

Another side note: If you like this kind of silliness, I did a post two years ago based on this same kind of idea, when I wrote the statement the Ratbirds should have made after they signed known pothead, Ricky Williams.

Salvation from Ugly Clothes

Have I ever mentioned that I tend to keep everything?  It’s amazing how much crap I have stored in my small 2-bedroom apartment.  I mean, you wouldn't necessarily know it just by coming in, because we keep things presentable, but if you were to poke around?  Hoo-boy.

Sometimes I just re-purpose things.  Like my old 1997-era word processor, that’s been boxed up since the late 90s?  It’s a table now.  Once upon a time, I needed something to put stuff on, so I threw a tapestry over top of it and voila!  A place for my crap.

The Christmas tree is on top of the box-table.

See, back when I escaped from the Ex in 1997, I felt the need to start writing again.  The problem was that I didn't know the first thing about computers and had never even seen a Windows screen or the Internet.  So I bought this word processor, which was basically a typewriter with a CRT-screen.  

The unit had zero memory; you had to save all your work to floppy disks.  But you could write and edit on-screen, which was just a huge benefit for me.  You could also do rudimentary spreadsheets.  Then you’d press and your document would automatically type itself.  And I don’t mean with an inkjet printer… I mean a real typewriter would type out your document like one of those old Player Pianos.

I used it for a couple of years, until after I started working at my present job, and learned how to use a Windows-based PC with a mouse.  When I bought my first PC in 1999, the old word processor became expendable.  And a table.

Pinky finally got tired of the thing being in the way and decided we needed to get rid of it.  Not wanting to clutter up a landfill with it, I wanted it donated or recycled.  I was really leaning toward “recycled,” because I couldn't imagine a situation where a charitable organization would be able to use this thing.  I mean, I've read that they won’t even take Windows 98 PCs any more.  Just to be a hell of a guy, I included a handful of unused floppy disks.

Somehow, though, Pinky managed to get the Salvation Army to come out and pick it up, along with an old spare VCR I have.  (She was sick of looking at that too.)  I think what she told them on the phone was that I had a computer and a DVR.  She scheduled them to come out last Saturday, sometime between 10 and 3.  Or maybe she told them about the floppy disks.

Since they were making the trip, I figured I might as well go through my clothes as well.  Heaven knows I could use some room in my closets.  So I put on my miner’s helmet and ventured into the depths of my closets, in search of donation-worthy clothing.

The stuff I pulled out generally fell into two categories:

1)  Stuff that was so ugly I will never, ever wear it again.  Example: this sweatsuit combo.

Back around 1987 or so, my luggage was stolen from the carousel when I was coming back to Cleveland from my parents’ place, and one of the items I lost was my favorite sweatsuit.  I think someone got me this monstrosity as a replacement, and I might have only worn it once or twice, ever.  And even so, I still had the fucking thing in my closet.  I tried it on, just for shits and giggles, and it still fit.  (It had a LOT of elastic.)  For a moment, I thought to myself, “How can I throw this out?  I can still wear it around the house.” 

Then I moved, like, a millimeter, and I remembered why I never wore it.  It was made out of “parachute pants” material, so every time I moved, it would sound like I’m wearing wax paper.  The people upstairs would be able to hear me moving around the room, like someone was sanding the floor.

2) Stuff that I can no longer cram myself into and am unlikely to ever again.  Example: my Steelers Zubaz pants.

I didn't care that they were ugly… that was kind of the point.  I used to wear these back in the mid-90s, but I remember that they were a mojo death wish.  I think the last time I had them on, the Steelers lost Super Bowl XXX, and I never wore them again.

Then last year, while the Steelers were in a losing streak, I though maybe I’d give them a try, and work on some “Reverse Mojo.”  Problem was that I could barely get them up one leg, let alone over my big ass.  So, out with the Zubaz.

While I was at it, I considered donating my Steelers boxer shorts for the same reason: bad mojo and inability to squeeze into them without cramping “the boys.”  But I ended up keeping them, just so I can continue to say that I own Steelers boxer shorts.

All told, I assembled four garbage bags worth of clothing to donate.  (They were folded, too, for space-saving reasons, not just wadded up.) 

It would have been even more, but I still have a wardrobe moving box full of stuff buried in Pinky’s room.  I haven’t opened that box for years now.  Another couple of years, and I can use it as a fashion time capsule… “What NOT to Wear: The 1998 Edition!”

