I Am Prepared to Give Up at Any Time

2011-12-03T18:53:00.000-08:00

Jesus, I suck at this. Here's all I got.

The day before Thanksgiving break, I chatted with a few co-workers about their Thanksgiving plans. When they asked about my plans, I shared with them that I'd be taking Wednesday afternoon off from work so that I could clean up after Hank and Daisy's epic pie-making effort, which would undoubtedly cover the entire kitchen with flour. I phrased it unfortunately.

Me: Well, I think I'll be spending the afternoon deflouring the countertops.

Confused Coworker: Deflowering your countertops? Uhhhhhhh, I don't think you know what that word means.

Me: What?.... Oh, no! Jesus, I am NOT going to be having sex with the countertops!

I am not respected at my job.

2011-11-06T07:54:00.000-08:00

Not long after the recent tsunami in Japan, which subsequently caused the Fukushima nuclear plant to leak radiation, I was contemplating the practice of renaming city streets after famous people. Renaming a street causes all sorts of logistical havoc, so I was wondering what other ways we honor accomplished individuals. This eventually led to a family discussion where we named all the rooms in our house after famous people who are in some way related to the activities in that room.

The kitchen? The Alton Brown Kitchen

Upstairs bathroom? The Albert Pujols Bathroom

Master bedroom? The John Scalzi and Nina Totenberg Room

And because the toilet in the downstairs bathroom has a penchant for overflowing (which caused the great Poonami of 2011), we named that room Fukushima. Obviously we need a new toilet, which is why I found Hank browsing toilet web pages yesterday, which led to this perfectly normal conversation.

Hank: What makes this difficult is the Americans with Disabilities Act. The ADA compliant toilets are taller and I've talked to too many people who remodeled their bathroom, put in one of these ADA toilets and then ended up with various bowel issues and hemorrhoids. It's just not natural for the body to poop while sitting so high up, right? So that limits which toilets...

Mike: Wait. You have discussions with lots of people where they tell you have they hemorrhoids?

Hank: Uh..., sure. It comes up. So, the number of toilets which will...

Mike: Talking about hemorrhoids "comes up"? I don't think I have EVER discussed hemorrhoids with someone and you've had many people mention it?

Hank: Yes, well, women talk about more things than men.

Mike: Like hemorrhoids.

Hank: Yes.

Mike: Ok, so these many people who talk about their bowel issues like hemorrhoids, then they all follow up with, "and it's because of those damn ADA toilets" This is a Thing?

Hank: Well, they don't say that in so many words, but I piece it together.

Mike: So, it goes like this. They say, "Hi, Hank, I have hemorrhoids" and then you say, "Cool. Hey, totally unrelated, have you recently remodeled part of your home and installed a toilet compliant with the Americans with Disabilities Act?"

Hank: Sort of, yes.

Mike: Wow. I have learned something very unusual about you and your hemorrhoidy friends.

Hank: Oh, you'd be surprised at the conspiracy theories I have.

It's kind of nice to have a little crazy in the marriage.

2011-11-05T20:28:00.000-07:00

After a long run one Saturday morning about two months ago, I noticed that my foot was aching. I rested it for a few days and then tried to run on it again. No dice. I pounded Advil for a few days, and rested for a week and tried to run again. No dice. Three more weeks passed and I tried to run again. Nope, still hurt.

So, after two months of not being able to run across the street without feeling pain, I finally visited a podiatrist.

Before I tell you about that visit, may I first ask why someone would become a podiatrist? Who wants to spend their whole life looking at damaged and diseased feet? Podiatry school takes four years, which is the same length as medical school. So, with three or four years of graduate school one could become a doctor, or a lawyer or.... a podiatrist? Crikey, if I'm going to spend that long in school I had better come out of it with a degree in astronautology or maybe richguyicine instead of a being a foot doctor. Is it that podiatrists want to help people but only if it doesn't involve creepy body parts like elbows or ears? Just bizarre.

Anyway, two things were interesting about my visit. First was that we chatted about my foot pain for a few minutes and the doc said, "Ok, I think I know what's going on, but let's take a look at how you walk first." Before I hopped out of the chair, I mentioned the fact that my foot hurt quite a bit first thing in the morning.

"Oh, right after you wake up? That's quite significant!" he said, looking at me and nodding.

Seriously? This fact that I barely remembered to mention was key to the diagnosis? Were you about to diagnose foot cancer and recommend amputation when all of a sudden I rocked your world with this morning fact? Maybe you could have asked?

I often mock the term "computer science" as being completely unscientific, but moments like this make me want to retract the science term from "medical science" too.

The second interesting thing about my visit was what happened after I showed the "doc" how I walked. He was stunned, flummoxed even. It was as though the field of podiatry had not yet invented the vocabulary to describe how I walked.

"Wow, your gait is very.... uh.... well... " and then he kind of trailed off, mumbling something about "rotational" and "pronate" but ultimately rallied with a conclusion of, "Your gait is atypical!"

This is not the first time I've heard this. When I went to a high-end running shoe store a few years ago and showed them how I run, the employee was stumped. He ultimately concluded that I had several opposing flaws in my gait and that no modern shoe could address them all, so it was best to just buy something comfy. Similarly, when my running club held a biomechanics clinic, my coach all but forbid me from attending, explaining that it was only for people with fixable problems.

So the phrase "atypical gait" was what the doc kept returning to. "Well, it was just a matter of time with that atypical gait" and "You're lucky that you didn't suffer more injuries with that atypical gait" were what he kept saying over and over. At the end, when he was writing out my prescription for an anti-inflammatory (because tendonitis appears to be what was actually causing my pain), he had to pause for a moment, chuckle to himself, and say, "And, of course, there's your atypical gait." It was as though he was anticipating being the center of attention at the bar that night while describing my walking style to all his podiatrist buddies. Oh to be a fly on the wall at that gathering.

Well, it appears that the streets of San Francisco are safe from the sight of my unseemly running style for a few more weeks yet. Enjoy while you can, fellow San Franciscans, for I well terrorize you with my atypical gait soon enough!

2011-09-26T20:41:00.000-07:00

Here's what I knew about parenting going in:

1) There would be a period of years where I had to wipe someone else's ass for them.

2) Teenagers suck.

I knew there would be a bunch of stuff in the middle, but I figured that part was unknowable. I mean, the rearing you do for a kid who ends up being an accountant is probably different than the rearing you'd do for a kid who ends up being Charlie Sheen. What I've learned, however, is that in between phases 1 and 2 from above, there is a multi-year phase that all binds almost all parents together.

I refer, of course, to the lice years.

Ever since Daisy started school, we've received announcements several times a year warning us of the latest lice outbreak. It's apparent, at least in big cities, that lice never goes away, it just moves around from one gaggle of children to another. The cycle takes just long enough to make you think that maybe you're finally past that phase of parenting. It visits Daisy's school a couple times a year.

We always check in with Daisy when we hear these announcements to see if her scalp is itchy. Usually it isn't, and we figure we're safe. This last time, however, she felt itchy. Very itchy.

"Oh no," said Hank, "I feel itchy too."

This was not what I wanted to hear. I scratched my head in thought and... Dammit! I was itchy too! Argh! I made a mental note to never touch my child again.

I don't know if you've ever checked another human being for lice, but it is a time-consuming, frustrating, and generally ooky-feeling activity. It makes me feel incompetent and dirty (but not in the same way that sex makes me feel incompetent and dirty).

So, last week we paid to have someone come to our house and check us for lice! Like we're apes with money instead of a social group! I'm so proud.

Turns out, we're lice-free! Daisy's new shampoo probably makes her itchy, while Hank and I probably suffer from psychosomatic itchiness. Man, even just thinking about that lice makes me itchy RIGHT now. Don't you feel itchy thinking about your scalp crawling with lice? Contemplate that for a moment.

Nobody ever thinks about this part of parenting when they're putting their penis in their wife's vagina. Imagine how many fewer children there would be if people had to read this blog post before having sex! My blog is the ultimate birth control. You are welcome.

2011-09-21T21:38:00.000-07:00

Hank and I walked into the movie theater lobby and noticed the enormous line at the ticket window. Thankfully we had bought our tickets online, so we sashayed over to the ticket machine (because the ladies love it when I sashay), I swiped my credit card, and we grabbed our tickets.

"You guys getting a refund from that machine?" one of the guys in line asked

"Refund? No, we just bought our tickets. Is that line for refunds?!?" I replied, a bit confused

"Yeah! Did you notice the fire alarm going off?" he asked, gesturing to the flashing lights. "The theaters all got evacuated."

I blinked at him a few times. I looked down at the tickets I had just received. I turned to Hank.

"This is the first movie we've made it out to see in forever. This theater is NOT on fire. Let's go see our movie."

We strode across the lobby (an evacuation is no time to sashay) and got to the escalator leading to the upper floors where the theaters and concession stands are. A security guard stood at the top of the escalator. I turned to Hank again.

"Well, they didn't turn the escalator off. I guess it's ok to head on up to our movie," I suggested, grabbing Hank's hand and leading us onto the Up escalator.

The security guard's eyes bugged out of his head and he made a u-turn gesture with his hand, implying that we should somehow turn this thing around. We continued riding up to the top.

"What are you doing?!?!" he asked, "The theater is being evacuated!"

"It doesn't really seem like the building is on fire. I figured they'd turn off the alarm soon," I stated, willing it to be true.

He sternly suggested that we go back downstairs and leave the building. So, we rode the Down escalator as he searched for the button to turn off the Up escalator. We then waited back on the lobby floor, as the security guard made shooing motions towards us.

About 60 seconds later a bunch of firefighters exited the upstairs theaters and came down the escalator. The security guard rummaged around a bit and turned the Up escalator back on. Apparently the fire alarm was over. So, Hank and I rode the escalator back up, followed by a horde of other moviegoers.

We made our way to the concession stand and were first in line. And we waited. And we waited.

Whatever employee had been assigned to this stand was no longer around. All I really wanted was some Junior Mints and a water. We waited a bit more.

"This is a stupid amount of time to wait for Junior Mints and water," I declared, looking around for a solution to the problem. The cases holding the bottled water were all locked, but the swinging gate leading to the employee side of the concession counter was open.

So, I went through the gate and magically appeared on the other side of counter.

(Note, when I was telling this story to my rule-following daughter the following morning, when I got to this part, she dropped her head into her hands and muttered, "This did NOT happen". Apparently she has inherited her desire to make things true by saying them from me.)

"Ok, where are the Junior Mints?" I exclaimed, rubbing my hands together in excitement at my new career.

A woman on the sucker-side of the counter pushed forward to the front of the line.

"Can I PLEASE get a diet coke?" she begged, grabbing a cup from the stack and handing it to me.

I filled up the cup and then belatedly asked if she wanted ice. Turns out, I was still learning the job. She didn't want ice, so I handed her the cup, issuing my first comped drink of the day. I figured as the sole concessionaire, that sort of thing was at my discretion.

Now it was Junior Mint time. Those buggers cost $4.25, so I slapped down a $5 bill and retrieved the mints from the candy counter. I was still stymied by the locked cabinets with the bottled water, so I decided to just get some Sprite instead. I filled up a cup and left another $5.00 on the counter, overpaying for this drink which I didn't really want anyway.

It was right about then that an actual theater employee walked up.

"SIR! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" she asked, somewhat alarmed at finding me serving up snacks.

So, I told her.

"Well, I wanted some Junior Mints and water, but you guys locked up all the water so I had to get a Sprite instead. I left $10.00 here on the counter," I said, pointing at the money, "but really I'd prefer to get a bottled water. Would you mind fetching the water and getting my change?"

This was maybe the smartest thing I have ever said in my life. This is kind of like when a dog starts viciously barking at you, and you stand your ground and yell, "SIT!". Hearing a command out of context like that will sometimes reset the dog. It worked the same way with the theater lady. She promptly fetched the water and gave me my change.

"Thanks!" I said

And, as I exited back through the swinging gate, to the land of customers, several people in line broke out in applause as the theater employee simultaneously called for security to come to the concession stand.

Hank and I quickly snuck into our theater, sashaying all the way.

And Cowboys and Aliens was kind of weak, but I had a great time.

*update* Here's a pic Hank took me fetching the Junior Mints

2011-09-05T13:58:00.000-07:00

There are moments in your life when the ground underneath you shifts a bit. Maybe one of those moments was when you got your first job and felt a little more grown-up. Maybe another was the first time you got dumped and discovered a canyon of pain you never knew existed.

One of those moments happened to me last month. It was shortly after the VP of Marketing at my job sent out an email that said something to the effect of: "Next Wednesday will be our first monthly themed dress-up day. For the first one, everyone is encouraged to dress up as one of our company founders!"

Eep. Dress-up day. When I see "morale boosters" like this, I think of one of two things:

1) When Marge on the Simpsons got a job at the nuclear power plant and suggested that they do a "Funny Hat Day."

2) Flair from the movie "Office Space"

Terrible, just terrible. Trying to boost morale this way at a tech company is like trying to boost morale at a McDonalds by telling employees that you're doubling the amount of RAM in the cash registers. It's just the wrong approach for that audience.

The most terrible part of this, however, was the realization that since I'm now a manager, rather than getting to sit in the back of the classroom preparing my spitballs of mock, I needed to support this bucket of lame. Oh, how the snarky have fallen.

So, I managered-up and came to work that day festooned with a hastily-grown goatee and the cheapest and least blurrying eyeglasses I could find at the drugstore. I then spent much of that day explaining to my apparently unobservant co-workers that, no, I don't normally have a goatee, and no, I don't really need glasses.

"Are you sure you don't need glasses?" one woman asked.

"I'm sure," I sighed, launching into my well-worn speech about how the only good sense I have is my sense of vision blah blah blah.

"If you don't need glasses, then why do you hold your iPhone like this whenever you look at it?" she asked, holding her phone at arm's length as though she were an old person looking at a tiny, blurry, and unnecessarily new-fangled gadget.

That question stopped me dead in my tracks. I didn't hold my phone that way. Why would I? My vision is great. Someone was projecting.

The next morning, as I was making breakfast for Daisy, I stared at the comically teeny print on the sticker on the plum. Why did they make it so tiny? The print reminded me of how over the last few years the font on medicine bottles has become ridiculously small. I shook my head at the idiocy of people who make labels and their battle to out-small each other.

I paused during this hilarious internal monologue and walked over to my backpack where I had thrown my costume from the previous day. I grabbed the eyeglasses and peered at the plum again. Crystal clear this time.

Dammit! I need glasses! I'm oldening!

Stupid dress up day. Stupid passage of time. Stupid 3-point fonts.

Next theme dress-up event? Dress like a pirate day. Can't wait to find out that a peg leg works better than my real legs.

2011-07-24T20:11:00.000-07:00

Hank: So, what do you think you'll do for your mid-life crisis?
Me: I'm not sure. What am I allowed to do?
Hank: How about a nice fast sports car?
Me: Eh, I don't drive much. Plus, that sounds expensive. What else you got?
Hank: Ummm, maybe some inappropriate hugs with your friends?
Me: Did you say "hugs"?
Hank: Yes, with your guy friends.
Me: Uh, no. How about something with hookers?
Hank: You are NOT allowed to be alone with hookers.
Me: How many hookers do I have to surround myself with before we're not "alone"?
Hank: Let me rephrase. You may only be in the company of hookers in a public place.
Me: Like a sex club?

Hank stared at me, calculating.

Hank: Yes.... like a sex club.
Me: So, I'm allowed to go to a sex club with hookers?

She snorted.

Hank: Sure. Go for it.
Me: You know that they have sex in sex clubs, right?
Hank: I know THEY do, but you? You'd last about five minutes in there before running out the door.

So, I guess that's my mid-life crisis plan, then. Maybe I should have gone for the sports car.

2011-07-02T20:07:00.000-07:00

I've been a professional programmer for over 20 years. The languages have changed, the techniques have changes, the computers have changed, and the buzzwords have changed. The only common thread is that I've always been programming and never doing anything hokey like "managing" (whatever the hell that means).

I've been at my new company for about 8 months now. After about 2 months there, my boss took me aside:

Boss: With all the growth we've experienced, we're reorganizing our engineering group. We'd like for you to be a manager here. Does that sound like something you'd like to do?

Me: Oh, good god, no. That would be a train-wreck.

She skulked away and the status quo remained for a few more months until she quit and her boss came to me.

New Boss: I know that you said previously that you didn't want to manage people, but I want you to know that that option is still available. I think you'd do a good job at it. Have you considered it?

Astonishingly, I had been considering it. I'd spent a good portion of those months interviewing people in their 20s for our open developer positions and was wondering if perhaps programming was a job best suited for people decades younger than me. I answered her with words I thought would never come out of my mouth.

Me: Yes, I am seriously considering it. Maybe I should be a manager.

So, I talked to a few other managers, lost a lot of sleep, watched as my stomach slowly seized up into a tight little knot, and eventually decided to take the plunge. I chatted with her again after a meeting.

New Boss: So, have you come to a decision?
Me: I have, but first I need to confirm something. This meeting we just had, it's one that you organized but frankly I should have organized it months ago. It's shameful and embarrassing that I didn't have the planning and organizational skills to do this myself. Am I really the guy you want managing engineers?
New Boss: Yes.
Me: Have you seen my resume? It's Programmer This and Data Wrangler That. There is NOTHING in there that would indicate that I should be a manager. What on earth makes you think I can do this?
New Boss: Mike, I'm confident that the areas where you might be inexperienced are areas where I can help you and fill in. The areas where you're strong are the areas that I need the most help.

And so it was done. I was managing 3 other engineers. I demonstrated my skills to my new boss with conversations like this:

New Boss: So, how was that status meeting? Was it useful?
Me: Yeah, lots of good information. I wrote down some notes so that I can pass on the info to my engineer, Kevin.
New Boss: Don't worry about that. I'll be covering this with Kevin myself.
Me: But, but, I'm supposed to have weekly check-in meetings with each of my engineers. This was going to be what I talked about.
New Boss: These weekly check-in meetings are for you to find out how they're doing. Just talk to them about how they're feeling.
Me: Feeling? That's ridiculous. I can't spend 30 minutes doing that. I need to filibuster to fill time!

After a few months of that, another manager in the organization left. New Boss asked me to take on his engineers as well as a few other engineers we had picked up in an acquisition. That gave me about 10 people to manage. I plugged away at it with my usual wide-eyed fear and ineptitude. This week I sat down with New Boss for my first review.

New Boss: You've done several things very well. People like working with you and I think you have good instincts about how to treat people. However, although people appreciate your self-deprecating sense of humor, I think as a manager you need to show a little more confidence. I need you to be a leader and convey to the people around you that you know what you're doing. If someone asks you a question you don't know how to answer, it is ok to say, "Let me get back to you on that" but....
Me: But I shouldn't say, "Oh, I'm a total idiot about that sort of thing!"
New Boss: Exactly! Don't say that any more.
Me: So, all you need me to do is change the person that I've been for the last 43 years?
New Boss: I thought this might be a tricky issue for you.

So, uh, this should be amusing. Train, meet wreck.

2011-05-22T16:19:00.000-07:00

There's a mirror in our dining room right across from the chair I normally sit in. It's been there for years, so it wasn't very unusual that I was able to see myself during lunch yesterday.

I took a bite of chicken and caught a glimpse of myself chewing in the mirror. I noticed that my jaw wasn't going straight up and down, but made a slight circular motion as I chewed. I had never seen anything quite like it. Well, that's not exactly true, it was vaguely reminiscent of a cow chewing its cud.

"Oh my god!" I blurted out to Hank and Daisy, "Look how weird I'm chewing!"

"Yeah? So?" asked Hank

"Have I ALWAYS chewed this way? Like a cow??" I asked incredulously.

"Yes. That's just the way you chew," she answered very matter-of-factly, as though it was perfectly normal to be married to a ruminant. Daisy nodded in agreement.

Note that I've been living in this body for more than 43 years now. Although I'm not the world's most observant guy, I've spent a fair percentage of that time cataloguing my flaws from head to Frankentoe. It is unfathomable to me that I've never noticed that I chew like a cow.

"And you never thought to mention this to me?! You never thought to say, 'Hey, Mike, you chew in weird circles' ?"