So after all that fuss, and looking out the window for the Salvation Army truck, they ended up calling me around a quarter to three, to say they couldn't come that day.  I rescheduled for Thursday, but I’m still pretty irritated about it.  Just for that, I should include my “Heathen” tee shirt, just to show that I am beyond Salvation. 

And I’ll have to make sure they know I have a strict No Returns policy.

The Blogging Bluz

Have you noticed a dramatic change in your blog stats?  I know I have, so I’m wondering if it’s a widespread thing, or if this site has finally passed its freshness date.

Last week, I noticed a roughly 50% drop-off in site traffic, which has since remained constant.  Because my number of “returning visits” has remained constant, I’m guessing that Google has made an adjustment in its search algorithm.  I read somewhere that Google was devaluing blogs in search results, so maybe that’s it.

I know I’ve complained about getting a bunch of hits from “image stealers,” before, but now that they’re gone, I have to say I kind of miss them.  Their numbers pumped me up with a sense of accomplishment, even though it was mainly a mirage.  You know the equation… Hits = People love me = I’m fabulous.  Cut the hits in half and now I feel like wearing all black and writing bad poetry.

And speaking of bad poetry, am I the only one that’s getting hammered with spam comments?  You know what I’m talking about… you get an comment email from “Anonymous,” that’s filled with poorly written praise, with the link to some obscure website attached.  But when you check your post to delete the comment, it’s not there, nor does the poster show up on my StatCounter meter.  Back before this strain of garbage began flooding in, they used to show up on my StatCounter as originating from the Pacific Islands or Southeast Asia.

It shows up in the internal Blogger Stats though.  You see those 5 “Most Popular Posts from Last 30 Days” on the right side?  Those posts appear there because they are the ones that have been spammed the most.  When my “Hives” post was there, it was legitimate, but spam targets have since overtaken it.  And that’s why we can’t have nice things.

I know that I could cut the level of spam comments if I install one of those comment Captcha thingies, where you have to manually enter some jibberish words and numbers before you can post a comment.  But I hate those fucking things.  Since I started this blog, almost 4 years ago, I wanted to keep commenting easy for you, and figured I’d just handle any subsequent spam myself.  You’re welcome.  But OK, I’m not totally altruistic here… I also didn’t want to deal with the Captcha entry myself, when I answer each of your comments.

On the bright side, I am occasionally entertained by the farcical nature of these ridiculous comments.  They really are like bad poetry.

“What a ѕtuff of un-ambiguіty and pгeservеness οf
prеcіous know-how concerning unexpectеd emotions.
My webpage (bogus same day loan link)”

That’s practically a haiku, right there.  And I had no idea that my post about flipping the bird at Super Bowl halftime last year generated such “unexpected emotions.”  The same post generated this doozy as well.

“Definitely imagine thаt which you said.
Yοuг fаvoгite justification seеmеd to be at the net the simplest fаctor to
bе аwaгe οf.  I ѕаy to you,
definitely get irked while
other folks сοnѕidеr issues thаt they plainly do not reаlіze about.
You mаnaged to hit the nаil uρon the
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I think that one may have been written by that South Carolina beauty pageant contestant.  This next one has an even higher nonsense factor:

"Attractive component of content. I simply stumbled upon your blog and in
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I’m so glad that he “achievements me access constantly rapidly.”  I hate it when my achievements are inaccessibly slow.

“Hi there! Your post rocks at the same time as becoming a respectable superb understand!

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I always wanted my blog to become a “respectable superb understand!”  He made my day. 

“I loved as much as you will receive carried out right here.

The sketch is attractive, your authored material stylish.
nonetheless, you command get got an shakiness over that you wish be delivering the following.
unwell unquestionably come further formerly again since exactly the same
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Here is my page (I don’t know what the hell kind of bullshit site this was)”

That one seemed to be a product of an experiment using a dictionary and a dartboard.

I can’t imagine that anyone has ever gotten a positive result out of sending this garbage, but I suppose someone must bite every once in a while, or else they wouldn't do it.

So, do you get this kind of garbage too?  Do the Captcha doohickies really prevent this stuff?  And more importantly, have you notice a change in the number of search hits you’re getting?

Or have I become the most respectedly of dishonor weblogs, fish?

Eat Well, Stay Fit, and Die Anyway

I think I have a button that says that… (up in the title).  I’ll have to check.  It used to be my mantra, back when I was young and bulletproof.  OK… now too.

I saw this thing online yesterday, that totally messed with my head.  It was an article about the various things you can to do add to or subtract time from your life.  I pretty much knew I was in trouble before I even investigated.  You’ll never see me as a poster boy for healthy living, unless there are major breakthroughs in the fields of watching TV and eating bacon.

So these are the kind of things that affect our longevity:

OK, let’s see what I’m looking at here… First, on the “Plus” side…

+ 30 min - Drinking 1 alcoholic beverage.  I think I can find a loophole here.

Jules’s “Big Carl,” from “Cougartown.”

+ 30 min – Drinking 2-3 cups of coffee.  Seriously?  I thought it was good for you to kick coffee, like I did a few years back.  I used to drink 2 cups each weekend day, from grade school through several years ago.  So that’s… let’s see… 1 hour a week times 52 weeks, times 29 years equals 1508 hours or 62 days.  Hah!  Two months in the bank, just for having coffee breath.

+ 1 hour – The first 20 minutes of cardio.  Uh oh.  Can you break it up?  I probably walk 10 minutes from the subway to work and then 8 hours later, 10 minutes back every day.  Probably doesn't count.

+ 30 min – The next 40 minutes of cardio.  Yeah, right.  Who do they think I am, Cassie?

+ 2 hours – Eat 5 or more servings of fruits and vegetables.  Sure, I probably get 5 servings a year.  What?  Five servings a day?  What am I, some kind of hippie?  Crap.

OK, I’m not racking up much in the way of bonus time.  Now let’s check the “Minus” side…

-15 min – For every alcoholic drink after the first.  If they don’t count the Big Carl loophole, I’m in trouble.  What’s the point of drinking anything, if you can’t have more than one?

-30 min – Watching 2 hours of TV.  Seriously?  I work all day and I can’t even take a load off for some prime time TV?  Or one hockey game?  I don’t know about this one.  How can sitting still for 2 hours cost you one quarter of that time off your life?  And what about sitting at a desk for 8 hours a day?  Man, I am so screwed.

-30 min – Eating one portion of red meat.  Per what?  Every time?  I never saw that disclaimer on my Wendy’s bacon double cheeseburger.  I guess I’m going to have to hold onto the notion of “quality of life,” because if I can’t eat a bacon cheeseburger, why go on?

-2 hours – Just for being male.  Now they’re just being spiteful.  Since they already dock me for watching TV, drinking and eating meat, isn’t that double-dipping?

-5 hours – Smoking one pack of cigarettes.  Finally!  I vice I don’t have to worry about!

OK, some more quick calculations, and voila, it looks like my number will be up… some time next week.  It’ll be a shame to miss the Pittsburgh trip in April.  At least now if you see an absence of blog updates, you’ll know what happened.

You know, I do worry about what would happen to my blog if I were to snuff it.  I mean, how would you know?  How many of us have blogs listed in our blogrolls that stop getting updated?  I know after a couple of months of inactivity, I usually delete them.  What if the blogger died?   Deleting their blog from the blogroll would be like adding insult to injury.

What I ought to do is leave detailed instructions for Pinky on how to update my blog, should I unexpectedly shuffle off this mortal coil.  In fact, I could probably prepare a draft… a Last Blog and Testament, if you will.

I would feel terrible if I kicked it and you didn’t know what happened.  I mean, I can’t count on any nationwide news coverage of my passing, unless something snaps and I take a Bushmaster rifle down to the Ratbird stadium.  Or repeatedly run over some schmo who doesn’t use his turn signal.  So the only way to blog my death would be to set it up in advance.

Maybe I can do some sort of check-box system, or fill-in-the-blanks.  Leave it to me to turn my expiration into a series of Mad-Libs.

Anyway, if this blog ever goes inactive, I think you can just assume I died.  Because otherwise, you know I’d update you on whatever was going on.

“Hi guys.  Just wanted to let you know I got hit by the Ravens’ team bus yesterday.  I’m pretty sure it was because I was wearing a Steelers jacket and hat.  In retrospect, I probably shouldn’t have stood in the road, flipping them off. 

In my absence, I’d appreciate it if you would vote democratic, give to Planned Parenthood, and every so often, make fun of Cassie for being both Super Mom and a snot-nosed kid.  I’ll miss you all.  Gotta go now… I see this light and I feel like I should go check it out.

No wait, never mind… it’s just the operating room light.  Why can’t they just let me rest in peace?”

Found it.

Director’s DVD Commentary: My last post was about my angst over watching the Ratbirds win the Super Bowl last weekend.  Even if you've seen it, you should check back to see the comment from Misty, one of the few Baltimoreans that reads this site.  It’s worth the trip.