"Well, really, it's a effective way for the teeth to grind up food," Hank offered helpfully.

"YES, IF YOU'RE A COW CHEWING GRASS! Let me watch you guys chew!" I demanded.

Hank and Daisy then each demonstrated their chewing technique. They chewed like humans.

"My god," I moaned, "I can't believe you never mentioned this. Personally, I cherish each one of your flaws that I notice, knowing that I can lord them over you."

Hank stared at me.

"Also, you walk like a girl and you throw like a sissy," she replied after a moment's hesitation.

"I... walk... like... a... girl. How exactly do I do that?"

"I don't know. Something about how your hips swish."

Godddddddaaaaaaammmmmmmn! Of course the most astonishing thing about this conversation was that it was probably my favorite part of my weekend.

2011-04-24T21:40:00.000-07:00

Daisy: I've got to work on a science project this weekend.
Me: Oh yeah? What about?
Daisy: Earthquakes.
Me: Cool! What's your project?
Daisy: I'm writing a song and making a music video.
Me: You're. Singing. And. Dancing. For..... Science? Are all the kids doing music videos?
Daisy: No, some of the other kids are doing essays or worksheet packets.

I was on the verge of launching into a diatribe about the quality of education in Daisy's school when I was struck by a vivid memory from my own high school years. I recall, after reading the Greek tragedy Antigone, being given the option to either write an essay or perform a musical. So, a week later I found myself crouching behind an overturned table with two of classmates, performing a sock-puppet lip-synching musical summarizing the plot of Antigone. It was superficial, insightless, and got an 'A'.

At some point during that year's Advanced Placement English class, my friends and I had learned that if you did something, anything really, that involved turning off the lights to present it, you'd magically get an 'A'. So, that year, in lieu of doing various essays, I filmed a short movie, made the aforementioned sock puppet musical, performed a satirical interpretive dance, and, yes, made a music video. We did anything we could to get out of writing essays because as easy as it was to get an 'A' on a bit of fluff during an interpretive dance, it was equally difficult to bluff your way through an actual essay. That teacher taught me more about writing during the few essays I couldn't avoid than anyone else has, before or since that class. (Obviously I've forgotten it all now, but just trust me that I knew how to write properly at one point.)

That teacher, Mr. Richard Friss, died last year. I dearly regret not letting him know what a valuable teacher he was to me. So, am I ok with Daisy doing a music video for science? I think I am.

For the record, here are her lyrics, which are to be sung to the tune of "I'm Looking Through You" by the Beatles. And, yes, Hank did help her a bit.

There is an earthquake.
Where do I go?
I feel the ground shake
And the lights are low.
Liquefaction
Is so my foe.
There is an earthquake.
Where do I go?

The magnitude of
a seven point five
Causes destruction
and the loss of life.
Tectonic plates
Are adrift.
The motion of magma
has caused this rift.

Why tell me why
do I smell gas right now?
I would love to know
just what do do and how.

A fallen plate has
Crashed to the floor.
I hope there are not
too many more.
Duck and cover
Is the way
To keep my head safe
On this bad day.

Why tell me why
do the faults act up?
I see the ripples
bounce around in my cup.

Mercalli Intensity
Is level nine.
The floor and walls are
out of line.
This terrible shaking
Is hurting my brain.
This building will fall
right out it's frame.

2011-04-10T21:05:00.000-07:00

Went with the family this afternoon to go see a community theater production of the musical "The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee".

I'm not a huge fan of musicals, but spelling bees are undeniably good theater. Plus, I still have vivid memories of my one spelling bee effort in 6th grade. I won our classroom bee (in a rather controversial contest) and was sent to the school-wide bee. I failed on the word "debrief" in the very first round, forgetting the classic "i before e" rule.

I'm pretty good about that rule now.

Anyway, we arrived at the theater this afternoon and picked up our tickets. As I stepped away from Will Call, a woman approached me with a clip board and asked if I would be willing to help out with the production. They needed one more male volunteer to be part of the show as one of the spelling bee participants. I agreed and Daisy jumped and and down with excitement.

The woman gave me a short biographical form to fill out and said that they'd call me down from the audience during the first act. Maybe I'd get asked to spell hard words or maybe easy ones, but all I really need to remember, she explained, was to make sure to ask for the definition of the word and for the judges to use the word in a sentence. If I could remember that, the rest would work out.

This was it. Spelling Bee 2.0! We took our seats and waited for the show to begin.

Sure enough, a few minutes into the show, the spelling bee administrator called down 4 "extra" participants, including yours truly. I hopped down to the stage and took my assigned position. I then spent the next few minutes on stage sucking at being an extra. I sat when I was supposed to stand, I was the only person on stage to clap at the end of each musical number, and I'm pretty sure I was grinning like an idiot.

Soon, however, I was asked to stand up and spell a word that sounded something like.... ottotansoarist

I blinked uncomprehendingly, not quite being able to make sense of the syllables.

"Uh, may I have the definition please?" I asked, mentally patting myself on the back for remembering this part.

"It refers to one who cuts their own hair," the actor playing the vice principal answered.

"Ummm, can you use the word in a sentence?" I queried, not really listening to anything they said.

The vice principal made some joke about how the people who got their hair cut in Sweeney Todd wished that they were ottotansoarists.

"Okayyy...." I said, stalling, "that's ottotansoarist?"

"OttotonsorIAList" he replied, carefully enunciating the syllables.

I began.

"O T T O..."

At this point I heard someone bust up in laughter that sounded suspiciously familiar. I stole a glance at the audience and saw Hank cracking up. I instantly realized my idiotic error.

"No!" I yelled, "It's A-U-T-O...T O N ...S O R... I...A....LIST!"

Too late, of course, and they rang the bell, and launched into song to send me back to my audience seat. I was, however, handed a complimentary juicebox.

Turns out, there are roughly zero words in English that begin with "OTTO" (excluding proper nouns). However, how many words start with "AUTO" and refer to doing something yourself? Um, that would be hundreds. Nice work, Mike.

Jesusbeekeepingchrist! I'm 0 for 2 at spelling bees! And not much better at musicals!

2011-04-02T15:49:00.000-07:00

I don't remember when I started besting my father. I don't recall when I became a faster runner or when my Scrabble skills eclipsed his. Sometimes it doesn't come down to one particular moment.

Sometimes it does though.

Larry: Ok, Daisy, let's hear it.
Daisy: Ok! 3.14159 26535 8979 3238 46264 33832 7950 2884 1971 693993 7510.... Dad, that's as far as you know it, right?
Me: Grrrrr. Yes.
Daisy: .... 5820!

Stupid kids.

2011-03-29T21:03:00.000-07:00

Daisy will turn 12 this summer, which means that teenagerhood is right around the corner.

I see foreshadowing of this event all around her. Daisy's middle school is filled with kids who seem as physically developed as they are emotionally incomprehensible and many of Daisy's friends like to spend time gossiping about boys they have crushes on. I realize that the near future will be filled with days of sullen withdrawals punctuated by random emotional outbursts.

For now, however, the skies are clear and puberty-free.

Daisy was on spring break this week, so I took her to the office for a day of cheap childcare. She spent the day politely greeting and charming my co-workers. She was quiet and friendly and self-entertaining. I don't think anyone has ever brought their kid into this office before, so Daisy set the bar fairly high.

The best part of the day was when we were at the train station a few minutes early. I asked Daisy if she wanted to take a little stroll while we waited for the train to arrive.

"No," she answered, "I think I'd rather dance."

So, she asked me to watch her backpack for her, found an open spot on the train platform, and began to dance.

"Are you practicing one of the numbers from your last show?" I asked?

"No, just choreographing some new ones," she answered while listening to the music in her head.

Spin. Slide step. Arm extensions.

This kid has earned her right to some sullenness.

2011-03-20T17:17:00.000-07:00

The wife and I headed downtown last night for a date night. The plan was to grab a quick drink and then go see a movie. As we were walking down 4th St. I heard a woman behind me scream "Stop him! He robbed me!"

I looked around and spotted some guy, maybe 18 years old, running down the street. One or two guys were giving chase and they were following the robber as he zig-zagged across the street. I turned to Hank.

"Should I go after him?" I asked her.

"Do you think you can catch him?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe," I said, contemplating the robber's rate of speed.

(Note that this dialogue, which was taking place as the robber was escaping down the block, reminded me a lot of a conversation we had had earlier in the day. Hank had just run out of the bathroom exclaiming that the toilet was overflowing.

Me: What?
Hank: The toilet is overflowing!
Me: Seriously? Overflowing?
Hank: Yes!
Me: Are you wearing shoes?
Hank: No!

This dialogue, which was taking place as poo-water was seeping across our floor, should have instead been replaced by jumping into action. There's a time for deliberate and measured data collection and then there's a time to just turn off the damn water supply. The great Poonami of 2011 would have been better served by quick action than repeated confirmations of the need for quick action.

Ditto for the pursuing of the purse snatcher.)

"Ok, go!" exclaimed Hank and I took off.

The robber immediately realized that he was being pursued by several people at this point so he dropped the purse and cut down a side street. I kept running after him. Turns out, he was in terrible shape and I caught up to him very quickly

Note that I go running a couple times a week to stay in shape. I don't really care for running, it being one of the least pleasant forms of exercise, but I do it because it's an efficient form of exercise. THIS, however, this chasing of a purse-snatcher, was something different.

This was the kind of running you did as a kid, chasing your friend around the backyard. This was a dog running after a car. What is the dog planning to do when he catches the car? Well, the dog probably hasn't thought that far ahead, but you can't go wrong with some barking.

I had planned equally far ahead, so I did some barking too.

"Dude!" I called out as the guy cut back and forth trying to stay away from me, "I run marathons! You are NOT going to outrun me!"

Trash talk was really all I had. What would I do if I caught the guy? I slowed down a bit.

The guy stopped running and looked to see if there was somewhere to go hide. Right around then the other good samaritan caught up and grabbed the robber. "YOU WAIT FOR POLICE!" he yelled.

The robber twisted and tried to get away just as some woman ran up.

"DON'T TOUCH MY BOYFRIEND!" she screamed and shoved the other good samaritan. I decided to not touch anyone, but just to get in the way, blocking the robber from going anywhere else. We did a little awkward dance while I considered yelling that he was under citizen's arrest. The robber took off again and I took off after him.

"You are in terrible shape!" I yelled as the robber slowed down to a walk and opened the door to Bloomingdales. I followed him in.

At this point he just started to briskly walk through the store, with me following closely behind, yelling to every salesperson I saw, "HEY! THIS GUY JUST STOLE A PURSE! GET SECURITY!"

I figured with me, a white guy, and the robber being black, and us being in the swankiest department store, that all the stereotypes were in my favor and store security would swoop down instantly. Turns out all we really got were disinterested glances from the store employees. Their laziness trumped their prejudice.

We power-walked through the length of the store, with me yelling the entire time and the robber muttering that I should just leave him alone. Then we kept it up through the mall, with me occasionally interrupting my calls for mall security to explain to the robber that if he was going to continue stealing purses, he was going to have to take up running or just get generally fitter.

We finally exited the mall, emerging out onto Market St.. At this point the robber spotted a group of teens, and ran through them yelling that I had been harassing him. Sensing injustice, they immediately came towards me and wanted to know why I was hassling the guy.

I explained that he had stolen a purse and that I was trying to stop him from running away, but right about then the guy disappeared into the crowd and I lost him. Game over.

I turned around, went back into the mall and found half a dozen mall cops surrounding the robber's girlfriend, who was thrashing around in protest. The woman whose purse was stolen was there, explaining the story.

Is anyone going to jail for this? Probably not. Was it foolish for me to corner some thief and just hope he wasn't violent? Probably.

Was it AWESOME?

Yes.

2011-03-13T12:08:00.000-07:00

I've organized a weekly happy hour night at work as a way to socialize a bit with some of my new co-workers. Usually about half a dozen people show up and we have a decent time.

A contractor joined our team a couple of weeks ago, and she's been very pleasant, so I planned to invite her along to happy hour last week. However, I knew a few people were going to be out of the office on that day, and I wanted to make sure that it didn't turn into just a two person outing, lest it look like I was asking her out on a date under the guise of "department happy hour". So, I confirmed that at least a couple other people were going before inviting her.

Turns out, har har, just about everyone else bailed out. By 5:15pm, with New Contractor Lady waiting for us to depart, I didn't have anyone else lined up. I employed my best Jedi mind-trick on Lee, our product manager, and commanded him to join us, gazing fiercely at him and pleading just a teeny bit. He reluctantly agreed.

So, it worked out. One more person showed up, and the four of us had a couple of beers. Hazzah!

I came home later that night and told Hank how I successfully avoided dating my new co-worker, thus saving our marriage.

Hank rolled her eyes deeply and thoroughly.

"Do you mean that you've never gone out for a beer or lunch with just one other female co-worker before?" she asked incredulously. "Not even just you and Liz?"

I thought about this for a moment.

"Hmm, I've definitely popped out for a coffee errand with Liz, but I don't recall ever having lunch just the two of us, or going out for drinks just the two of us. It might have occurred, but I don't recall."

At this point I marveled at the fitness of Hank's eye muscles. The rolling, which looked vigorous, showed no sign of letting up.

"I've gone out for lunch with my co-worker, Jackson, lots of times," she exclaimed. "Is that a date?"

Yes.

Ladies of the Internet, please form a line in the Comments section. I am now prepared to date you.

2011-03-08T21:15:00.000-08:00

Daisy, who is in 6th grade, goes to a public school here in San Francisco. Her school is one of the city's more desirable middle schools (which is probably an oxymoron if you've met many middle schoolers) and consequently has a demographic breakdown that looks like it came out of a diversity brochure.

The kids at Daisy's middle school put on a talent show last night. A few kids played instruments, some sang, a couple danced, but the most common act was poetry reading. What were most of these poems about? Death. Gangs. Violence. Abandonment.

Sandwiched between two such poems was my darling daughter singing and dancing her way through the entirely cheerful song "All Star" by Smash Mouth.

Although I was horrified to see that so many of my daughter's classmates have had lives touched by so much violence and sadness, I'm delighted that what my daughter chooses to share and perform is made entirely out of sunshine and smiles. Her incongruity is my delight.

2011-02-28T20:50:00.000-08:00

There's a classic question that's gets asked by people whose desire to ask clever questions outstrips their ability to think of clever questions: Which superpower would you rather have, invisiblity or the power to fly?

Your answer to the question allows those people, whose desire to put people into boxes oustrips their ability to construct an adequate number of irregularly shaped boxes, to classify you as a either as creepy person eager to prey upon the weaknesses of others, or maybe gay. I'm not actually sure of the psychology behind that part, but my desire to continue typing words outstrips my ability to think complex thoughts today. Anyway, my point is that there's a much better question to ask during the conversational lull between "What do you do for a living?" and "Hold my drink for a sec so I can show you my rash."

The question is: What superpowers do you have?

Not which ones do you want, but which ones do you currently possess? I don't mean to get all self-esteemy on you, but I firmly believe that (almost) all of us have some things that we do at a nearly supernatural level.

Here are my superpowers:

Crossing the Street: I am eerily good at crossing the street. While the rest of you are standing idly on the sidewalk, waiting for your color-coded idiot light to instruct you when it's safe to begin moving your legs again, I am already halfway down the block planning my assault on the next intersection. I cross the streets efficiently, safely, deftly, politely, and sometimes diagonally. I synthesize data from traffic light timing, vehicle speeds, and turn probabilities so elegantly that I am genuinely surprised that my efforts have not inspired onlookers to stop what they're doing and compose poetry in my honor.

Choosing From a Menu: I am really really good at picking what to eat in restaurants. Is the menu gigantic, listing foods of many cuisines? They'll suck at almost all of them so order something simple like a burger. Are items surprisingly cheap? Avoid the meat products. Is it a well-regarded restaurant that's serving a vegetable you've always hated? Now's the time to try it again! I will admit that I occasionally order the wrong thing, but I can almost always figure out what went wrong and determine if the restaurant is crappy or if I just need to order something else. Everyone's taste buds are different, so I can't necessarily order the best thing for you, but sometimes superpowers aren't aimed at the common good.

Picking a Line: Wondering which checkout line to get in at the supermarket? Watch and learn. First, spend a few seconds evaluating the choices. Sometimes a long line will go very quickly if a some of the people have very few items to buy. Avoid the lines containing the very old or the very lonely. Strongly consider the lines filled with people who look like they've mastered this exercise. At the grocery store, for example, I will gladly stand in a line filled with neatly dressed 40 year-old women sporting no-nonsense haircuts. They are checkout ninjas and will save you time. However, time, as we all know, is money. Money, of course, is the root of all evil. Thus, this particular superpower is well suited for supervillains, so use it wisely.

What are you superpowers?

2011-02-23T21:21:00.000-08:00

Last week Daisy attended her school's outdoor education program, which consists of shipping the kids off to the great outdoors for a few days of tromping through the woods while learning random facts about trees. (This week is also referred to as "Naked Parents" week.)

Unfortunately for Daisy, the four days while she was camping coincided with four days of horrendous rain. She came back with a cold that soon blossomed into a fever. Hank suspected strep throat so she carted Daisy off to the doctor yesterday to get it checked out.

As it turns out, Daisy sucks at going to the doctor. She's wary of every implement whether it's a flashlight for looking into her ear because "it tickles!", or a tongue depressor because "it causes ennui!"*. So it's fair to say that the throat-scraping required by a strep throat test wasn't going to go particularly well. To make matters worse, Daisy had had a gooey runny nose all day and by the time they arrived at the doctor's office her nose was tender and sore from all the blowing and wiping. The inevitable nose bleed kicked before they even made it to the examining room.

So, the doctor's visit did not go well. Hank informs me that it mostly consisted of the doctor gently trying to swab Daisy's throat, while Daisy cried, hemmed, sniffled, hawed, and bled. Eventually the doctor informed her that she HAD to do this and Daisy did her best to be brave and open wide.

The doc made a quick jab into the throat, Daisy gagged, and subsequently sprayed out a healthy dose of blood and snot. It was the snotty bloody strep throat version of a spit-take. By this time Daisy was completely bawling. In fact, she was still sobbing and bloody by the time Hank led her back through the waiting room. The 12 year-old boy quietly sitting there waiting for his turn, took one look at Daisy and burst into tears himself.

What kept Hank's spirits afloat through this? She knew that the next time Daisy had to go to the doctor, it would be my turn.

Oh, and Daisy is doing better now.

*Not an actual quote.

2011-02-15T20:31:00.000-08:00

My wife had a job interview today and I was eager to hear how it went.

Me: How did your interview go?

Hank: It went pretty well! I always enjoy talking about interesting subjects with smart people, so I enjoyed it.

Me: You ENJOYED your interview? Oh my god. For me, it's like a rectal exam. I'm frantically pulling chunks of bloody polyp out of my ass and throwing them on the table, yelling, "Is THIS what you want? IS IT?!?!?"

Hank: Wow. I think I know why you don't do well in interviews.

2011-02-09T21:16:00.000-08:00

While running the race this weekend, and while limping to my car afterwards, and still again for the next couple days noticing how sore I was, I contemplated the notion of "Runner's High". You have heard of this, yes? Did I experience this? Uh, no.

Ladies and gentlemen, I am here to tell you that Runner's High is not a real thing. Well, I mean I guess it's as real as "Hit Your Thumb With A Hammer's High" or "Bang Your Head Against Wall's High". I guarantee if you bang your head against a wall for 30 minutes and then stop, OH MAN are you ever gonna start to feel good. Oooh, baby, sooooo high!

I suspect that people who believe in Runner's High have never actually been high. For those who disagree, I've got an 1/8th ounce of oregano to sell you. It's a pretty sweet high.

2011-02-07T19:40:00.000-08:00

I ran in a race this weekend. I've been avoiding these things like the plague for the last couple years because I knew it was going to be depressing to cross the finish line significantly slower than I used to, but if I've learned anything from the last few months of my life, it's the value of lowered expectations

The race went ok, assuming that your definition of ok consists of exhausting yourself for 13.1 miles and then slowly walking 3 miles back to your car on tender feet while your quads seize up. Really the best part of the experience was the email I got afterwards from one of the organizers of my running club. She said that she had been watching the local news on TV this morning and saw footage of me "sprinting" towards the finish line. Unfortunately the footage was accompanying their story about a runner who collapsed and died just after crossing the finish line.