Ratbird Apocalypse

As I’m sure you know by now, the worst has happened.  The Ratbirds won the Super Bowl.  It’s appropriate that it happened the day after Groundhog Day, because now I have to look forward to six more weeks of gloating.  The terrorists have won.

I came in to work yesterday going full-on Johnny Cash; I was the Man in Black… black tee shirt, dress shirt, slacks, shoes, coat, hat and soul.  When I ducked into my boss’s office to grumble, she said, “You mean you’re not happy for us?”

I just gestured toward my outfit and said, “I was going to wear the full black veil, but I thought it might be a bit much.”

On my walk past the hotel I pass every day, the Bellman stood out in front of me. He’s seen me walk by him a couple hundred times in a Steelers hat, so he said, “I want to see what hat you have on today…” 

I just kept moving and said, “It’s hockey season now, baby.”  He should have been paying better attention… I’ve been wearing Pens hats ever since January.

Now today, to show I’m slowly moving on, I’m wearing a black and gray checked shirt with gray pants.  Tomorrow, I should be back to my usual living color.

They had the parade this afternoon, marching down to the Inner Harbor and then over to the stadium.  Pinky had been making noises about wanting to come down to see it.  She wanted to know if I might want to go with her.

Seriously, sometimes it’s like she doesn’t even know me.  Sorry, while I’d be happy to take her out to lunch afterward, she’d be on her own for this one.  I couldn’t think of anywhere I’d less like to be than standing out in the cold, surrounded by a hundred thousand Ratbird fans, watching them celebrate.

She decided this morning not to go, (which I knew she would), so I was off the hook.  I mean, I totally wasn’t going to go, but now I don’t have to hear about it the next time she gets pissed at me.

At least the Baltimore economy is getting a little boost.  Unlicensed merch sales must be through the roof by now.  I saw a guy this morning selling $10 Championship tee shirts outside the subway entrance.  Nice hustle.  I’m in the market for a nice Ravens doormat.  That way, I can wipe my feet on it every night.

A couple of people have asked me why I hate the Ratbirds so much.  I suppose I take it for granted that you already know.  But to be fair, I wrote about it some time ago and I’ve picked up a couple of new readers since then.

I first documented my Rattie antipathy in 2009, by reposting something I’d actually written a few years before that.  Like I always tell people, my hostility is not arbitrary; I have numerous very specific and personal reasons.  “Purple Stain” covers every reason I can’t stand the Ratbirds, from their history in Cleveland, to punk players, a doofus owner, bush league stadium tactics, idiot fans, and a general refusal to accept responsibility for any shortcomings, on the field or off.

Then there was the time I was physically assaulted in their stadium; cheap-shotted by some sore loser.  And I certainly wasn’t the first.  I did a post where I told my story, plus those of some other people that had written to the Baltimore Sun, to tell of the abuse they faced in that giant purple toilet.

Listening to the local media this week almost made me hurl.  It was funny because before the game was even over, I could see the Rattie fans and local media lining up their excuses, namely the blackout that delayed the game by a half hour.  Right now, they claim it would have been a blowout, if it wasn’t for that delay. 

They keep citing “momentum” as if that’s some kind of measurable resource, and that San Francisco had the chance to “regroup.”  They ignore that they just came out of halftime.  Any “regrouping” the Niners did came during the elongated halftime show.  But no one wants to hear that.

Also, it’s laughable how the fans and sportscasters are falling all over themselves to discount what should have been an Illegal Contact call during the Niners’ last possession.  The company line is that A) the receiver initiated contact and B) for some reason, the refs aren’t supposed to call penalties at the end of the Super Bowl.  (???)  And I’m not even talking about the fan base… I heard the local sportscasters saying that this morning… the guys that are supposed to know better.

All I can tell you is that if the situation was reversed, and the Ravens were attempting a game-winning drive and were thwarted by uncalled illegal contact, they’d be screaming bloody murder.

“It’s a fix!  The league doesn’t want us to win!  Goodell told the refs not to make the calls!  We were robbed!  We’re the rightful champions!  No one beat us but the refs!”

And on and on.  You think I’m kidding, but that’s a stone cold fact.  That was exactly the local angle every time the Rats lost to the Steelers in the playoffs.

Anyway, I’m trying to see things in a positive light.  Joe Flacco, their quarterback who was named Super Bowl MVP, is a free agent this year.  The dude is going to get paid.  And when you load up $100 million on one guy, you have so much less to spend on the rest of the team.  So I’m thinking that they are going to have to let some of their guys walk.  They can’t re-sign everybody.  Such is the downside of winning it all.  It’s a bitch to repeat.