I'm saddened that a fellow runner died during this event, but I must admit that I think it's rather amusing that out of all the footage they must have gathered of people crossing the finish line, they used mine as an illustration of what someone looks like on the doorstep of death. I haven't seen the story yet, but I suspect the accompanying commentary sounded like this:

"Bob, the half marathon in San Francisco this weekend was marred by the death of a participant, who collapsed shortly after completing the 13.1 mile race. Here we see him staggering towards the finish line, obviously unwell."

"My god, Sue, that is gruesome footage. I can't believe spectators didn't pull him from the course as soon as they saw his running form."

"Such a shame. We can tell from his facial expression that he died in a simply ridiculous amount of pain."

Anyway, I guess considering that I didn't die, I'd call the race was a success.

(Update: I found the footage. Turns out, the story of a runner dying is not at all funny even accompanied by a couple seconds of me running. Nor was my guess at their commentary entirely accurate. You can see me on the right 40 seconds into the video on this page.)

2011-02-05T23:35:00.000-08:00

I stood at the desk, stuffing envelopes and making small talk with the public relations director of my daughter's performing arts program. I mentioned to him that I had had a job interview earlier that day. He asked how it went.

"Not bad but I was informed that I didn't dress correctly," I said, gesturing at my outfit which consisted of a short sleeve button-down shirt, jeans, and slightly scuffed shoes.

"You wore jeans to a job interview?" he asked incredulously, his eyes bugging slightly out of his head.

"Oh, the jeans weren't the problem," I explained. "The problem was that I wasn't wearing a t-shirt, let alone a hipster-friendly ironic one."

"Ah, a tech company," he said, understanding.

So, yeah, I interviewed again. Despite the fact that I've only been at this new job for a few months, Liz couldn't take any more of my moaning and groaning about my commute, so she set up an interview at her company which she likes very much. The only issue is that I've interviewed at this company before and was soundly rejected. Two of the three interviewers had asked me to write code on the whiteboard, an act which immediately drives all the blood out of my brain, and they subsequently labeled me an idiot.

Liz was not deterred, however. She found a new group at her company that was less aware of my idiocy. She held their arms behind their backs and twisted strongly until they cried and agreed that white-board coding was not a good way to evaluate programmers (a stance I don't really agree with). Whatever the hell she said to these people really put the fear of god in them.

The first guy discussed some touchy-feely topics with me and then delicately asked if we could just have an open-ended low-key technical discussed. The second interviewer asked me questions about my resume and then in the middle of the interview nervously blurted out, "I'm not going to ask you to write any code!". The final guy didn't even broach the topic of code, as though this dot-com did something else like bake cookies for money.

So, how did I do? Not sure, depends on how well I pulled off my human-being impression.

Afterwards I met with Liz and she appraised my tshirt-less appearance.

"Don't they have places to get your haircut near where you work now?" she asked, eyeballing my shaggy mane.

"Well, yes, there is a barber a block away, but that's the place where Ashton got his haircut and the creepy old barber pressed his testicles against him and then invited him into the back to drink rum.", I explained.

"Ah, so you're scared of the barber?" Liz asked

"No. I mean, I don't really want to feel old-man testicles on my arm, but what I really fear is NOT getting hit on. Ashton would give me endless crap if I was the one guy to go into this barber shop and not get hit on."

"And that's why you didn't get a hair cut?"

"Correct. I was worried that the molesty barber wouldn't molest me. I suppose it's vanity."

With razor sharp logic like this, it's really a wonder that I don't fare better in interviews.

2011-02-02T19:21:00.000-08:00

Hi dwindling readership!

I'm Mike! You may remember me from such blog posts as "Holy cow, I suck at parenting!" and "I have bathroom issues!"

I just wanted to let you all know that I'm still here. I'm not funny or bloggy any more, but I'm still here. It's just hard to blog when I get home from work depressed or angry from my new commute. It's really not a bad job, but I sit on the trains each day and try to figure out how exactly I ended up where I am.

I either need to make peace with this or move on.

Anyway, that's what I've been up to, not that it's much of an excuse. I'll be around more though.

XOXOXOX,
Mike

2010-12-24T15:27:00.000-08:00

We're in Vermont for Winter Present Tree Day this year visiting the in-laws.

Where in Vermont you ask? Nowhere. We're in Nowhere, Vermont.

Oh, ho, ho, I kid. There's no place in Vermont officially called "Nowhere" Why? Because it's just not specific enough. Everywhere in Vermont is nowhere.

Today we realized that we needed some more water in the house. My mother-in-law has a well or a lake or something that produces water, but nobody in the house drinks it except me, so we go through a lot of store-bought water.

Buying water in Vermont isn't like buying water in San Francisco. In SF I walk or drive down to the corner store and return back home in less than 10 minutes. In Vermont, you slide your car carefully across ice-covered dirt roads on an epic journey from the Middle of Nowhere to the Outskirts of Nowhere. It takes at least an hour.

I bravely took on this journey after getting directions from the Vermonters. After many miles of icy dirt roads, I finally turned onto a behemoth of a superhighway, paved with some rare substance known as asphalt and featuring a lane for EACH direction. I believe this highway is known locally as "The Road". It is revered by some and feared by others.

Turning onto it, however, I feared that on my way home I'd accidentally drive right past this turn-off. Since the state is filled with zillions of icy dirt roads, I needed some way to remember mine.

"I need a landmark!" I exclaimed to myself. I looked around and spotted a giant red barn. That would be my clue to turn on the way home.

I repeated the phrase "giant red barn" to myself about 10 times like Rainman, to hammer it into my brain. Right about then I looked around and spotted another giant red barn.

"Ooooh!" I thought. It'll be easy to find my turn-off. There are TWO giant red barns in a row!

Turn out, har har, there was another giant red barn about a quarter mile past that. Vermont is stuffed full of these things. Like the infamous turtles, it's giant red barns all the way down.

Actually, Vermont isn't quite that monoculture. They also have adorably quaint white farmhouses. Those two building types, however, comprise the entirety of Vermont architecture. It's ALL giant red barns and adorably quaint farmhouses. Any distances that you want measured in this state will essentially be defined by a sequence of those two types.

Want to get to the old quarry? Go past two giant red barns, one adorably quaint white farmhouse, one giant red barn, 3 adorably quaint white farmhouses, one giant red barn, and there it is!

It's like Vermont's own version of binary. This explain why the state specializes in dairy and maple syrup rather than computer products.

2010-12-01T21:14:00.000-08:00

I take the train home from work each day, and usually there are plenty of seats. One day, a little over a month ago, the train was crazy crowded due to all the people heading to one of the Giants playoff games. Another woman and I ended up crammed in a section of the train car normally reserved for small pieces of luggage.

Turns out she teaches computer science at a local community college. Turns out I've been programming for 30 years and have a few opinions. We had a lovely chat and before we got to my stop she explained that sometimes she brings "people from industry" into the classroom to give the students a real-world perspective. She asked if I'd be interested in doing that sometime.

Given that I had been at my new job for about a month, I was well overdue for asking for some time off, especially for a worthy cause like imprinting my real-world perspective onto naive eager minds.

The students in question were in the middle of writing their first sizable computer program as a team and were presenting their designs to the class. My job was to listen to the presentation and then give feedback. I was a little concerned that I'd hear their speech and have nothing to say, so I did most of the assignment myself ahead of time so that I could make a list of gotchas and tricky bits.

All in all, it went pretty well. I had plenty of things to say, both positive and negative. I did my best to couch my negative advice constructively and I usually prefaced it with something like "that's how I would have coded it too, but one of my coworkers is a stickler for details, so he would have told me blah blah less-crappy-here and blah blah more-smartness-there." I was good-cop-programmer and bad-cop-programmer all rolled into one!

Afterwards, the instructor opened up the floor so that the students could ask me questions. I was pretty sure that students in a beginning computer science class would be completely uninterested in the ancient programmer who did not work for a cool company like Google or Facebook. Turns out that I was completely wrong. They peppered me with questions about programming techniques and technologies for about 30 minutes.

Frankly, I can't believe it all went so well. I can, however, request that you all call me "Professor" now.

2010-11-06T13:44:00.000-07:00

One of the fictions in our household is that I am somehow the master of making coffee. In general, the division of labor in our house is that Hank does the vast majority of the cooking, I do the vast majority of the dish washing, and Daisy handles almost all of the choreography. However, long ago Hank started praising my ability to pour water and coffee grounds into the coffee maker, so I have taken on that "cooking" chore.

Of course I realize that I'm not actually superior at pressing the "On" button on the coffee maker, but every marriage has its lies, and this is one of ours. I have accepted the mantle of Chief Coffee Maker.

So, the other day when Hank attempted to grind the coffee beans on her own, I clucked disapprovingly at how she tapped the side of the grounds container.

"I can barely watch you do that," I sighed in annoyance, "It's like watching a dog try to use a supercomputer."

Hank laughed.

"No, please, allow me to assist," I offered. I then barked and growled authoritatively at the coffee grinder.

Daisy overheard all of this and busted up.

"I want to help!" she said, "Rarararararararararara!"

"Oh my god! Was that you trying to bark?" I asked Daisy.

"Yeah!"

"Jesus. That was TERRIBLE! It didn't even sound like a dog. You might as well have quacked at us. Or said, 'I can help. Mooooooooooo!'" I explained, shaking my head in disbelief.

Daisy literally flopped over in hysterics. She gets that way. She's an all-or-nothing laugher.

So, now we've got a new bit of shtick we do. When Hank operates some machine, or undertakes some task, I say, "I got this, sweetie" and then bark repeatedly. Daisy then begins mooing insistently.

Then we all laugh, and I am about as happy as I get.

2010-10-30T21:07:00.000-07:00

For the last few weeks I've been working at a new job and there's a lot to discuss about it. I'm working with technology that's new to me, I'm commuting using a combination of bike and trains, and for the first time in nearly 20 years, my manager is a stranger.

So, let's talk about the bathroom at work.

Problem 1A is the door. It's surprisingly hard to push. I eventually learned that you need to launch at the door with a strong running start, but for the first few days, I'd give the door a push without breaking my stride and soon find myself shoving it open with my face. I'm sure that watching new weak-armed programmer after new weak-armed programmer face-plant into the door is good comedy for the fleet of women whose desks are in clear view of the mens room door. That brings me to...

Problem 1B, which is the the fact that there's no entryway between the bathroom door and the places where I do my business. So, when I'm admiring myself in the mirror, or using my patent-pending bank-it-off-the-sidewall technique at the urinal, each time the bathroom door opens, I'm in full view of all the women who work just outside that door. Hi ladies! Yes, I'm peeing AGAIN!

Speaking of full view, problem 2 is the doors to the toilet stalls. They are what I'd call gappy. If I'm sitting in there, doing my business (i.e. sitting on the toilet and looking at my phone) and someone face-plants their way into the bathroom, I can easily look through the gap and see who it is. Not cool, dude. If I can see them, then they can see me, sitting there with my pants around my ankles making unholy things come out of my ass.

I'm seriously considering a the-best-defense-is-a-good-offense strategy for dealing with this. Maybe I don't even bother closing the stall door and holler greetings to people as they enter the bathroom.

"Yo, compadre, good morning! How's the coffee this morn.... hang on a sec........ UNNNNHHHHHH... WOOO! That was a MONSTER dump! High five, dude!"

Or maybe I'll keep the door shut and cower behind my cellphone.

Finally, problem 3 is the dizzying array of things that I can squirt on my hands at the sink. There's two kinds of liquid soap, two kinds of moisturizer, and a bottle of hand sanitizer. As my coworker, Wesley, noted, "it's an amazingly complex handwashing system."

I'm guessing that layering them in this order is the right answer: Soap A, Moisturizer A, Hand Sanitizer, Soap B, Moisturizer B, but I am accepting advice on this topic.

2010-10-24T20:46:00.000-07:00

There's a new show on TV this season called No Ordinary Family. It's about a family that acquires superpowers. I normally would have completely ignored the show, but the TV critic from my local newspaper gave it pretty good review and suggested that it was a show that the whole family would enjoy watching together. So, we Tivoed it up and hunkered down one evening to watch the pilot.

Yes, my daughter Daisy enjoyed it very much, but what struck me were the interactions between the teenage daughter and her peers. Apparently the daughter's boyfriend had been cheating on her because she wouldn't sleep with him. And the word "whore" was used at one point.

Doh!

I cornered Hank later that evening.

Me: Oh man! I was not expecting the issue of teenager sex to come up during that show.
Hank: I know!
Me: So, I think we ought to discuss this with Daisy. I mean, I know she knows how babies are made, but we've never really discussed the idea of recreational sex with her.
Hank: Yeah, you're right.
Me: You know that when I say "we ought to discuss", what I mean is "you ought to discuss".
Hank: Nice try.

Daisy is 11, but she's a young 11. I mean, she's more poised and responsible than you'd expect from an 11 year old, but her classmates seem much more like developing teenagers than she does. And, yes, I am happy about that.

So, like any responsible parent, I downed a martini before dinner the next night and launched into it.

Me: Did you enjoy No Ordinary Family last night, Daisy?
Daisy: Yep.
Me: Me too. Did you catch the part about how daughter was having difficulties with her boyfriend?
Daisy: Uh, yeah...

And, off I went. I covered the idea of recreational sex and what the downsides of it are. I touched upon the notion that people can feel pressured to have sex, and again listed the possible repercussions. Daisy seemed to be hearing what I was saying, but I was glad to wrap up the discussion soon thereafter.

I talked to Hank afterwards.

Me: So, I think the sex talk with Daisy went pretty well. What did you think?
Hank: Yeah, yeah, it went ok.
Me: Anything I missed?
Hank: Well, I think everything you said was correct, but I noticed you did a lot of the talking.
Me: That's because I was the one conducting the lecture!
Hank: Well, ideally this would be more of a discussion. You know, get her thoughts and questions?

Dammit. I do a lot better on the math homework issues.

2010-10-17T19:39:00.000-07:00

Last night we attended a surprise party which was planned by our friend Ming. Ming has what appears to be a pretty severe costume disorder so we were all requested to arrive in pirate finery. Except for Daisy's prescribed eye-patch, like all sane people, we own no pirate gear.

We also have little regard for suggested costumes.

Hank: Well, we could go as Somali pirates. Just strap on an AK-47.
Me: And blackface!

We rejected that idea.

Me: How about being software pirates?
Hank: How do they dress?
Me: Uh... Bit torrent t-shirts? With thumb drives?

Two ideas down. After a lunch's worth of discussion, Hank and I decided to be trademark pirates, the people who make cheap knock-off copies of famous brands. We made a trip to Target for supplies and ended up with the following costumes:

HANK

$16 tracksuit, with gold sticker letters applied onto ass, spelling "JUICY COUTURE"
Ugly purse with two gold 'G' stickers in imitation of Gucci logo
iPhone with white iPineapple logo

MIKE

Grey T-Shirt with hand-traced Mickey Mouse face and misspelled "MICKY MOUSE" beneath
Plain jeans with upside-down Levi's pocket stitching
Plain white sneakers with many Nike swooshes sharpied in place
iPhone with white iPineapple logo

Ta dah! Knock-off logos straight off the pirate ship! We practiced our repartee.

"Ohhhhhhhhh, THAT kind of pirate!"

and

"Doh! I see! You wanted pirate clothes and not pirated clothes!"

We strolled in, fashionably and smugly late, and were soon greeted by Ming. "Oh! Look! It's, uh, Mickey Pirate!"

Turns out, if you walk into a party filled with people festively dressed as pirates, and you're dressed in a crappy Mickey Mouse t-shirt, you just basically look like an under-dressed asshole.

(And, no, the MICKY MOUSE lettering was not actually applied in mirror image, but that would have been Morton Downey Jr cool.)

2010-10-10T09:17:00.000-07:00

Here's how I thought job-hunting would work:

Find job listings on Craigslist and other online job boards
Email resume for jobs in San Francisco for which I'm qualified
Sweat profusely during interviews
Collect a few offers
Profit!

I got the first couple steps right. I pored through various online lists and carefully identified those jobs that looked like a good match. What I failed to realize is that there's an invisible step between Step 2 and Step 3 where the hiring company lights my resume on fire and then extinguishes that fire either by pissing on the resume or by taking a dump on it. I'm not sure which of those two is more common.

Before you pronounce me a naive idiot for assuming that my resume would stand out in a flood of recession-affected applicants, let me say that there are a ton of technical companies hiring out here. Every day I saw decent new jobs being listed. The recession may indeed still be going strong, but in my industry, there are plenty of jobs to be had.

Ok, NOW you may pronounce me a naive idiot.

I really didn't understand that unless someone on the inside is pulling you along (or you're working with recruiters who are motivated to get people hired), your resume is virtually ignored. This drives me nuts.

I wasn't applying to be a gynecologist, astronaut, CEO, or long snapper. The jobs I applied for were the EXACT kind I'm qualified for, featuring all the skills I possess and all the buzzwords I crammed on my resume. Apparently software startups here in San Francisco get inundated with resumes from rockstar data wranglers, or maybe data wrangling rock stars.

Thankfully, I did have some ins at some companies that ended up contacting me. It's hard to say which interview went the worst. Was it the one at the giant search engine where I stood at the white board and just completely forget how to program? Or was it the one at the fast-growing micro-blogging service where they demonstrated that they're even worse at interviewing than they are at keeping their website up.

Nope, the winner was the large multimedia software company that didn't tell their phone screener how to reach me, and thus ended up giving me a very angry technical phone screen while I stood on a busy San Francisco street having just had a beer at a co-worker's going-away party. That sure did go well.

Thankfully, a few of the interviews went pretty well. I got a couple of offers and will be starting my new job next week!

2010-10-04T12:51:00.000-07:00

Not counting a summer job at Wendy's, filled with misplaced grease buckets and relentlessly burned chicken sandwiches, or that temp job at Wells Fargo spent typing an enormous list of addresses into an earsplitting metal imprinting machine, all of my jobs have been pretty good.

In my youth, I logged a couple of stints as a photo processor at one-hour photo labs, and turned out to be extraordinarily competent at this. In fact, when I graduated from college and was offered a job at Hewlett Packard to be a computer programmer, I gave the photo lab a chance to match HP's salary offer. The near-minimum-wage-paying photo lab gracefully turned down the opportunity.

HP turned out to be a pretty great place to work, at least back in those days. They invested in their employees and I learned a ton about what it takes to work on a big project. Plus, I got a chance to develop my lunch-table smart-aleckry skills, which I still practice to this day.

After that I joined my buddies at their tiny start-up as Employee #0000000001. I spent 12 years working at home, watching the company getting bought by increasingly bigger and distasteful corporate overlords as the stock price kept dropping. Despite that, I felt privileged to work with my excellent coworkers and to do so from the comfort of my own home. Finally, in 2008, after having the last bit of joy and ownership efficiently removed from the job by our new leaders in Darmstadt, Germany, I quit to go join a start-up again.

This last job has been the very best one. I've been surrounded by smart, fun people, and I was consistently asked to do tasks that I found interesting and challenging. The office was filled with food and art, and the other companies were non-profits, which helped us keep our perspective. Plus, my title was Data Wrangler, which was pretty awesome.

Sadly, despite making software that was used by millions, we never even sniffed profitability. We posted a shut-down notice on our blog last week and were inundated with nearly 10,000 comments from our most vocal users, begging us to take their money to stay afloat. There will probably be a way to keep the software running, but it most likely won't involve any of the current employees, especially not a data wrangler.

My boss, Liz, gave a presentation to the non-profits at a lunch meeting the other day, telling the history of our company and how it got to be that we were shutting our doors. At the end of her talk, one of the audience members suggested that they all give us a standing ovation. And so it came to be that these dozens of people, who work for non-profits whose goals mostly consist of making the world a more fair and just place, stood up and applauded the failed capitalists. It might not have been the most ridiculous 30 seconds of my life, but given that I've never been caught masturbating, it was probably the most awkward 30 seconds. I grimaced during the entirety of it.