Best of all, I never have to watch Ray Lewis play again.

Ray Lewis, under a sign that says it all.

Sigh.  So I just tell people, “Win four more, and THEN we can talk.”

In the meantime, it’s hockey season!  My Penguins are in 1^st place in their division and within a point of 1^st place overall. 

Everyone else around here can go puck themselves.

Super Musings

Here we are on Super Sunday, as I await The Big Game between the hated hometown Ratbirds and the might-win-more-Super-Bowls-than-us 49ers.  Luckily, the Penguins are playing at 12:30, on national television, so that will occupy my time for a while.  But before that comes on, I wanted to tell you about some mildly-Super-Bowl-related goings on.

I am the Fleet Manager for my company and part of my job is to take care of the pool car that our company president uses.  Last Friday, when I was home sick, I got a message from the president’s admin that the car’s tires needed to be serviced.  She wanted me to take the car in on Monday, but I was working from home that day.

I ended up taking care of it on Tuesday and I realized it worked out for the better that way.  In order to get to the shop we use, I have to drive right by the Inner Harbor.  Turned out that on Monday, they were having a big public send-off for the Ratbirds at the Inner Harbor, complete with local governmental officials, news crews and the entire team.  It would have been a complete CF to try to drive through the area Monday morning, and that led to the following email exchange with the admin.

Bluz: Good thing I wasn’t here Monday… the Harbor area would have been a huge mess… over-run with enthusiastic Ravens fans.  Would have taken me all morning just to get to the shop.

Admin: That’s right!  And you probably would have been kidnapped by the Ravens! 

Bluz: My plan would have been not to slow down below 40 mph.  I’d dare them to get in my way.

Admin: Squished birds all over the highway.

Bluz: DERANGED FLEET MANAGER PLOWS INTO RAVENS’ TEAM BUS

Baltimore: Purple mixed with red Monday morning, as the love affair between the Ravens and their city was interrupted by bloodshed, when a local man drove a leased Chevrolet Impala into the team bus as it departed for the airport.  The driver was taken to Shock Trauma with minor injuries, and was heard to repeat the mantra, “Ray Ray must pay,” over and over again.

Admin: Even though I’m a Ravens fan, I have to admit this is hysterical.

Bluz: It’s my calling… the by-product of journalism classes mixed with a bad attitude.

In other office news, my department had a Ravens Wing Party on Friday.  I think I surprised them by asking to attend (and paying into the party fund).  Obviously, I don’t want the Ravens to win, but hey… Wings!  I’m in.

When they asked me about it, I just said, “Well, it’s a team event, and I’m part of the team.  And I’m sure that if it was the Steelers in the Super Bowl, you’d be throwing a Wing Party for me!”  [Snork!]

Yeah, that went over well.

The NFL announced the next inductees into the Pro Football Hall of Fame last night, and to me, there were mixed results.   Steeler running back Jerome Bettis was passed over for the 2^nd time, which bothered me greatly.  This is a guy that retired as the 5^th leading rusher in the history of the league, and the only one that could be considered a “big back.”

In the definitive Bettis play, The Bus steamrolls the Bears’ Brian Urlacher in the snow.

I realize that for Jerome to have made the Hall this year, someone else would have had to come off the list.  I would have removed Warren Sapp, who was in his first year of eligibility.  I never thought he was all that.  The Steelers’ Alan Faneca owned his ass.

But on the bright side, Ratbird owner and traitor Art Modell didn’t make it.  Personally, I don’t see where he’s qualified for the Hall at all.  Aside from moving his team out of a city that adored it, he was just a lousy businessman.  Here’s a guy that got the mother of all sweetheart deals when he came to Baltimore… Brand new stadium, built at taxpayer expense… essentially free use of a state-of-the-art practice facility… and he STILL had to sell out to someone else, just to keep the team going.  He couldn’t even leave the team to his sons.  How is that indicative of a Hall of Fame owner?

The Ravens’ left tackle Jonathan Ogden also made the Hall and I have absolutely no quibble with that.  The guy was 6’9”, 350 lbs, and absolutely sealed off the left side throughout his entire career.  I bet Joey Porter still has nightmares about going up against the guy.

So, my plans for the day are pretty simple… Penguins at 12:30, then I’ll fiddle about for a couple of hours… I’m not looking forward to all the pre-game Ratbird-centric hoopla.  The game starts at what, 6:30?  I’ll be live-tweeting the game, so do keep your tablet handy.  I’ll try to be entertaining or at least informative.  To join the party, follow me at @DarwinfishBluz.

Go Niners!