Thankfully, I do have a new job lined up. More next time about what I learned during what may have been a record-settingly inept job search.

2010-09-10T21:02:00.000-07:00

The company that I work for is going to run out of money in about 4 weeks. This severely impacts their ability to pay people. So, we've all been interviewing. Wheeee!

You see, there are things that I am good at, like Scrabble and TV watching, and then there is the list of things that I'm terrible at. High on the "terrible" list is interviewing for a job.

Most tech companies interview programmers by asking them to step to a whiteboard and solve clever programming problems under pressure. This process is optimized to hire programmers who are excellent at solving clever programming problems at whiteboards under pressure. As it turns out, I SUCK at this. Although I'm reasonably clever and I'm pretty good at the programming stuff, asking me to perform with my job on the line removes all possibility that I'm going to produce the goods. This is also reason #2 why I am not a porn star.*

What I need is are companies that optimize for something else. I need companies that think like this:

Human Resources: Are you ready to interview the next candidate?
Hiring Manager: Yes!
Human Resources: What qualities are you looking for?
Hiring Manager: I'd like to get someone really sweaty.
Human Resources: Makes sense. Anything else?
Hiring Manager: Well, ideally the candidate will nervously spew a nonstop series of reasons about why they can't solve this type of technical problem. Rapid-fire excuses are a priority here.
Human Resources: Good! I think we're all set then.
Hiring Manager: And really really sweaty. I want to see, smell, and practically taste the sweat.
Human Resources: I think this next guy is your man.

THAT's the company that's going to hire me!

I actually had a dream about interviewing the other night. I dreamed that I had gone back to visit my previous company and ended up in a meeting where the BigWig VP stormed in and wanted to know what each person was working on. Each person in turn explained what they had been doing. When the VP got to me, he stared at me, paused, and said, "You've got a booger hanging out of your nose. We'll get back to you."

I then furiously dug all the boogers out of my nose, waiting for the VP to circle back to me. When he finally did, I said, "Hi, I'm Mike. I used to work here, but quit two years ago to join a start-up. Now, I'm seriously considering begging for my old job back."

The VP considered this for a moment, and said, "You didn't say that with very much energy."

He then turned to the rest of the room.

"Everyone?" he asked, "Is this the sort of person we want to hire back?"

Everyone in unison said, "Nooooo!"

He turned back to me and shrugged his shoulders dismissively.

I'm no Freud, but I think it's safe to say that I'm freaked out about interviewing on all my levels of consciousness.

Most of the interviews so far have been from companies who were considering hiring all of the programmers from my current company. These talks are from the deals that our CEO has been trying to spin in these final few days of our corporatehood. The CEO walked into our last company meeting on Monday and kicked it off by asking if we still had a bottle of tequila in the cabinet.

I jokingly asked if it was a good sign or a bad sign when the CEO wants to do shots before a company meeting.

Turns out, bad sign.

* Unimpressive physique

2010-08-23T21:15:00.000-07:00

I don't recall exactly what the triggering event was, but there was some minor event that went wrong for Leonarda at work the other day. As is my nature, I responded by scoffing at her bad luck. Then I stopped, looked directly at her, and said, "I'm sorry that isn't working for you."

Her head whipped around from the computer and she stared at me. "What was that?" she asked.

"I'm working on my empathy!" I exclaimed proudly.

"Wow. That is not working for you." she said, shivering slightly.

In fact, I was not working on my empathy. Although I've had numerous discussions with my wife over the years about the appropriate way to respond to people under duress, we hadn't had such a discussion in a couple months, so it's like those conversations never happened. (And, yes, I am aware that I was poorly imitating sympathy and not empathy). That being said, it never hurts to bone up on your humanity.

I've played this game multiple times at work now and gotten similarly horrified reactions. When Leonarda had a cold and I offered, "You must feel terrible with that cold. Having a cold is no fun." I got the following reactions from my co-workers:

"That is really disturbing, Mike."
"You're smirking while you say it! No smirking!"
"Wow, that's creepy."
"Maybe, if I didn't know you, I'd think that was genuine, but you can't pull it off. No way."
"It's the underlying layer of snark that gives you away."

Apparently I am the Uncanny Valley of empathy.

2010-08-15T17:43:00.000-07:00

Programmers in my industry often can be placed into one of two buckets:

1) Programmers who understand how humans use software.
2) Programmers who don't.

People in bucket #1 often end up working on the "front" end of software that the users see, while bucket #2 people focus on the "back"end where the databases and ones and zeroes live. Me? I'm not good with people, so I'm a back-end guy.

That being said, I work at a small start-up and we all do whatever needs to be done, so I just started working on our new iPhone app. So, I'm frantically sticking buttons and doodads and whatnot on our iPhone app in the hopes that humans will click on them.

Actually, that's a terrible characterization of what I'm doing. Writing an iPhone app involves using a programming language that I'm unfamiliar with, so it's pretty slow going. The word "frantic" is ok, but it doesn't so much describe my productivity as my frequency of googling phrases like "make iphone scroll not suck." Learning a new language isn't that difficult, but being proficient at it always takes a while. In the beginning my programs are always filled with mistakes, both conceptual and simple.

Part of the problem is that computers are so unforgiving. For example, some languages make you put a semicolon at the end of each statement. So you might have a chunk of code that looks like this:

print "Blog ";
print "posts ";
print "about ";
print "computer ";
print "stuff ";
print "are ";
print "the "
print "best!";

The idea being that this piece of code would print out "Blog posts about computer stuff are the best!"

However, odds are that the computer would load up that program and would be completely stymied. Why? I left out the semicolon at the end of one line. Instead of running the program, it would print out a cryptic message like "Unexpected word: print"

Then, a surprisingly long debugging session would ensue. The whole interaction could be summarized by this conversation:

Me: Ok, program, run!
Computer: I have no idea what this is.
Me: Seriously? It's a super simple program. It just prints a sentence.
Computer: I'm being serious. I can't make heads or tails of this. Why does it say "print" there at the end?
Me: What? Do you know what the first "print" does?
Computer: Totally.
Me: And the second one?
Computer: Yeah!
Me: So, what's wrong with the last one?
Computer: Beats me. Total nonsense.
Me: You understand every "print" except the last one?
Computer: To be honest, the last two lines are totally baffling. Is it maybe in Portuguese?
Me: What?! No! Why would I code in Portuguese?

Then I'd remove lines, stare at crap and then an hour later eventually figure out that I forgot one of the semicolons.

Me: Really? You had no clue what to do because I left out just one of the semicolons?
Computer: Seemed like gibberish at the time.
Me: It was like 95% correct. That gets a grade of an A nearly everywhere in the world.
Computer: F.
Me: A!
Computer: F.

So far I'm getting an F in iPhone apps.

2010-08-01T21:33:00.000-07:00

Here's the conversation that didn't happen:

Daisy: Daddy! I know what I'd like to do for my birthday party this year!
Me: Yeah? What's that?
Daisy: I'd like for it to be a surprise! I'd like for you and mom to plan a party where I don't know what's going to happen.
Me: Uh, no. Do you want to go bowling or miniature golfing?
Daisy: Well, I was hoping for a party where's there's some kind of plot that you guys make up.
Me: And I was hoping for a kid who wanted to go bowling or mini-golfing.

Instead, this conversation happened:

Daisy: Mama! I know what I'd like to do for my birthday party this year!
Hank: What's that, sweetheart?
Daisy: I'd like for it to be a surprise! I'd like for you to plan a party where I don't know what's going to happen.
Hank: Sure!
Daisy: Oh, thank you! Thank you, mama!

Then, a month later, one week before Daisy's birthday, this little chat happened:

Daisy: Mama, have you finished the script for my party yet?
Hank: The, uh, script? Uh.... no, not quite yet.

I couldn't help but laugh when Hank told me about this. Look, it's not that I don't love my kid, but my birthday party duties generally only include moving heavy items or keeping guest injuries to a legally defensible level, and not screen play writing. I was not on board with this whole "script" plan. I would have never agreed to this idea.

Hank, however, was committed, so she spent many hours the next week laying out a plot, devising puzzles, and recruiting people to play roles. We also spent an afternoon with the couple who was probably responsible for Daisy thinking that this was a reasonable request for a birthday party. Hank brainstormed ideas with them while I made faces at them behind their backs. The division of labor in our relationship is pretty well-defined.

Although the key prop for the party (a box that could be locked with a specifically configured 4-number combination padlock) wasn't found until an hour before party time, it all somehow came together. One sister-in-law, one dramatically inclined close friend, one coworker who just happens to be an accomplished improvisational actress, and a series of puzzles led the children from one neighborhood destination to another, culminating in this group of 11 year-old girls finally cracking the code, opening the locked box and retrieving the fictitious documents that were going to save our beautiful neighborhood from an evil real estate developer. The kids, having been trained by the San Francisco school system from an early age to fear and hate big business, cheered heartily at the outcome.

If Daisy wants another surprise next year, she'll be super surprised to find herself going mini golfing.

2010-07-28T21:44:00.000-07:00

Wow, that was an ass-kicky week (or two).

So, in addition to my daughter celebrating her 11th birthday last weekend, the company I work for is in mid-death-rattle. I believe Larry referred to it as "end times". We've still got a few months of money left in the bank, but our CEO is furiously looking for someone to buy us. A couple of companies are in the running, but one of them wants to interview each one of our employees to see which are worth taking and which aren't. To make matters worse, this company's interview process is rumored to be extremely rigorous and academic.

In other words, it was suddenly time for all of us, the physics majors, the english majors, the electrical engineers (like me!), and the computer science majors who graduated 20 years ago, to be knowledgeable of all the topics taught in an undergraduate computer science bachelors curriculum. So, for the last couple weeks I have been studying and freaking out. Mostly the latter.

My manager, Liz, sat us all down on Monday to review interview tips and etiquette. She explained that it was important to come across smart and confident.

"Don't tell them that you think you're an idiot, ok? I'm saying that to TWO people in particular!" she said, glaring at Pablo and me.

Doh!

Liz finished reviewing the other basic interview tips and asked if anyone had comments or questions. I raised my hand.

"Yes, Mike?" she asked.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!!!!!!" I screamed.

That's pretty much how my week has been. It has alternated between stuffing information into my brain and lamenting that I didn't have enough time to stuff information into my brain.

The interview was today, so last night I wrote my final practice program, watched a little TV, and then tried to settle down for a good night's sleep. I felt tired, but my brain was racing. I tossed and turned for an hour or two and then tried to use my standard relaxation technique where I breathe deeply, clear my mind, and count to 10.

The furthest I ever made it was 4. Twice I didn't make it to 2. Every time my brain got railroaded into sorting algorithms or imagining myself staring blankly at an interviewer. Brutal.

Anyway, the interview was today. I sat through 4 45-minute technical interviews back-to-back where I attempted to answer various questions about computer science theory, and I wrote snippets of programs on a whiteboard. I felt like a complete idiot 3 times, competent twice, and completely mediocre the rest of the time. I walked out after 3 hours of this, found my coworkers, turned around and asked, "Is my ass bleeding?"

It's been a rough week.

2010-07-19T20:49:00.001-07:00

I finished my business, stood up, fastened my pants and looked back into the toilet. Yes, it was a sizable quantity, but other than that it seemed unremarkable. Nothing about that dump indicated that 38 hours earlier I had completed one of the most interesting and expensive meals of my life.

You see, our good friend Larry had just turned 40, and to commemorate the occasion we joined a few other couples for a lunch at the French Laundry, which is almost always listed among the top restaurants in the U.S.. It has even been named the best restaurant on the planet a couple times. Just getting a reservation there requires either inhuman timing and planning, or having connections well beyond my extensive network of computer programmers. Although I'm not much of a gourmet, it was an opportunity I couldn't pass up.

So, on Saturday morning, I put on my fanciest slacks and jacket, endured my wife asking, "Really? Black pants to a lunch?", slipped on my least comfortable shoes, and drove up to Yountville. I'm proud to report that I made it almost all the way to the front door of the restaurant before I spilled coffee all over my suit jacket. Thankfully a handful of Kleenex quickly covered the coffee stains with a fine layer of white tissue fuzz. Phew!

Soon after we were seated, the food and wine started to flow. I probably had more wine than I should have due to the wine pairings with each of the 12 (or so) courses they brought out, so the last few courses are a little hazy in my memory, but the meal was really impressive. There was an inventive salmon cone, rack o' rabbit, crazy avocado caviar, a deconstructed papaya salad with delicious goop, super tender lamb, a remarkably delicious savory egg custard with truffle oil served inside of an egg shell, and much much more. Each course was meticulously served by a team of waiters ensuring even that the plate patterns lined up.

I stumbled through the meal doing my best to chew with my mouth closed and come up with something more sophisticated to say than "Tasty!", but I mostly failed. I also started to get pretty warm. I usually just wear thin cotton short-sleeve shirts, so sitting there in a long-sleeve shirt with a suit jacket on was a little oppressive for me. I asked everyone at the table if the "jackets required" policy meant that I had to wear my jacket for the whole meal. No one was really certain, and since we were in a private room off of the main dining room, I opted to risk it and removed my jacket. Meanwhile, we had just finished some fish course and I realized that I had eaten it not even knowing which implement I was supposed to use. I decided to share my ignorance with the wait staff.

"Excuse me, was I supposed to use my fork or spoon or something else with that course?" I asked, exuding charming ignorance.

I think someone answered me but what I really noticed was one of the waiters shooting me a particularly vicious look. Liz leaned over.

"Did you see THAT?" she asked

I had. I reflected upon the last few seconds and realized that the "look" could have been about:

My idiotic question
Using the wrong implement
Not wearing a jacket
Being a drunken ass

The layers of etiquette violation here were both impressive and deep. It wasn't clear at all which rule violation had crossed the line. I decided to contemplate the matter while taking a leak, so I donned my jacket to cross the dining room, visited the lavatory, and then returned back to the table. Along the way I passed by the "look" waiter. He smiled approvingly at me.

Ding! Apparently taking off your jacket is the king party foul at the French Laundry (although let the record show that every single other interaction we had with the large wait staff over the four-hour meal was professional and pleasant).

The rest of the meal passed with no obviously egregious etiquette violations. We had a stellar time and an amazing meal that closed with a lovely set of truffles. I hope to post some pictures soon.

However, as I stared into the toilet 38 hours later, I couldn't help but notice that this dump didn't really look hundreds of dollars more expensive than any other dump. I didn't weigh it, but given the price of meal, I'd say that the dump should have been made of at least silver ($17.50 per ounce). I bid it farewell, flushed, and.... plugged the toilet.

2010-07-05T21:12:00.000-07:00

Happy belated Birthday America!

I know that San Francisco is probably considered by many to be one of the least patriotic cities, but we do indeed celebrate the 4th of July here. It's the biggest holiday here between Karl Marx's birthday and May Day!

We started off by attending a local street fair with an informal parade, a water balloon toss, and American flags galore. After the parade, one of the local residents, costumed as ye olde timey revolutionary guy, read some olde timey document. It seemed somewhat familiar to me, like maybe it was the Declaration of Independence or The Origin of Species, or maybe the Communist Manifesto. I resolved the issue by raising a scholarly-looking eyebrow at Daisy.

"Daisy, do you know what document he's reading?" I asked in my best teacher voice.

"Yes dad", she sighed, "It's the Declaration of Independence."

Thought so.

We continued our festivities later at home by playing Daisy's new favorite game, Taboo. In order to make it fair, whenever we encounter a card that seems like it might not be common knowledge for a 10 year-old, we toss it out. Sometimes Daisy surprises us though. When she got a card with the phrase "Straight up", she paused for a moment and then said "Not on the rocks, but...."

Hank immediately barked out the answer while I reached for the phone to turn ourselves in to Child Protection Services.

We closed out the day by heading up the nearest big hill to watch the downtown fireworks. Of course, this being San Francisco in the summer, the fog rolled in and completely enveloped the waterfront, entirely hiding the official fireworks display. Thankfully, this also being San Francisco, the nearby Mission District came through with a remarkable set of illegal fireworks being set off from seemingly every corner and back yard. We sat in the blustery cold and heartily cheered the Mission scofflaws for entertaining us.

I can't wait to see what they do for Lenin Day.

2010-06-28T21:34:00.000-07:00

A couple weeks ago, after three days of eating mega-meals in Las Vegas, followed by running a surprisingly lackluster half-marathon back here in San Francisco, I got on a scale and found that I was the fattest I have ever been.

Technically, I'm still in the "normal" BMI range (whatever that means), and my jeans still fit (barely), but this is bad news. My weight was 4 pounds heavier than I had ever seen it, and I probably can't blame that on a couple of Vegas buffets. So now, I'm on my second diet ever and I'm beginning to fear that maybe this needs to be a general dietary change and not just a temporary thing. Granted, my idea of a diet is pretty mild, but any diet is a bad one.

And, no, I have nothing funny to say about this.

So, instead let's see some videos.

First, here is a crazy good acrobatic troupe.

Then, you may have heard that Oprah is having a contest to try and find a new talk show host and idea. She's accepting video submissions and asking people to vote on their favorites. Despite some weird Oprah vote fraud, this guy is winning and is the new king of awesome. If you watch that video and want to see more of the guy, here's another 8 amusing minutes of him answering questions from the Internet (reddit). Go Zach Anner!

Finally, adorable sloth orphans, three words I never thought would go together.

2010-06-23T20:57:00.000-07:00

Woooooooooooooooooooooorld Cuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuup Mania!

More than ever before, I have been following the World Cup this year (where "following" equals an occasional browse of the standings, reading some articles, orbiting a television when the U.S. plays, and appreciating Pablo's new vuvuzela.) I'm not what you'd call a die-hard soccer fan, more like a live-soft fan, but I've enjoyed the Cup this year more than I thought I would.

I really have only one issue with the game: It's nearly unwatchable.

So far I've spent about 2 hours watching World Cup matches. I've yet to see a single goal. That's nuts. It's broken. Yes, I've been a little unlucky, but frankly my experience is not that uncommon.

Today, I had the TV on for about half of the U.S. - Algeria game. I stepped away for a minute near the end of the second half and MISSED THE ONLY GOAL OF THE GAME. This goal was so important, and so freakin' rare, that it catapulted the U.S. from being eliminated out of the tournament into first place in their group. Really? All that while I peed?

In baseball, I know if my team isn't up at bat, they won't be scoring any runs. In football, most of the touchdowns occur while an offense has possession and drives down the field. In soccer, however, the damn goals can happen at any time. If you want to see one, you have to sit there and not blink for 45 minutes at a time. It's not so much a spectator sport as a dry-eye endurance challenge.

I bitched about this fact afterwards to one of my buddies

Me: Of course I was in the dumper during the only 2 seconds that mattered.
Gimp: Oh man -- you need to just stay and crap in your pants during stoppage time.
Me: I sort of lost faith after umpteen minutes of nothing happening.
Gimp: Well, at least there were a lot of chances throughout the game, so I wouldn't call it "nothing happening".

I would. Nobody comes back from a baseball game delirious with excitement from all the fly balls that were caught on the warning track. You don't see end-zone dances from touchdown passes that were overthrown by a foot or two. And if you had sex, but nobody had an orgasm, maybe y'all had a pleasant time, but it's nothing to toot a vuvuzela about.

But that's basically the entirety of the excitement you get from watching soccer. You just have to marvel at how elegantly the players fail to score. It's 90-plus minutes of near nonstop failure.

Just make the goddamn goals a little bigger already, ok?

2010-06-21T21:02:00.000-07:00

Oh, sweet packet nectar, I am back online!

Thanks to typical AT&T incompetence, I've been without internet access for the last four days. Liz and Larry describe this situation as "camping". In fact, I covered my feelings about internet droughts pretty well last time this happened. This time, however, we were more camping than usual because our downstairs toilet decided to stop working at about the same time. Despite the obvious and beautiful symmetry of the main household crap output tube (downstairs toilet) failing at the same time as the main household crap input tube (internet) it was a mostly annoying experience.

It wasn't a huge burden to trek upstairs each time I had to use the potty, but it's always weird going without good internet access. I was able to do a teeny bit of web surfing on my cell phone, but peering at the Internet through a 3.5 inch screen is like having sex through a tiny hole.

Wait. Having sex with a small hole actually sounds pretty good. I guess my internet experience was more like drinking beer through a thin straw.

Crap. That sounds pretty good too. Well, my ability to construct a good simile aside, just trust me that the whole internet thing put me out of sorts this weekend, more so than usual. On Saturday afternoon, I had about 90 minutes to kill while Daisy had a play date, and no household projects demanded my attention, so I just sat on the couch and read a book.

Yeah, reading in the middle of the day. I felt like Laura freaking Ingalls Wilder or a caveman or something. So low tech. Anyway, it's nice to be back

2010-06-15T21:11:00.000-07:00

One of my co-workers, whom we'll call Richard, invited us all to a barbecue this weekend, so I crammed the family into the car and we drove out of the city for an evening of eating and socializing.

Richard has an amazing house filled with fascinating art, tons of rooms, and lots of games. I'm not sure what my favorite part was, but I think it's safe to say that Daisy's favorite part was Richard's two daughters, who were a couple years younger than Daisy. The kids ran around, played with hula hoops, put on a show, and committed general goof-off-ery.

At one point the girls came over to two of my co-workers and me.

"We have some charades for you guys," Daisy announced, "So try to guess what we're saying."

The girls then wildly launched into a set of completely indecipherable gestures. I grasped they were saying something about me, but in lieu of actually understanding what they were saying, I chose to make guesses as improbable as their gestures. When I got to "I stink?" as a guess, Daisy paused, thought for a moment, and declared it correct.

Similarly, my coworker to my left, Brian, got the nod of approval when he guessed "I pee?", and our host, Richard, was informed that his "I'm ugly?" guess was a winner.

We loudly proclaimed our dissatisfaction with these characterizations of ourselves which delighted the three girls as much as the charades exercise itself. They skipped off just before Richard's wife came by to join us. When she heard the sentiments that the girls had been "charading", she called over her two daughters to explain that it wasn't ok to tell people that they stink, pee, and are ugly.

I sat there guiltily. My girl was the oldest of the three and was clearly the ring leader here.

"Uh, this is probably my fault. I'm sure Daisy was the instigator here," I explained to her.

"Oh, no, my girls are plenty capable of this kind of thing," she reassured me.

I let the issue drop at this point, but let me explain to you all, that I'm pretty damn sure that this type of behavior comes from Daisy. I say so, because I ENCOURAGE exactly this type of behavior. In fact, I model it. On any given day you might find me telling Daisy that she's stinky, or that she peed in her pants, or that she is generally just a poopyhead. Unsurprisingly, if you take a group of people, including some small children, I'm likely to be the one behaving most immaturely.

Daisy is such a goody-two-shoes that I relish it when she tells me that I stink. Sometimes you gotta take the "fight authority" spirit where you can get it.

So, last night, when we were looking at a website that had some quotes from Ferris Bueller's Day Off (which we recently showed to Daisy, and she noted how much swearing there was), she read this one from Cameron:

Call me 'sir', goddamn it! (to Edward Rooney over the phone, impersonating Sloane Peterson's father)

Daisy then repeated this quote about a dozen times, visibly enjoying the feel of the words on her tongue. I listened to this and then despite myself, said, "You know that although it's ok to say that stuff around me, you can't say those words to other people, right?"

Daisy stared at me. "You know that I wouldn't do that, right. You know that you don't have to tell me that, right?"

I agreed with her, but I still know she was behind StinkGate.

2010-06-10T21:17:00.000-07:00

Ever since my surprise birthday party in Vegas a couple years ago, my daughter has been begging to go back. Vegas never seemed like a great place for Daisy, but she seemed to really enjoy seeing the absurdly themed hotels and of course a Cirque du Soleil show. So, after two years of begging, Hank, Daisy, and I went back to Vegas for three days to celebrate the beginning of summer. Here's my trip report:

The Good:

The "O" Cirque du Soleil show was fantastic. The performers were so damn agile and elegant, and the trick of using an ever-changing pool for stunts worked really well. Great show.
The Hoover Dam tour was decent. I didn't really know anything about the Hoover Dam going into the trip, and, as it turns out, my tolerance for jokes like "I'm your Damn tour guide" and "Please watch a Damn movie" is pretty damn high. Daisy was modestly entertained.

The Bad:

The average high temperature while we were in Vegas was 106. Apparently they were experiencing a 3-day heat wave. Hank, who normally slathers on sunscreen during San Francisco's foggiest days, was mortified, and treated each foray outside the hotel room as through she were a solar explorer gingerly stepping upon the surface of the sun. "I'm getting crispy!" she'd moan after five minutes. "I'M CRISPING UP OVER HERE!".
Good blackjack is hard to find in Vegas. I'm sure it's there if you know where to look, but if you're just strolling around some of the nice hotels, all the tables have crappy rules, or high minimum bets, or mega-deck shoes, or shuffling machines that practically grab the cards out of your hands. It made card counting pretty tough.
We spent a good chunk of change on food, and never found a meal that pleased everyone. Between Hank's wariness of buffets, and Daisy's food allergies, I was pretty much the only one of us who happily scarfed down each meal. We even managed to feed Daisy something she was allergic to on the final night and she got a nasty stomach ache and hives. Gah.

The Weird:

The security guy at the San Francisco airport had no idea how to read our drivers licenses. He stared confidently at Hank's license and then promptly referred to her by her middle name. She corrected him, so he stared intently at my license and then addressed me by my middle name. Isn't reading driver's licenses FROM THE VERY STATE YOU'RE IN kind of a core competency for a TSA employee?
It cracks me up how in Vegas, at any moment strolling through a casino, you might see some dude who looks like a male model, next to some disheveled 500 pound guy in a tank top, alongside a woman in a bridal gown. Are they all together? Probably.

2010-06-02T21:08:00.000-07:00

Here was my favorite moment of the day. I had lunch with Liz, Larry, Pablo and Leonarda when this conversation occurred.

Liz: Oh, Larry, did you see the email I forwarded you?
Larry: Which one?
Liz: The one where I said, "OMG I'm getting power of attor..."
Me: Wait, you actually used an "OMG"?
Liz: Yes, well, I was typing on my Blackbe...
Me: Dislike!
Larry: (imitating thumbs-down noise on the Tivo) Bong bong!
Leonarda: Unfollow!

Woo! It was the nerd dis trifecta! That must have left a mark.

2010-05-24T21:26:00.000-07:00

Just a reminder that I'm nearly half-way through my promise to post every day for 30 days at my new blog: Answers for Unasked Questions (aka True and Bad Parenting Advice for the New Parent).

I complain every day to anyone who will listen about my inability to actually post for 30 days in a row on a topic like this, but as my friend, Bunnymatic, recently reminded me, my personal motto is that I'm prepared to give up at any time. So, catch this blog while it lasts....

2010-05-18T21:17:00.000-07:00

The after-care program at Daisy's school puts on a big musical every year. Around 100 kids perform in it, ranging in ages from 5 to 11. The program director lets the oldest kids (the 5th graders) make up their own characters and then she writes a custom musical around those characters.

Putting on a show is pretty much Daisy's favorite thing in the world. Although she is generally a pretty competent kid, doing well at school and other activities, acting is where she really distinguishes herself. Many of my friends give me a hard time for not being one of those parents who lauds their kid's every move and fart, (and if Daisy were a world-class farter, I'd be the first to applaud her, but her efforts in that area are pedestrian), but she really does shine on stage. So, getting a lead role in the school musical is something that she's been looking forward to for the last five years.

The show was last Saturday and it was a delight to watch Daisy do her thing. She spoke her lines clearly, stayed in character, and had a great energy about her... for about the first 2/3rds of the show. For the last third, I couldn't help but notice that she seemed a bit wilted. She still said her lines with authority, but after each line she'd shrink back behind someone and cover part of her face. She seemed somewhat distraught.

Well, as we found out afterwards, during the big pirate chase scene, where the pirates chase the main characters through the theater, Daisy tripped going up the stage steps and face-planted into one of the wooden props. Her nose started to bleed and swell up. The stage-hands cleaned up the blood and tears and got her back on stage before she missed a line, but that pretty much explained what I had been noticing.

We haven't had Daisy x-rayed yet, but judging by the new asymmetry of her nose, and the raccoon-like black-eyes she's developing, it looks like she probably broke her nose during that fall. Granted, given the Jewish bloodlines that have contributed to her DNA, her nose was never going to be cute and tiny, but now it looks like it's going to be even more distressed. We'll start saving for the nose job now.

Most importantly, however, I would like to state on record how very damn proud of my daughter I am for getting back on stage and completing the play after breaking her nose during a stunt. That totally rocks. The show DID go on.

You can be sure that, just to be safe, we'll never utter the phrase "Break a leg" before a performance again though.

2010-05-13T11:04:00.000-07:00

At the lunch table the other day, one of my coworkers was telling us his opinion of Iron Man 2. I suggested that we needed some sort of unit of measurement that we could use to describe how pleasurable an experience was.

Pablo suggested the "gasm". Brilliant.

We agreed that the more useful form is probably the milligasm, but either way it's a damn handy unit of measurement. I encourage you all to start using it. Here are some usage tips.

1000 milligasms is the same amount of pleasure than an orgasm would bring you. Negative milligasms are allowed if you're describing the type of experience so unpleasurable that it could prevent future orgasms. Amounts greater than 1000 milligasms (1 gasm) are possible, but should be used sparingly.

Oh, and Iron Man 2? 600 milligasms according to the superhero-appreciating Raymond. Wear thick undies just in case.

And on a unrelated note, if we're describing an simultaneous orgasm achieved by two people, could that be an andgasm? Yep, apparently it is.

2010-05-10T21:25:00.000-07:00

I started a new blog today. For the next month, I'll be blogging there much more often than here.

Check it out.

2010-05-05T19:42:00.000-07:00

Me: How was school today?
Daisy: We had puberty class. We studied boy parts.
Me: Ah, yes. So, what did you learn?
Daisy: We learned about... eject...no... uh... erections!
Me: Oh yeah? What did you learn about them?
Daisy: Well, we learned the seven ways that erections happen.

Seven?? I'm pretty sure I've been doing it just the one way. How am I'm supposed to be able to get an erection seven different ways? Oh, man that is a lot of pressure. Who knew that there were as many ways to get wood as Wonders of the World? Or Habits of Highly Effective People!

While I careened off into my own personal spiral of inadequacy, Hank took over.

Hank: Wow, I don't think I know the seven ways. What are they?
Daisy: Uh, the first one was morning.

Oh! Morning wood! Ding! Ok, phew. I'm up to two now.

Daisy: Another one was erections being caused by nervousness.

Nervousness causing hardons? That's not really an issue for most dudes in their 40s. If I'm nervous about, say, my company running out of money and getting laid off, I'm more likely to crap my pants than sport a big boner.

Daisy: And, uh... oh, no reason at all! Sometimes they just happen!

That's a pretty crappy reason. Granted, I've gotten plenty of randoboners in my day, but I'm sure they were caused by something at least on a subconscious or inadvertent-pocketpool level. I can't believe we're scraping the bottom of the list barrel and we're only on reason #3 of 7. This is beginning to sound like a list in someone's crappy blog.

Daisy: I can't remember the rest.

Yep, that's a crappy blog post.

2010-05-01T17:15:00.000-07:00

We released a new product at work a few weeks ago. It's the one that will either save our sinking company or will become the answer to a hell of a stumper question during Failed Dot Com trivia night along with Webvan and Google Wave. A few days prior to launch, my boss, Liz, came by.

Liz: I'm taking a poll. To celebrate the new web site, and because morale has been a bit low, would you prefer that we all go out to dinner at a restaurant here in San Francisco or should we get transportation up the CEO's house for a nice dinner there?
Me: I pick option C, none of the above. We're all big boys here and don't need a pat on the back, so let's save our dwindling cash and skip the celebration.
Liz: You are such a bitch.

Yes, my boss called me a bitch. No, I wasn't offended in the slightest, but, a few days later when I was sitting in comedy class and the instructor asked us to think of an argument we'd recently had, obviously this one came to mind. Each of us then had to get up on stage in front of our classmates and act out our argument, switching back and forth between being ourselves and our antagonist. So, I got up and did the above bit of dialogue.

That took about 15 seconds. It was supposed to be a 2 minute exercise.

I ad-libbed at this point, mining the 20-year relationship I've had with Liz for any material I could think of. My impression of Liz's persona quickly deteriorated into a unrecognizable caricature, replete with improbably hysterical voice and flailing arms.

Afterwards, one of the gals in class asked me if that stuff about my boss was true and I assured her it was.

So, flash forward two weeks and I'm at work in the kitchen area, making myself a cup of tea and chatting with Liz, when I look over at the receptionist's desk and see that we have a substitute receptionist. It's the gal from comedy class. Doh!

She sauntered over.

"So, THIS is where you work, huh?"

Note to self: It's a small freakin' world. Watch what you say.

2010-04-28T21:09:00.000-07:00

As is my habit from time to time, I ran off to Reno for 24 hours earlier this week with a bunch of old coworkers to play a stupid amount of blackjack and catch up on each others' lives. For example, on the drive up to Reno my old coworker, Ralph, a man with whom I once worked very closely, confided that he had recently taken up an activity that was something new for him.

Ralph, who is the "jew" to my "ish", explained that he had volunteered to do a reading of the Torah in his synagogue, and he's been practicing for a while on a daily basis to carry it off. Ralph's Hebrew abilities aren't that strong yet and additionally the Torah isn't just read, but rather chanted in a semi-melodic fashion, so it takes a lot of work for a layjew to get up to speed. It would seem that Ralph, is making a concerted effort to be a strong member of his congregation and set an example of spirituality and hard work for his children.

After hearing his tale, I explained that I also had taken up a new activity recently. In my new hobby I make cock and ball jokes, some of which unfairly feature my mother.

It's nice to see that Ralph and I haven't grown apart yet.

The casino part of the trip went pretty smoothly until around 6:00am the next morning when I was rudely awakened in my hotel room by what sounded like a jet engine. Apparently Reno had been overcome by a tremendous windstorm featuring gusts up to 90 mph, and the hotel was not well sealed. The wind whistled and roared through rooms.

I made my way downstairs and cut around the casino to get to the coffee shop for breakfast. Right about then the power went out.

Have you ever seen the power go out in a casino? Me either. It's really bizarre to see an act of nature affect one of the world's least natural environments. Freaky.

I once thought that the image of old people glumly feeding coins into ever-hungry slot machines was one of the most depressing things. There's no joy or hope in it, just a nauseating combination of addiction and catatonia. Well, the one thing more depressing is watching old people sitting in the dark and glumly staring at blank screens on powerless slot machines.

Anyway, electricians rushed around the casino within minutes, quickly restoring the lighting to the card tables and the electricity to as many slot machines as possible. Less money-generating items like bathrooms or restaurants were conspicuously deprioritized.

Lost around $80, but a good time was had by all.

2010-04-21T20:58:00.000-07:00

I drove the family to see my sister this weekend. Daisy, from the backseat, informed me and Hank that she had been making the kids in her class crack up recently. Given my recent experience with stand-up comedy, I was curious to here what passed for top-notch humor among the 10 year-old set.

Daisy: Oh, it's hilarious. The boys FREAK out!
Me: Yeah? What do you say?
Daisy: I've been telling them that I want to eat them!
Me: You... tell... the... boys... that... you... want... to... eat... them?
Daisy: It's sooo funny! I tell them that I want to eat them in a special place! Eat them like a roast beef sandwich!
Me: Like... a.... roast... beef... sandwich...
Daisy: They freak out! It's hilarious!

Modern educational literature refers to times like these as "teachable moments". Obviously I needed to say something.

Me: Huh.

For the record, although Daisy is 10 years-old, she's a very young 10. She's a smart kid, but when it comes to world savvy, she's about 7. When she refers to eating her fellow classmates in a special place like a roast beef sandwich, you can be pretty sure that she is imagining actually eating a roast beef hilariously made out of classmates and NOT referring to oral sex, although she may be the only person in the room thinking that way.

I contemplated this situation for a while afterwards and eventually realized it required action. I acted.

Me: So, how about Daisy telling her classmates that she wants to eat them in a special place?
Hank: Oh my god! OH MY GOD!
Me: We need to address this situation.
Hank: Yes, you're right. We do.
Me: You realize that when I say "we", I mean "you". YOU need to address this. I'm not explaining the many layers of sexuality to her that need to be discussed here.
Hank: Ok, ok. I guess I should handle this.

And that, my friends, is how parenting is done.

I told this story to a friend this evening. She stared at me for a moment and said, "Don't ever let Hank get away because you will fuck that kid up by yourself."

Amen.

2010-04-20T20:19:00.000-07:00

Comedy College, unsurprisingly, was pretty entertaining. Maybe it was because taking a class in stand-up comedy was completely orthogonal to all the other major activities in my life. Or maybe it was because the instructor was a pretty funny comedian. Either way, I looked forward to walking into that class each week.

The first session was a little off-putting though.

The instructor asked each one of us in turn for a little bit of background. When I told him that I was a computer programmer, he immediately exclaimed that he had spent some time in the software industry and that he found quite a few funny people in that world. Something in how he said this made it seem like he was trying to comfort me, as though I were the lone African American applicant to a high powered job and the interviewer was assuring me that he had met smart black people before.

There there, computer boy. I'm sure your ones and zeroes jokes will be knee slappers.

Then when the instructor found out the student in the back of the room was 43 years old, he assured that student that there were plenty of venues to do comedy outside of traditional comedy clubs. The instructor said that there were corporate gigs, cruise ship jobs, and quite a few old-age homes hired older comedians.

Awesome.

I mean, I wasn't planning on quitting my day job or pursuing stand-up comedy in any serious capacity, but as a fellow man in his 40s, I was somewhat dismayed to get relegated to the retirement home circuit before I had even stepped on stage.

Then, we launched into a question-and-answer session where my fellow students asked a series of idiotic questions. One guy wanted to know how often comedians got beat up by offended audience members (answer: not often) and another guy was interested in hearing about the frequency of comedy groupies (answer: even less often). Several other students cracked open their weathered notebooks and haltingly read aloud some of the material that they had apparently been squirreling away for quite some time. They sucked.

But, by the time the fifth class had ended, we'd covered some good material, including:

1) A detailed process on how to take a topic and brainstorm your way to some jokes

2) Techniques on how to rehearse and refine your material

3) Suggestions on what type of personas work well with audiences

And most importantly, the advice to just get up on stage and start trying. The instructor drilled into us that we were going to suck and fail pretty often at first and it was all part of the learning process. I'm not a big fan of failure, but it made sense that it's difficult to emerge onto stage the first time as a fully formed comedian.

I may go back for the next round of classes in the future, but for now I'm pretty content to sit back and let some of this soak in.

2010-04-19T21:14:00.000-07:00

I typically measure restaurant food on three axes of judgment:

1) Spiciness
2) Quantity
3) Chocolatiness

All three of those together usually aren't enjoyable, but otherwise it's a pretty good guide to making Mike's mouth happy. If I'm having a good meal, odds are that you'll hear me yelp, "Ow! Burny! Good!"

Hank, on the other hand, has a more sophisticated palette. So, in honor of her birthday, I took her out to a restaurant that didn't have jalapeno anything on the menu. In fact, here's a snippet of descriptive text from their website:

Our food is made with the best ingredients we can find in our area: cultivated plants grown from heirloom seeds; wild-harvested leaves, flowers, barks and roots; local fish, seaweeds and coastal grasses; pastured meat, poultry and eggs from small farmers. These are the flavors of place.
The process of finding ingredients and transforming them into cuisine are not separate events, but one continuous action, constantly informed by cultural expectations and new ideas. We brine, cure and smoke, as cooks have been doing for thousands of years, but we also embrace modern cooking methods, like sous vide. Our dishes are animated by flavors and textures both familiar and strange

Really? You're going to animate my dishes with bark? Huh.

So, we went this Saturday night, and it certainly was unusual. We had the 11-course tasting menu where each course was two or three bites of food and was paired with some sort of alcoholic beverage. Typically each course was described by the waiter as he laid down the plates. After he described the first course I beamed at him and exclaimed, "I know most of those words!"

He smiled proudly at me as though I had just wet myself on the way to a last place finish in the Special Olympics.

Some of the courses were impenetrable (salty kumquat shaved ice?), others were savory and hearty (mushroom porridge with veal au jus), at least one contained weeds that I can't kill fast enough in my backyard, and my reaction to the single slice of cheese delicately drizzled with some sort of sauce was the same reaction I get to modern art that consists solely of a solidly colored rectangle. "I think I could have made that."

While most of the courses weren't delicious, they were all interesting. I've never had spinach whipped into a foam, or chocolate cake that has been crystallized. And although you probably won't improve the taste of a carrot by roasting it in hay, you'll sure as hell make me think about my meal more than I normally do.

So, was it the most deliciousness I could have had for my money? No, but the interestingness per dollar wasn't bad.

As for the rest of Hank's birthday menu, it mostly consisted of her eating as many sweets as possible. In general Hank avoids refined sugar, but there are three occasions per year when she indulges: her birthday (yay for birthdays!), Christmas (Jesus loves sugar!), and our anniversary (drown your sorrows in candy, Hank!)

So although we may skip the hay roasting next year, you can be sure that Hank's next birthday will also feature numerous sugar crashes and a lingering stomach ache.

2010-04-16T20:23:00.000-07:00

This week was my final stand-up comedy class. I commemorated my graduation by signing up for one final 3-minute slot at their open mic night.

Although I knew I could do an ok set by just refining my material from the previous week, it seemed like I could learn more by trying out new material. I figured I could probably do 3 more minutes on a subject like Google alone. So, I combed through some of my notes and came up a few minutes of Internet jokes. I whittled this down to 3 mediocre minutes, throwing out some dead-weight bits and replacing them with other dead-weight bits. I found the right place for the dick joke and called it a set.

Ladies and gentlemen, "I Am Prepared to Give Up at Any Time" reluctantly presents my second (and probably last) stand-up comedy set ever. Some of you have been reading my blog for years, and this video is your reward/punishment. Please note the following:

1) There were a few other newbies performing that night. I wasn't the worst, but I was far from the best. Let's be generous and say I was slightly worse than the average beginner.

2) Yes, I know that my microphone technique sucks and my timing isn't much better. That combined with the mediocre audio quality of this video makes some of the jokes hard to hear.

3) I describe a family member at one point and my description is completely fabricated.

4) Yes, I am very nervous up there. Mostly I look somewhat calm, but when I trip over my words and forget important phrases, it's pretty clear that I am working hard.

Ta dah!

2010-04-08T21:11:00.001-07:00

Wow, almost three weeks since my last blog post. That's probably the longest I've ever gone between posts. It's nice that I'm still setting personal records at my advanced age. Go me!

So, two weeks ago my wife and daughter left to go visit some in-laws in Colorado. For the first time ever, I skipped this trip. I did so for 3 reasons:

1) Work was going to be really busy around that time
2) Really? More in-laws? Seriously?
3) I'm a prick.

The first two reasons didn't really sell my wife, but upon contemplating the third one, she agreed that this trip would be best made without me. So, for the very first time EVUH, I had the house alone to myself for a week. It was going to be debauchapolooza, except with more hookers. There were only two flaws with that plan:

1) It really was a super busy time at work.
2) My step-mother-in-law was coming in to town and was going to be staying with me.

Note that my stepmominlaw is a really nice lady and an easy house guest to have, but it goes without further explanation that having one's wife's step-mom around really cuts down on the drunken whoring. Nobody wants to have this conversation:

Me: Hi step mom, this is my, uh, friend, Trixie.
Trixie: It'll cost another $100 for the old broad.

Nobody.

Anyway, so I've been working a bunch because at work we just launched a new website. After years of giving away our flagship product away to millions of people for free, and then just kind of hoping for a magical visit from the money elves, we decided to try and make something that customers might actually buy. This is being referred to in various industry publications as a "revenue model". That is only amusing in that apparently we went so many years without one.

Oh, and I did one other thing during my blog time off. This one is, perhaps, more interesting.

I got up on stage at a local comedy club and did 3 minutes of stand-up comedy at an open-mike night.

Let's be clear here. Although I think I'm probably funnier than the average person on the planet, I harbor NO illusions about actually being a real comic. There's a world of difference between firing off a timely quip at the lunch table or (putting together an amusing phrase in a blog) and doing good standup comedy. The former is right up my alley. The latter is WAY out of my comfort zone.

Comedy is something that I've wanted to do for around 25 years though. It finally occurred to me a couple of months ago that I could dismiss two of the major reasons that had kept me off the stage all this time:

1) I'm 41 freaking years old and no longer fear sucking at this. Of course I'll suck at it! Big deal! I'll walk off that stage and still have my job, wife, and kid. If people laugh, that's great. If they don't, then I still have a good life.

2) I've written about 1000 posts in this blog over the last 6 years. Most of it is utter crap, but about 1% of the material is pretty good. Seems like I ought to be able to find a few minutes of good stand-up material by mining the 1% out of the crap.

Then, I found the San Francisco Comedy College. I've been taking a class there once a week for the last month, doing the assignments, and trying to put together a few minutes of material. The school also has a comedy club where they have nightly shows of one kind or another. Our instructor has been strongly encouraging us to get up on stage and just try it because it's the only way to figure out what material works and what doesn't.

So, last week I did it. Well, first I walked around the block repeatedly, reciting my material aloud as I walked, like some sort of mental patient. Then, I stopped in at a bar and asked for a shot of tequila. Then I did my crazy person rehearsal again.

Then I got up on the freaking stage for 3 minutes and ranted about how much I hate babies. The audience that night consisted of about 25-30 people, most of whom were other comedians. They generously laughed at all the right times.

(Incidentally, if I know you and you're wondering why I kept this stupid project a secret, it's because I although I don't mind failing in front of a bunch of strangers, I DO mind failing in front of my friends and family. I didn't want support. I wanted anonymity.)

Will I ever do it again? That remains to be seen. Am I damn pleased with myself for finally doing something that I've been thinking about for 25 years?

Yes.

2010-03-23T19:43:00.000-07:00

The King Tut exhibit, which has not been to San Francisco in about 30 years, is in town and Daisy wanted to go see it. So, last Friday night, we dashed off for a little culture.

My coworker, Ashton, has a rule about culture. His rule is that anything made before 1983 is completely uninteresting to him. Don't talk to him about Led Zeppelin, or M*A*S*H, or The Godfather.

I've realized that I probably have a similar bias. I have a hard time getting excited about anything before around 1900. So, King Tut just barely misses the mark by about 3000 years. Actually, King Tut wasn't even there. Apparently he couldn't be bothered to come to San Francisco this time, so we just looked at a bunch of his stuff.

Most of the artifacts at the exhibit concerned the religious beliefs of King Tut and his peeps. We saw numerous carvings and sculptures that were supposed to aide King Tut during his afterlife. Note, however, that I've never even been able to pay attention to what's important in my own (ex) religion, so staggering through display after display of the wooden boats that were supposed to guide King Tut in the afterlife, and the "shabti" figurines that were supposed to do all his afterlife chores, just really wasn't my idea of a fun or interesting Friday night.

It's not like the ancient Egyptians even had a compelling vision for their afterlife. At least with Christianity you have the stark dichotomy of the Hell vs Heaven destinations. Hell is all fiery and brimstoney while Heaven offers blissful joy. That's drama! With Islam you get the potential comedy of awkward sex with 72 inexperienced partners. In King Tut's day, however, they were consumed with trying to get out of afterlife laundry, dishes, and cleaning the pyramid gutters. That's just weird.

All that being said, if the museum had let me play with the boats, or scare little kids with his golden mask, THAT might have been fun, but if all I can do is look at old crap in a glass case, well that's about as interactive as being a fan of King Tut on Facebook. Scratch that. At least on Facebook I could have written on his wall.

Daisy dug it though.

2010-03-16T20:05:00.000-07:00

My wife and I have differing opinions about how to put away laundry. While I agree that button-down shirts and fancy slacks need to be hung neatly, I am more than happy to cram my socks, running shirts, underwear, or jeans into their appropriate cram-holes. I'm not exactly sure why Hank wants me to fold my underwear? Why should they get such royal treatment when I'm just going to put my ass in them?|

That's not really my main point though. It's just the prologue.

So, I went grocery shopping last weekend and none of my usual toilet paper choices were in stock. I picked some other random pack and moved on. It was only days later, when I was sitting on my throne, that I discovered the horror of my purchase: one ply!

Ugh, I can't believe I accidentally bought the world's worst toilet paper. To address the situation, I've been complaining about the toilet paper non-stop.

Me: Gah! Ugh! I hate that one ply! It takes me FOREVER to wipe my butt now.
Hank: Do you know what your problem is?
Me: Yes! My problem is that the toilet paper is SINGLE PLY.
Hank: No, your problem is that you're a crammer. You wipe your butt like you put away your laundry.
Me: What?! No! I am not just cavalierly grabbing a handful of one-ply and thrusting it at my ass. What takes so damn long is folding and folding and folding those wafer-thin plys.
Hank: Just fold it up.
Me: Just fold it up?!?! I have to ensure that every wipe puts as many molecules of toilet paper as possible between my hand and my feces! I'm folding like crazy in there! I'm making origami cranes and paper airplanes. It takes a freakin' Noah's Arkplane of one-ply to get cleaned up! Houdini couldn't get out of that bathroom any faster.
Hank: It really shouldn't take all that effort.
Me: Woman, have you seen what comes out of my butt?

That pretty much won the argument right there.

2010-03-14T19:44:00.000-07:00

As I grudgingly changed the clocks this morning, I mentally composed this blog post, itemizing in my head all the reasons why I hate this time-shifting game we play. However, since this is one of my many annual rants (hello Thanksgiving dinner!), I needed to make sure that I hadn't already covered this ground in a previous entry.

So, I searched my blog for mentions of Daylight Savings Time and found this.

Crikey! Apparently I LOVE these time-shifting shenanigans. Gah! All the hatred I have for moving my clocks forward is more than balanced out by the profound love I have for moving the clocks back. I apparently refer to that as the "best day of the year"! Kind of takes the hot air out of my rant sails.

So, uh, moving on to other topics....

Last week, during a lunch at work, we were discussing our favorite foods. I absurdified the topic by asking people what they'd eat if they only had 5 minutes left to live, and were forced to spend that time eating. Most folks suggested chocolate or some other form of sweets. Raymond, however, took a different approach.

Raymond: Is it just me dying in 5 minutes or is all of humanity coming to an end?
Me: What? Uh..., I guess all of humanity.
Raymond: Oh, ok, then I choose human flesh.
Me: You want the very last thing you ever eat to be... human flesh.
Raymond: When else am I going to get a chance to eat it?

He went on to explain that since he wanted to be sure of the right quality and fat-content of the meat, he would choose to eat his own leg.

The weird part of all this is that I can't find any fault in his logic.

Impressed by Raymond's creativity, I choose to ask my daughter the same question at dinner that night. She contemplated the question for about 2 seconds and then said, "I'd eat chocolate for the first 4 minutes and 50 seconds. Then, for the last 10 seconds, I'd finally try peanut butter."

Daisy is deathly allergic to peanuts.

Man, people have surprisingly thoughtful answers to my unsurprisingly stupid questions.

2010-03-10T20:16:00.000-08:00

I watched Mythbusters with Daisy tonight.

One of the featured myths involved trying to shatter glass with a sonic boom. Mythbuster host Adam got to test this myth by flying at supersonic speeds in a Blue Angels jet to create the sonic boom. Meanwhile, the other hosts tested gun shooting stunts seen in the movie "Wanted", trying to duplicate tricks where the shooter gets a bullet to follow a curved path.

Aside from a preparatory step, where the hosts cleaned the rust off an old tool, the episode was jam packed with a variety of super cool gun tricks and jet fighter stunts. I was very entertained!

"Oh man," said Daisy in apparent awe, "I'd love to clean the rust off something."

(Spoiler alert: Although sonic booms didn't break glass, and curving a bullet's trajectory is unlikely, rust can indeed be removed. Daisy was very pleased.)

2010-03-01T19:34:00.000-08:00

Daisy and I chatted a fair bit about her Taekwondo tournament this last weekend. I kept coming back to the Jesus prayer they featured during the opening ceremonies.

Daisy: Yeah, that was weird. I mean, if they wanted to thank someone for the tournament, shouldn't they thank someone from Korea for inventing Taekwondo?
Me: Maybe they were asking Lord Jeebus to protect them from harm?

(Note that this theorized protection apparently did not apply to the woman who took a serious head shot, fell unconscious, and got taken out of the gym on a stretcher)

Daisy cracked up at my irreverent mention of Lord Jeebus.

Daisy: Lorrrrd Jeeeeeebus! Thank you Lord Jeeeeeeeeebus!

I chuckled at this. Hank shot me a "You Are Breaking The Child Again" look.

Me: Ok, Daisy, now although I also enjoy the phrase "Lord Jeebus", most of the people in this country are Christians and take their Jesus very seriously. Saying "Lord Jeebus" would be pretty offensive to them, like a swear word. It's like the words "ass" or "shit". You can say them inside this house because those words don't offend me in the slightest, but it's not wise outside the house. Same with Jeebus.

Daisy: Oh Lord Jeebus, thank you for my anus!
Hank: Did you just thank Jesus for your anus?
Daisy: Yes! Lord Jeebus, thank you for my ass! I love saying "ass"!!

Hank shot me another look.

Me: Okok, let me repeat. I LOVE you thanking Lord Jeebus for your ass, but please remember we are in the minority here. You can't say that stuff outside our house and you can't say that stuff when there are other people in our house. Jesus is pretty much the most important thing to many many people. Heck, there are probably plenty of your friends who would not appreciate this kind of talk. Let's not offend our friends, ok?
Daisy: Sure, but it's just us here right now, right?
Me: Yep.
Daisy: Jeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeebus!

Hank: *glaring at me* You owe me!
Me: What? You OWE me!
Daisy: Why does anyone owe anyone else?
Me: Your mom owes me for teaching you about Jeebus.
Daisy: Ok.

(Note, I understand that I have just offended some of you, and that saddens me. I just felt the need to update you all on Daisy's progress with my parenting priorities.)

2010-02-28T17:17:00.000-08:00

Daisy has been taking Taekwondo for about 4 years now. She steadily advanced through the ranks and now sports a 2nd degree blackbelt.

When most people hear the term "blackbelt", they picture a butt-kicking bad-ass, administering furious chest-caving punches and launching hyper deadly skull-crushing kicks. That's not exactly the kind of blackbelt that Daisy is. Although she has learned a ton of cool moves, with her small frame and general aversion to physical confrontation she won't be crushing any skulls any time soon. So, unless her opponent is equally undersized and conflict averse, Daisy won't be kicking many butts.

Taekwondo tournaments occur in neighboring communities once or twice a year, and although Daisy's instructor encourages all of his students to attend, they're optional and Daisy has never been interested. For some reason, however, she finally agreed to attend one scheduled for this weekend.

So, her Taekwondo classes this week were focused on tournament preparation. She practiced the two skills that she'd be exhibiting at the event: her 1st degree blackbelt form (a choreographed series of 81 martial arts kicks/punches/movements), and sparring. Daisy knew her form pretty well, but tournament sparring is different than the sparring she had been doing in class for the last four years. In class, despite the fact that the kids are wrapped in padding like the Michelin man, only very light contact is allowed. In a tournament, somebody might kick you in the head pretty hard, and that's within the rules.

During Thursday's class, they were practicing sparring (tournament style) and her opponent landed a solid kick to Daisy's head. Daisy fell over and promptly began bawling. Her instructor, who is a tough love proponent, capable of yelling at a student one moment and then warmly praising them minutes later, got on Daisy's case. He yelled that they'd eat her alive in a tournament if she started crying and that she needed to toughen up and fight back.

I was pretty sure that this was the end of her desire to attend a tournament. I was incorrect. Her desire to please her instructor trumped her fear of getting kicked in the head.

Daisy stuck with it and by 10:00am on Saturday morning, we arrived at a Taekwondo tournament in Stockton. It was packed with hundreds of kids and even more parents. It was also astonishingly poorly organized. Three hours after we arrived, the "opening ceremonies" kicked off, of which the highlight seemed to be a prayer to Jesus from the local minister.

Ugh. I realize that I live in my little San Francisco bubble, where atheists and hippies live together in government-supported harmony, but I was kind of surprised to see a Taekwondo tournament kick off with a shoutout to Jesus. Apparently, although Taekwondo is from Korea where Christians are in the minority, we were in Stockton where Jesus is Lord. Agnostic ex-Jews? Please keep your grousing to your low-readership blogs.

Anyway, Jesus aside (as if), although some tournaments are the kind where every kid gets a trophy just for showing up, this event actually required you to finish in the top 3 in your division. Daisy confided in me that she hoped to come home with at least one trophy. I assured her that I was already super proud of her and just wanted to see her do her best. Amidst the hundreds of competitors I saw around us in the gym, many going through drills with their parents as we spoke, I wanted to keep her expectations grounded.

Turned out, however, when Daisy's events finally started (more than 4 hours after we arrived), there were only 2 other kids in her division, one of whom was her equally pacifist best-friend. The other kid wasn't even going to spar, so Daisy was guaranteed a trophy for both her events.

Sure enough, Daisy sparred her best-friend, lost, and got awarded a 2nd Place sparring trophy. Then, in the form competition, Daisy beat her best friend (but not the one other kid) and got another 2nd Place trophy. Two events and two generously awarded trophies! Sold!

I sat Daisy down afterwards and told her that the trophies were cool, but what REALLY impressed me was that she got her knocked on her butt earlier in the week and was still willing to go to the tournament. I explained that that was pretty damn brave and that I was very proud of her.

What I left unsaid was that I hope she rests on her laurels and retires from the tournament circuit. Let the other kids get kicked in the head.

2010-02-25T19:33:00.000-08:00

Ladies and gentlemen, I do hereby proudly present my method for fixing the very broken Winter Olympics.

I'm not referring to the coverage of the Olympics, which is also very broken. NBC has done an atrocious job of translating the Olympic Games into a televised product (please God, kill me before I have to watch another kleenex piece on the personal struggles and demons of Athlete X). I am just referring to the Games themselves. I propose the two following very simple rule changes:

1) Any sport where the gear that is worn/ridden/carried weighs more than 20% of of the competitor's weight will be removed from the Olympics*.

This rule removes all of the stupid sports like bobsledding and luging, where the "athlete" sleds down the hill. Yes, I realize these "sports" are dangerous, and require some skill, but they are no more worthy of being an Olympic sport than NASCAR is. If you enjoy watching people drive, that's cool, but no gold medal for them.

2) Much like bachelors degrees in college are either a bachelor of science (for areas of study that are typically judged objectively), or a bachelor of arts (for more subjectively judged subjects), I would like to divide the remaining Olympic sports into two camps. We'd have the Objective Medals and the Subjective Medals**.

I'm not saying that figure skating is any better or worse than short track speed skating (actually, in this case, I am, because short track speed skating is absolutely the coolest sport in the Winter Olympics), I'm merely saying that a gold medal awarded for being the fastest skater is very different from a gold medal awarded because a judge thought your hands were artfully posed. Apollo Ohno, you get an Objective Medal. Ice Dancers and Shaun White, enjoy your Subjective Medals.

(And, yes, I realize that even in the Objective sports, like slalom, sometimes a human judge must intervene to disqualify someone, but that's not the same thing as trying to judge the quality of a performance.)

Ta dah! I fixed it!

Oh, hell, while I'm at it, let's fix a few other sports:

Soccer: You can have amazing play after amazing play that result in no score. If I see a great sequence of of passes, and a remarkable shot on goal, I want that to result in a goal MUCH more often. How about making the goal a little wider? Maybe 10%? I'm not asking for basketball-style scoring here, but if the average game ended up with a score of 4-3 instead of 1-1, I think that would be much more satisfying (also, fewer shootouts this way too).

Baseball: All the time off between playoff games allows teams to just keep re-using their top 2 or 3 pitchers instead of their whole pitching staff. This means that the team and skills that got you to the playoffs are not the same team and skills that you'll use to win the playoffs. That sucks. Get rid of all those off-days please.

College Football: Bowl games are boring and a terrible way to pick the best team. Meanwhile, college basketball has maybe the MOST exciting way to crown a champion. How about learning from the basketball side of the house and starting a December NCAA Football tournament?

What did I miss?

* The 20% number may be altered once further study on the matter has been conducted

** The names "Objective Medals" and "Subjective Medals" have not yet been market-tested and are subject to change.

2010-02-18T19:50:00.000-08:00

"Metrics" are defined as the science of measuring. When you're trying to evaluate complex systems, finding the right metric can be tricky. Take your health for example. You could measure your health by taking your temperature, testing your cholesterol level, evaluating your body mass index, determining your white blood cell count, or probably a hundred other ways to measure how healthy you are. Finding the right set of metrics to define whether or not a person is healthy is quite complicated.

Similarly, measuring the quality of a computer programmer is hard. You could measure them by how many lines of code they write, but the best programmers often write the least code. You could measure them by how many features they build, but if they pound out tons of features along with tons of bugs, you've got a crappy programmer.

If you pick the wrong metric, then you're potentially rewarding the wrong type of behavior.

I bring this up because Hank and I were chatting the other night about a couple we know who are going through some marital difficulties. I took the opportunity to size up our relationship.

Me: So, you getting ready to dump me?
Hank: Nope. I'm sticking around.
Me: Forever?!?!
Hank: Well, I thought about it and I realized that my life with you is better than it would be without you.
Me: Hmmmm. So, what you're saying, is that in order to keep our marriage intact, I just need to make sure that your life without me would be worse than your life with me?
Hank: Yes. Exactly.
Me: Now THAT is a metric I can work with.

Do you understand what this means? I don't have to make my wife happy. I just have to convince her that life without me will be at least 1% worse than life with me.

I could, for example, strap a series of explosives to Daisy and then wire the detonator to a dead man's switch that I would hold in my hand at all times. If Hank tried to end our marriage, or incapacitate me in any way, BOOM! Hank's life is suddenly much worse!

I gotta tell you, finding the right metric for a successful marriage has been quite a relief.

2010-02-13T21:13:00.000-08:00

My hair has been especially shaggy the last couple months. At some point it passed from Your Short Haircut Is Too Long into a wholly different Your Long Haircut Is Too Short. Around that point Hank commented that she liked seeing me with longer hair, so, since accommodating her merely required additional laziness, I agreed to let my hair grow out a bit more. There is no limit on how lazy I'm willing to be to please my wife.

Well, virtually no limit. Although inertia is the cornerstone of my wife-pleasing capabilities, this week I couldn't stand the shagginess any more, so I marched into a barber shop near work that I had visited a few times before. It's not a great place to get a haircut, but cutting my hair isn't really rocket science. I'm pretty sure I get Haircut 1A on the chart.

The barber (who was kind of an ass), did what appeared to be a reasonable job and I soon headed back to work. It was only an hour later, when I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror that I discovered the horror. I left the bathroom, and for the next couple hours I carefully positioned my head in all coworker conversations so as to minimize any chance that they'd spot the horrendous flaw. Eventually I got tired of hiding my hair.

Me: Ashton, you want to know what's been annoying me all afternoon?
Ashton: I do.
Me: Tell me what's wrong with my haircut.
Ashton: You really want to do this?
Me: I'm not talking about whether or not you like my hairstyle. I'm talking about an objective flaw in the haircut. This is not a subjective thing.

Ashton eyed me critically, shaking his head while silently evaluating my appearance.

Ashton: Well, one side is kind of poofier than the other
Me: Nope, that's not it. That's just from me running my hand through that side.
Ashton. Hmmm....
Me: ....
Ashton: Oh, god!

And then he busted up.

Somehow, inexplicably, the barber who kicked off my haircut by barking at me that he had been cutting hair for 28 years and knew what he was doing, managed to tidy up one of my sideburns, and completely remove the other one. I was no longer bilaterally symmetrical, one of the hallmarks of being a successfully functioning mammal.

One side of my head looked like this:

And the other side looked like this (note that the shadow here makes it look like maybe I have sideburns there, but rest assured, I do not)

There's like an inch difference! Total haircut fail.

2010-02-09T19:13:00.000-08:00

I went to work on Friday morning and after a few hours started to feel like crap. I came back home by lunch and spent the majority of the next day and a half sitting on the couch feeling achy, breaky, feverish, and useless. Then, on Sunday, although my fever had finally dissipated, I still spent most of the day on the couch.

During this epic couch-a-thon, I managed to clock 20 hours of television, which, despite what my ex-girlfriend claims, was definitely a weekend record for me. Those 20 hours included:

7 movies (Hancock, Wall-E, Pulp Fiction, Funny People, Unbreakable, Inside Man, Slumdog Millionaire)
The Superbowl
MythBusters (one episode)
This American Life (one episode)
Californication (one episode)
Some random channel flipping

Holy cow. I can't believe I watched 7 movies, an entire Superbowl, and still managed to squeeze a few more hours of other random TV with my wife/child. I lived a slackery life for quite a while pre-kid, but I can't ever recall quite that lethargic of a weekend. Just epic.

Thankfully Hank never caught whatever flu I had, so she took cheerfully care of all the household and child chores for the weekend, including fetching me soup and making a video store run. Her behavior was in stark contrast to how I typically act when she has the flu, when I am resentful and only teeth-grittingly helpful. What's the opposite of nurturing? Oh yeah, being a prick. That's what I do when she's sick.

So, yesterday, on my way home from work, I made sure to pick up a bouquet of flowers as a sign of my appreciation for Hank's excellent nursing.

Flowers are an interesting thing though. Sometimes they're just a bunch of flowers, but other times they're a stark reminder of how many years have passed since the last time I just brought home a bouquet of flowers. Hank stared at them skeptically.

Hank: What are those?
Me: Flowers!
Hank: What for?
Me: You!
Hank: Why?
Me: For taking such good care of me! Thank you!
Hank: ....
Me: ....
Hank: Are you cheating on me?

Oh well.

2010-02-04T20:49:00.001-08:00

Daisy, who is in the 5th grade this year, recently learned the famous mnemonic for knowing which order to perform various mathematical operations in an equation. The mnemonic is: Please Excuse My Dear Aunt Sally, which stands for: Parentheses, Exponents, Multiplication, Division, Addition, Subtraction.

We reviewed this fact this evening (while discussing the mind-blowingness of trying to divide by zero) when Hank interrupted by asking about factorials, wondering if they fell before parentheses in the order of precedence.

Daisy: Nowhere! It's not "Please excuse my dear MMMHMMMM Aunt Sally."
Me: Huh? Were you just trying to say "Please excuse my dear fucking Aunt Sally?"
Hank: She was NOT!
Me: I think she was. I think she just bleeped herself. Daisy, did you just bleep yourself?
Daisy: Yep.
Hank: Well, at least SHE bleeped herself, which is more than SOME people did.
Me: Regardless, she didn't get it right. What you were asking is whether it should be, "Fucking, please excuse my dear Aunt Sally".
Hank: Would you STOP saying that around the baby?
Me: Oh, my bad. In my head I was bleeping myself.
Daisy: That's good enough, Mom. It's the thought that counts.

Math is fun.

2010-02-03T19:02:00.000-08:00

Daisy is a big fan of the performing arts, so a few months ago we signed her up for singing lessons through a voice teacher we know. This last weekend was her first voice recital.

It was a fairly low-key event, held in the voice teacher's living room, but it was pretty cool hearing the improvement in Daisy's singing ability.

What wasn't cool about the recital? Everyone else.

Every single person sang either show tunes or opera. I can probably tolerate show tunes better than most people, but I simply cannot stand opera. It sounds unnatural, or inhuman at best, like a cat being mechanically separated. It's an example of a talent that is difficult to master and even more difficult to listen to. Other sounds in this category include show-offy guitar solos and every single note that has ever come out of a violin. Horrible horrible stuff.

Note that I'm not saying that these people were bad singers. They were not. I just find opera to be intolerable, ESPECIALLY when it's in a foreign language like German. German language + opera is pretty much the perfect storm of annoying vocals.

You know it's a tough show when you're grateful for the show tunes.

2010-01-22T21:13:00.000-08:00

At the lunch table the other day, my coworker Raymond, who appears to be a fairly heterosexual guy, mentioned his "List", which referred to his list of men that he'd be willing to have sex with. Apparently he had revealed the members of his list sometime in the past when I wasn't around, and he was unwilling to do so again.

Liz decided to give him a little grief:

Liz: So, you don't want us making fun of the people on your list? Ridiculing George Clooney? Hmmmm?
Raymond: Apparently you don't remember who's on my list.
Liz: Oh... wait... I DO remember. Edward James Olmos!!

I stopped in mid-chew and began to laugh uncontrollably. I laughed and laughed and laughed until I wept. After about 30 seconds, I caught some air and managed to utter, "Edward James Olmos? Nice choice."

Then I convulsed back into laughter and was out of commission for another 30 seconds or so. Tears were streaming down my face. This was maybe the funniest thing I had ever heard while not on drugs.

Let me stop at this point and say that I think making such a list is a worthy exercise. I'm not eager to start grabbing all the peen I can get, but there are some pretty handsome dudes out there. George Clooney, for example, is a pretty defensible choice to be on anybody's list.

Edward James Olmos, however.... Here's a picture of him:

Ok, ok. Maybe you're thinking that he was a hotter man in his youth. Here's a picture of him from the 80s:

Uhhhh, I have no idea what would make a dude put him on his list. I guess if you've got a gravitas fetish, or maybe a facial-crater fetish. Unreal.

Who's on my list? I'm not sure. Although I do think that George Clooney is dreamy, I'm not really interested in his penis. I guess if I had to start populating my list, I'd start with the tiniest dudes possible. The less penis the better. So, uh, the first guy would probably be....

Peter Dinklage, the dude on the right.

2010-01-17T18:35:00.000-08:00

Dear kettle,

It's been over six months since term-limits prevented me from running for another year of being Secretary of the PTA. Apparently, I must really miss those PTA Board meetings (where people prattled on in the least linear form possible in wildly successful attempts to put as much distance as possible between their opening remarks and their ultimate points), because I found myself this week at a neighborhood community meeting.

I had never gone to one of these meetings before, but it's the place where our police captain shows up, and our city supervisor shows up, and the general state of the neighborhood is discussed. This sounds pretty reasonable and informative, but in practice something very different occurs. These quarterly meetings appear to be the social club for the oldest people in the neighborhood. And what do old people like to do more than anything else? Complain and eat very bland crackers. Mostly complain.

There were lots of interactions like this:

Police Captain: blah blah blah.... and that's our plan to address the graffiti problem we've been having
Old Person: WE HAVE A TERRIBLE GRAFFITI PROBLEM! blah blah blah WHAT DO YOU PLAN TO DO ABOUT IT?!?
Police Captain: You raise an excellent point about our graffiti problem. Here's our plan: blah blah blah

If I had been the police captain, I would have just arrested or maybe shot anyone asking stupid and redundant questions. It was painfully obvious that people came into the meeting with their long-winded complaints all prepared and pre-winded and nothing was going to stop them from letting us all see the depth of their indignation. We heard useless diatribes against graffiti, totally misplaced complaints against other neighbors, and a series of deeply pained laments about the state of sidewalk policy.

This meeting was a complete validation of Rule #1 of Social Interactions. That rule states: Complaints expand to fill the size of any public forum.

I'm seeing the same thing at work. My company produces a couple of browser plugins and has a medium-sized website. There are a couple of places on the website where users can add comments, and there's also a support forum where customers can ask questions.

Although we get plenty of people filling in the fields with relevant comments and questions, we get a surprising amount of people complaining about totally random stuff. One guy wrote in to the support site complaining about the asparagus in his Stouffer's dinner. Another dude was missing part of his circuit board. Some lady didn't like the jeans she got.

Huh? Jeans? Circuit boards? Aparagus?!?! Dude, you're preaching to the choir here about mushy asparagus, but my company is as involved in your TV Dinner as... well, as nothing. We have absolutely nothing to do with your goddamn asparagus. Apparently, however, if you put a form on the internet, and let people type into it, THEY WILL FILL IT WITH RANDOM COMPLAINTS. The internet is just chock-filled with old people, desperately hunting and pecking their dissatisfaction into every text box they can find.

I don't know that there's a solution to this, aside from maybe trying to distract internet users with bland crackers, but I think it's just very odd.

So very odd.

Respectfully,
pot

2010-01-07T19:30:00.000-08:00

If there was one thing I could teach Daisy and have it really stick in her brain, it would be to question authority. I'd have her question her teachers, question the law, question religion, and question me. Turns out, that's not the way she's wired. I don't think I've ever met anyone who was so completely mesmerized by even the hint of a rule.

Our return trip from Kauai featured prime examples of Daisy's lawfulness.

It started at breakfast the morning we were due to leave. We had been staying in a condo and had overbought a bunch of groceries for the week. Sitting at the breakfast table, I contemplated all the food we'd need to eat in order not to waste it.

Me: Daisy, we bought way too much sugar. Here, eat a sugar cube.

I offered her a tasty tasty sugar cube. She stared at me like I was from Mars, an unhealthy scofflaw from Mars.

Daisy: (stunned) Dad! I'm not supposed to eat sugar cubes!
Me: I know they're not healthy, which is why I don't offer you one very often, but here's your big chance to eat one. I'm just going to throw them away otherwise.
Daisy: But... but... they're not good for me!
Me: I KNOW! Look, having one sugar cube isn't going to kill you, but if you don't want it, that's fine.

She contemplated this.

Daisy: Wellllllll, SHOULD I eat the sugar cube?
Me: Should you? There's no should or shouldn't here. I offered you a sugar cube. Eat it or don't.
Daisy: Do you WANT me to eat the sugar cube?

At this point Daisy was desperate for any tiny shred of authority she could use to justify eating the sugar cube. I didn't take the bait.

Me: Daisy, I neither want you to eat it nor not eat it. This is entirely your decision. It's just you and the cube.
Daisy: What if I don't like it?

I laughed at this line of questioning, and the rest of the table occupants soon moved on to more pressing issues, planning our departure from Kauai. I quickly forgot all about the sugar cube. About five minutes later...

Daisy: Well, if I don't like it, I can always spit it out, right?

Daisy beamed at me with this conclusion while I marveled at the fact that she had been sitting at the table for the last five minutes in silence while still contemplating the magical sugar cube. Amazingly, she did eat it. It was, hands down, the most ballsy thing she'd do for the rest of the trip.

Later, when we were checking our bags at the airport, I took some crumpled paper out of my pocket and asked Daisy to throw it away for me. I pointed out a trash can about 15 yards away.

In between us and the trash can were a couple of those ribboned line-dividers. There was no one currently in line, so it was a straight shot to the trash can, especially for a short 10 year-old who could easily scoot under the ribbons.

Daisy: But, Dad, that's where the line goes.
Me: That's fine. No one is there. It's just ribbons and an empty line. No one will mind.
Daisy: But...
Me: It's RIGHT there. Trust me that it's fine. Just go!

Daisy froze, and then sprinted off in the opposite direction, going the extra 100 yards AROUND the empty line. I stood in amazement, wondering if it was too late to DNA test my daughter.

30 minutes later we stood in the security line. We took off our shoes, just like we had every other time during the trip, and we placed the very same carry-ons we'd had the whole trip onto the TSA conveyor belt.

The TSA Automaton walked back and forth on the other side of the conveyor belt, asking if anyone had any liquids or gels in their carry-ons. Daisy's arm shot up.

Daisy: I have my medicine.
Me: Don't worry. Your medicine is fine. It's just a few drops of liquid. They're looking for...

The TSAutomaton cut me off and demanded to see inside Daisy's bag. I opened it up and rifled around for Daisy's inhaler. Along the way, I pulled out Daisy's toothpaste, the very same tube we had been successfully carrying all week WITHOUT BLOWING UP ANY AIRPLANES.

TSAbot: Sir, would you like to check this?
Me: The toothpaste?
TSAbot: Would you like to check it?
Me: You're asking me if I want to go stand in line for an hour to check a tube of toothpaste?
TSAbot: Either that or I throw it away.
Me: Yes, please throw away my daughter's toothpaste.

And with that we moved on. I suggested to Daisy in the future that she not be so adamant about having TSA inspect every inch of her life.

Daisy: But, Dad, they said liquids and GELS! My toothpaste is a gel!

Me, I'm just proud of her for not guiltily puking up the sugarcube when we went through the agricultural inspection.

2010-01-05T19:39:00.000-08:00

So, our good friends Liz and Larry, who inherited a timeshare a few years ago, invited our family to come join them for a week in Kauai. Armed with the lessons learned from the same trip we took two years ago (no goddamn surfing, and bring an arsenal of sonic weapons for the goddamn roosters), we crossed the mighty Pacific and spent a week in lovely Kauai together.

The beaches were marvelous, the late night card games were fun, and we skirted any major tragedies by employing copious quantities of sunscreen, ketchup, vodka, and a box named Lynn. Hell, most of us even came home with ocean-tested Boogie Boarding nicknames:

Hank: The Maple Wave (See, she's from Vermont)
Daisy: The Reading Rider (Uh, because she likes to read?)
Larry: The Oceanic Six Footer (He's tall! He's in the ocean! We're on the island where Lost was filmed!)
Me: The Gefilte Fish (I'm Jewish! Hilarious!)

Liz is apparently unnicknameable.

Anyway, the trip went pretty well. We had our 6 days o' fun and then climbed onto our airplane and were promptly informed by the United pilot that we'd even be arriving back in San Francisco a little early. Hoo hoo! Smoothest travel day EVER!

We rolled down to the runway and then....

Well, we just kind of stopped there for a long while. Then the pilot came back on the intercom and explained that they had found some mechanical issues and we'd be heading back to the gate for some repairs. No prob though, after an hour or so, we were ready to depart again.

We rolled down to the runway and then....

Well, har har, darned if that plane wasn't still having pesky mechanical problems. We went back to the gate and hung out there for a good while longer, while United put their top head-scratchers and elbow-greasers on the issue. After approximately 2.99 hours of this game, we were informed that we could get off the airplane temporarily. Meanwhile the mechanics continued to read the maintenance manuals, whack on the engine with hammers, and download all the Windows 95 virus checkers they could fit on their floppy disks.

We hung out at the gate while various United employees got up and made speeches about how we'd have more information in another 20 minutes. This went on for a couple hours. Many of the passengers hopped on their cellphones looking for other ways off the island, but flights out of Kauai are infrequent and solidly packed. Meanwhile, various passengers began to exhibit their stress personas.

Angry Activist Man yelled out the email address of the United CEO, exhorting us all to complain online as his wife literally dragged him out of the room. Panicky Interrupter Woman demanded her luggage NOW as United employees explained the state of the airplane. Various other men loudly grumbled their displeasure as their wives nagged them to shut up. I, of course, just made smart ass comments barely softly enough to evade the notice of anyone official.

More than seven hours after we arrived at the airport, the crew finally gave up on the idea of flying out of there that Sunday evening and sent all hundreds of us out of the airport, with vouchers for a one night stay at the nearest Marriott hotel. Everyone hopped on our phones and tried to book flights later that week. I got a red-eye on Tuesday night, ensuring Daisy and I would miss at least two days of work and school. (Hank, due to other logistical issues, was on a different flight) Liz and Larry didn't get anything until Thursday. All of these new arrangements were booked with United with the understanding that if our airplane magically got fixed on Monday morning, we'd fly home on it instead.

Being stranded in Hawaii doesn't really sound that bad, but considering that I spent virtually all of my "extra" time there on the phone with United or in various lines, it was really an outstandingly crappy day.

The capper was the next morning when Larry called me to tell me that our plane had been fixed and that they had been automatically booked back on it. I excitedly called into United, confirmed that our original plane had indeed been fixed, would indeed be flying back to San Francisco that afternoon, but that the plane was full and did not have room for me and Daisy. I calmly explained to Steve in India that a mistake had been made and that clearly there was room for Daisy and I since we had been sitting on that exact damn airplane the previous day. Steve said there was nothing he could do. So, I waited for 30 minutes while he transferred me to his supervisor.

I spoke not so calmly to Supervisor Betty in India, explaining that the pilot had told us all that if the plane got fixed that we'd be able to take that flight. Betty made sure to speak very slowly to me so that I could clearly understand that the flight was full and that there was nothing she could do. My arguments that a mistake had been made were neither acknowledged nor appreciated. Betty finally agreed to call someone at the airport and then call me right back. That apparently is customer service supervisor code for "goodbye angry American".

I decided that yelling is something best done in person, so I grabbed Daisy and all our luggage, and headed back down to the Lihue airport, which was now my least favorite place in the world. Even though I had already been told by two levels of United employees that the flight was booked, I thought maybe if I just yelled loud enough at someone in person, perhaps that would merit a couple of boarding passes.

Turns our, har har, there WAS room for us on the plane. Steve from Bangalore had had his head up his sphincter as had his patience-less supervisor Betty from Bangalore. The ticket agent at the airport handed us our boarding passes and we flew back to San Francisco later that afternoon, merely one day late.

So, apologies for boring you all with a travel-gone-awry story, but I like to get these things down on "paper" so that I never forget what a horrible experience airline travel is, and especially what an incompetent airline United is.

United Airlines, this was your second strike. Details on United's first epic fail can be found here.

2009-12-22T21:17:00.000-08:00

My wife and I attended her company's holiday party last week. Even though Hank has worked at this company for nearly a decade, I had never attended one of her corporate functions before, so I was going to be meeting the vast majority of her coworkers for the first time.

Going to your spouse's company holiday party for the first time is really about two things:

1) Choosing the right shirt. My algorithm optimized for color, formality, lack of stains, and unwaddedupness.

2) Finding out who is trying to sleep with your wife.

I did ok on #1, but #2 was a bit more challenging. Frankly, if there's one thing worse than my ability to put together a fashion ensemble, it's my ability to read people. I eventually decided that the best approach was the one that's often recommended in poker, and that's to assume that whatever persona someone is presenting, the truth is the opposite. If someone looks confident, they probably have a crappy poker hand. If, on the other hand, they look nervous and outmatched, they're probably banging my wife.

So, when we approached a good looking and well-coiffed dude and Hank exclaimed "Hi honey!" and gave him a big hug, I felt relieved. We met a few other guys and no one was nonchalant or sweaty enough to set off any of my alarms. Well, one guy seemed a bit out of sorts, but when he literally sprinted out the door to chase after another woman, I figured he was busy on other fronts.

The only time I was concerned was when Hank urged me to meet her coworker, Griffin. He was settled in at the bar and gave me the once-over when we were introduced. We chatted very briefly, but I was unsure why I had to meet the guy. It only became clear afterwards.

"Oh, that guy Griffin," Hank explained, "He's gay, and you are JUST his type. Mmmmm hmmmm."

So, hell, maybe our marriage made it through another faithful year. Stranger things have happened. In fact, a stranger thing happened the next day when Hank got home from work. She said that multiple people had work had told her how much they enjoyed meeting me and that I was the most charming spouse there.

Wha? Apparently paranoia becomes me.

Hell, it got even stranger on Saturday night when I went to my athletic club's holiday party without my wife and soon realized that none of my usual club buddies were there. I roamed the party alone for a while, trying to pretend as though I had important messages to reply to on my iPhone, when I eventually realized there was another woman there who looked as tragically alone as I was.

I introduced myself, desperately explained that none of my friends had arrived, and asked if she would be my best friend for the remainder of the party. She looked at me like a drowning person looks at a life-preserver, and nodded solemnly in agreement.

We chatted amiably for about 15 minutes when she grabbed my wrist, looked at my wedding band, and accused, "You are way too charming to be here without your wife!" I assured her that was not the case, but her words had made an impression.

Apparently, when fueled by either paranoia or desperation, I am charming!

2009-12-10T19:43:00.000-08:00

Daisy's second favorite TV show these days is an excruciating series called Extreme Home Makeover. Every episode of this show features the same formula:

1) Introduce a family that has experienced some horrifying tragedy involving their woefully inadequate house.
2) Watch the family cry and cry and cry
3) Blow up their old house. Literally.
4) Build them a new house in a week with the "help" of their favorite celebrity, who are home construction experts like Usher or Ashley Tisdale.
5) Show the new home to the family and watch them cry and cry and cry.

To those people in the U.S. who find that home ownership is beyond their fiscal means, I say you just haven't cried hard enough.

Inspired by this insipid series, today I also participated in building a house for the less privileged. My workplace organized a volunteer day to help Habitat for Humanity build some low-income housing. So do you know what I learned today? I learned that much like in baseball, there's no crying in home construction. Building a house consists not of tears, but of washing windows.

Apparently our volunteer day came at the end of this project, when most of the hammering and sawing had already been completed. When we arrived this morning, the volunteer organizers took one look at my scrawny computer programmer arms and promptly assigned me to window cleaning duty. Well, "cleaning" might not be the right word. What do you call it when you take clumps of grime from one spot and spread it evenly around on a surface. That's what I did for most of the day. I also moved some of that grime to non-window surfaces like the floor and the recently painted windowsills!

Unlike Ashley Tisdale, I did not get to wear a cute hard hat. :(

Regardless, to the low-income people of Oakland, California, I encourage you to enjoy your lovely and evenly-grimed windows in your new homes. Your tears will be thanks enough.

2009-12-02T21:02:00.000-08:00

Daisy sat down at the piano the other night with a gleam in her eye.

"Oh, Daddy, guess what I get to practice this week?" she asked, and then without waiting for a reply, launched into a halting rendition of some crappy Christmas carol.

As a Jew-by-birth-agnostic-by-choice, Christmas carols aren't really my thing. They aren't symbolic or meaningful to me; they're just those annoying songs you hear in grocery stores and on commercials. Christmas carols are the sound of intrusive commerce, a fruitcake for your ears.

What song was Daisy playing? Walmart. All week I've been hearing her play the Walmart damn carol over and over and ding-dinga-ding over.

On a mostly unrelated note, I think it's just a matter of time before Daisy finds religion. I get the feeling that she finds comfort in the notion of an afterlife, and of some super-hero god-thing ruling this land and looking out for her. The structure and carrots offered by religion seem to have more sway than the physics and logic-based system that I stress with increasing panic.

You see, the notion of Daisy finding religion is about as appealing to me as it would be to some preacher if his daughter announced she was an atheist. I accept that I'm surrounded by religion everywhere outside of my house (yes, even in San Francisco, aka Sodom's Heathenatorium), but I had kind of hoped that our little home would be a religion-free zone.

We'll see, I guess.

On that note, only 19 more shopping days left until Winter Present Tree Day!

2009-11-24T20:46:00.001-08:00

Don't you hate it when something funny happens, and you've got a blog post half written in your head with both punchlines and parenthetical asides, and then you see something shiny and put it in your mouth, and it turns out there wasn't room for both the blog post and the shiny thing in your head? Me too.

So, instead I'm going to tell you about a few games I've been playing a lot of recently. About a year ago an excellent board game store opened up not too far from my house. What the owners do super well is make sure to have an open copy of every one of their games so you can sit down and play it before you buy it. Often the store owners will explain the game and sit down and play with you. We've probably bought about 8 board games from them in the last year.

First, there's Pandemic. Pandemic is excellent because it's a cooperative game, which means that all the players either win together or lose together. This made for a great family game for us because my daughter was tired of getting beaten in all our other games by her super competitive and always-calculating parents. This was the first board game I had ever seen where everyone worked as a team instead of against each other.

The subject matter of the game wasn't particularly engaging for us though. The goal of it is to beat a global disease before it takes over the world. And the rules are somewhat complicated, so it'll take you a while to grasp it all before you play it the first time. So, those are minuses, but if you like board games but you're surrounded by people who don't like the usual competition found in most games, then a cooperative game might be the answer, and this the best one I've heard of.

Next up is Dixit. Dixit is the game we now pull out when we have guests and we want to show them a good time that doesn't involve cocktails (although you could probably play the game reasonably well while quite drunk).

Dixit is a lot like Apples to Apples. Everybody gets 6 cards from a deck of really interesting art cards. The cards are surreal, kind of what it would look like if Dali were drawing for a children's book. The main idea is that people take turns describing one of the cards in their hand very vaguely. Then, all the other players have to pick that card out of a line-up. The trick is that if EVERYONE guesses right, then the person who described the card gets no points. If NO ONE gets it right, they also get no points. That person only gets points if SOME people get it right.

So, in a nutshell, you have to describe your card well enough for somebody to get it, but not so well that everyone does. It's an odd skill, but an 8 year-old will probably do it as well as an 80 year-old, and the cards in the game are beautiful and interesting. We've had a few people play this game and immediately pronounce it amazing.

Finally, there's Dominion. I can't possibly describe this game well in a paragraph or two, because it's pretty complicated, but let me say that Hank and I played this game about 10 times this weekend and I'd still happily play it again right now. The game is both complicated and satisfying. It's not really that hard to understand, but the rule pamphlet was written by a sadist. Either hunker down with the rules for an hour, or have someone gentle explain it to you.

Hell, I'll explain it to you if you buy the game. Email me if you do, and we'll chat on the goddamn phone.

None of these games are cheap, but if you end up playing them as much as I have, it's a pretty economical form of entertainment.

2009-11-19T20:04:00.001-08:00

Ask any big name blogger and they'll tell you that one of the great joys and benefits of blogging is interacting with an audience. Of course by "interacting with", I mean "getting free stuff from". I have read many tales of bloggers getting ipods, lodging invitations, paypal donations, and most lucrative of all, sweet sweet boobie pictures.

So, when longtime reader, Nrd2, emailed me last week asking for my address, I looked forward to reaping some well-deserved blogging spoils.

And what did I get? Chocolate chip cookies? Cash? Sweet sweet porn? No, no, and no.

I got this:
It is, apparently, a wafer-thin and used napkin from a movie theater, that they used to wipe their dirty buttery fingers with. Nrd2, and her troublemaker boyfriend Bones, read my diatribe against one-ply toilet paper and naturally assumed that I'd enjoy receiving another example of Heisenpaper.

I guess I can be happy that they sent me used napkins and not used toilet paper.

2009-11-12T19:29:00.000-08:00

The more days you go without blogging, the harder it is to get back to it. You feel like you need to return with a larger-than-life tale and not some minor anecdote about the time the line at the coffee shop was so long that you forgot what you were going to order by the time you got up there. (Note, you look like a fool standing in front of a barista, with your mouth wordlessly opening and closing like a caffeine-deprived fish).

You want to come back with a big story, full of inspiration and insights about the human condition!

Instead, you write about the bathroom at work.

So, the bathroom at work has reached a new low. Sure, it was weird when there was a peanut on the floor for weeks, the brownie chunks were alarming, and finding sushi on the floor was too disturbing to even blog about, but the worst bathroom atrocity of them all has now befallen our work place. I speak, of course, of single-ply toilet paper.

I understand that in these difficult financial times, one might choose to save on toilet paper. I get that. By all means, skip over the 4-ply Egyptian-cotton pre-warmed pillow-top models. I am indeed willing to sacrifice comfort for financial security. There might even be some good 1-ply brands out there although I'm not actually sure, having never personally seen any 1-ply TP before this.

This stuff at work though is ridiculously thin. It's wafer-thin. It disintegrates at the merest touch. It's not even really toilet paper, it's Heisenpaper. It cannot be both grasped and used at the same time.

Each time you try to wipe with the stuff, it's an adventure, assuming your definition of adventure consists entirely of trying to avoid getting crap all over your hands. You just kind of have to load up on the 1-ply, piling microlayer after microlayer on top of each other, and hope beyond all reason, that those 3 or 4 molecules of toilet paper can achieve a wiping miracle.

It doesn't hurt to beg your ass to take mercy on you either.

Please let the recession end soon.

2009-11-04T19:44:00.000-08:00

I got all trendy a couple of weekends ago.

First, I got suspended from Twitter, which made me immensely proud. The previous day I had written some software to automatically post messages to Twitter for a work project, and Twitter shut it down for violating their terms of service in less than 24 hours. Suspended from Twitter! I feel so modern! I haven't been that proud since I got banned from blackjack.

The other trendy thing I did was to buy a pair of these ridiculous looking running shoes.

There's a school of thought that says that normal modern running shoes are the exact opposite of what our body needs when we go running. They believe that humans evolved to become excellent long distance runners as-is, and by encasing our feet in normal running shoes, we're altering our gait and preventing our body from doing what it's designed to do. Even companies like Nike are making entire lines of thin-soled shoes, and it's easy to find articles about barefoot running. It's what all the cool people are doing now!

Barefoot running in an urban environment probably isn't the safest thing to do (unless your feet are rusty-nail proof), so I bought the next best thing, these Vibram "Five Finger" shoes that theoretically allow my toes to grip while I run, and ensure that I run in the type of gait that my body has evolved to perform. Of course anyone who has ever actually seen my awkward and twisted running style would immediately and correctly point out that my specific body has not evolved to perform any type of running, but that won't stop me from throwing money at the problem.

I busted these babies out for a run a week ago and promptly injured myself. Turns out, if I start running a new way, utilizing any of my hundreds of under-developed muscles, I've got to start really slowly. Despite reading a dozen articles explaining that to me, I still overdid it my first time out and temporarily hobbled myself. I'll be back at it in a week or two though.

For what it's worth, it is pretty damn amusing walking down the street in these things and have people gawk at your feet as you go by. Maybe they're not actually thinking that I'm cool, but we know better.

Right?

Hell, I'd "tweet" about it if I could.

2009-11-01T19:33:00.000-08:00

When I was a kid, I always dressed up for Halloween in a fairly standard costume. I recall being a cowboy, a robot, a couple of ghosts, and random costumes from the drugstore where you'd have a picture on your chest of the character you were trying to be. I really didn't care that much who I dressed up as, as long it passed muster with the folks who passed out candy.

My daughter has a completely different outlook on Halloween. Maybe it's because she's allergic to most of the candy she accrues, or maybe it's because trick-or-treating comes with a sizable dose of scares, but her favorite thing about Halloween is the costume. She spends months contemplating various personas, scrutinizing images on the web, and debating make-vs-buy with her mother. Invariably Daisy chooses some completely unrecognizable character.

Last year she was Lyra from the Golden Compass. The year before that, I think she was a character named Magenta from the movie Sky High. Before that, she was a superhero she had made up called Lighta, whose powers probably included the ability to be both a particle and a wave. The only other one I remember was Spirograph girl, whose powers were, uh, swirly patterns?

The only common thread here is that all of these costumes have been completely baffling to everyone she encounters. Of course the only common thread from my childhood costumes was the lack of imagination, so I mock gingerly here.

This year? I'll just note the conversation I had with my coworker, Ashton:

Ashton: So, what's Daisy going to be for Halloween this year?
Me: She's dressing up as Laura Ingalls Wilder.
Ashton: (brow furrowed) Who?
Me: Laura Ingalls Wilder is the author of Little House on the Prairie.
Ashton: So, Daisy is dressing up as an author?

Yep. That's my daughter.

On a nearly unrelated note, I've been busy using my hell-spawn zucchinis as pumpkin extremities. At work we had a pumpkin carving contest and I managed to stuff a couple in there, and then Daisy let me cram another zucchini into her pumpkin's nose. While zucchinis are terrible eats, they do reach the lofty heights of mediocrity as pumpkin carving props. (Also note clever usage of pumpkin seeds as teeth).

2009-10-25T20:56:00.000-07:00

An Open Letter to the zucchini in my backyard:

Dear Zucchini,

You are a monster.

You are a rude, dirt-hogging, sunshine-blocking, voracious weed of a creature that extrudes vile-tasting lumps with the psychotic intensity of a diarrhetic serial killer. Also, your leaves are ugly. And yo momma wears combat boots.

It all started so innocently. I built a little raised bed to grow some vegetables, and I planted a few rows of tiny plants and seeds. Amongst these garden babies, as a favor to my wife, I naively placed exactly two small zucchini seeds. At first, I was delighted with how quickly your leaves burst from the soil. I imagine this is similar to the feeling a family might feel after adopting an adorable kitten, only later to find that their kitten was growing into a lion, or velociraptor.

After a few days of coming home and finding that you had encroached further and further and further in the yard, I became slightly alarmed. I laid in bed at night, wondering if the next knock at the door would be a giant zucchini leaf. In saner moments, I knew that particular fear was unfounded. Obviously you'd bash through the bedroom window long before you developed the manners required to knock.

I don't know why I didn't kill you when I had the chance. I should have realized that any plant too vile for the caterpillars to eat, was too evil too live.

Now, you excrete these bitter vegetables sausages with a recklessness that borders on criminal. Each time I inspect you, rooting through your hairy leaves (which, by the way, give me hives!), I invariably find a slew of your novelty sized turds. Today, after having ignored you for a handful of days, I found these horrid things:

That big one on the right? (I placed a quarter on it for perspective). It weighs 5.5 pounds. THAT'S JUST NOT NORMAL! YOU ARE AN EVIL ALIEN PLANT AND YOU SPEW DISGUSTING TURDLETS.

Seriously, your strategy for reproducing involves creating these gigantic bitter monstrosities? Have you considered, I don't know, just releasing some seeds into the air? Or maybe placing a Craigslist ad? Wouldn't that make more sense?

Meanwhile, my wife is convinced that if she can find just the right recipe, it will hide your vileness and then Daisy and I will love you. She has plans for cheesy fried zucchini, and zucchini bread, and zucchini cake, and probably zucchini fellatio. Do you know what happens when she makes fried cheesy zucchini? I do. IT RUINS PERFECTLY GOOD CHEESE AND OIL.

Do you know what's going to happen when she makes zucchini cake? Yep. It's like trying to get rid of rotting meat by putting it in a chocolate chip cookie. HEY, YOU, ROTTING MEAT! I SEE YOU THERE IN THE GODDAMN COOKIE! YOU'RE NOT FOOLING ME!

I had a different idea for what to do with your 5.5 pound baby. I'm going to carve it like a pumpkin. You ruin my meals and I ruin your offspring. That's the deal.

Happy Halloween, zucchini.

2009-10-22T19:14:00.000-07:00

My friend, Ralph, told me this horrifying story that I'm compelled to share.

This summer, Ralph, his wife, and his two daughters went on vacation to Cancun, Mexico. They stayed in a suite in a nice hotel. On their first night there, they settled down into bed, with Ralph and his wife in the bedroom, and the two girls (age 9 and 7) in the sofa-bed in the other room.

In the middle of the night the phone rang. Ralph's wife answered it and a man's voice on the other end intoned, "I have your daughter."

Ralph's wife jumped out of bed, slammed down the phone, and ran into the other room. Only one girl was in the bed. The older girl was missing.

Ralph's wife, not knowing the Mexico's equivalent of 911, ran back to her room and called down to the front desk of the hotel.

"Hello, this is room 416!" she yelled, "My daughter is missing!"

"Yes, that's what I was trying to tell you," the man on the phone said, "Your daughter came down here. She's here at the front desk with us."

Apparently, previously unbeknownst to them, their kid sleepwalks. Awesome.

2009-10-13T20:57:00.000-07:00

We had our first big rain this week in SF. Afterwards, no matter who you talked to, you would be guaranteed to hear them say one of two things.

Either: "Wow! How about that rain! Did you manage to stay dry?"

Or: "Wow! How about all the whiners in this town? Did you hear everyone complaining about the water falling from the sky?"

That was pretty much it. I had those 2 conversations about a dozen times. I guess I was in the "how about that rain?" camp, but I had a pretty good excuse. You see, a few months ago we got the windshield replaced in our car (it had a large and growing crack in it) and while I was driving Daisy to school on Tuesday, it suddenly started to rain inside the car. Apparently, ha ha, our mechanic's "glass guy" wasn't very careful about sealing our windshield. Oh, that's a good one.

It rained on me in the car off and on during the drive to Daisy's school because it soon became apparent that the windshield only leaked when we hit the brakes or when the car was pointing downhill. However, since Daisy's school is on a hill, and since my office is basically at sea-level, the drive from Daisy's school to downtown was basically downhill the entire way. Hank and I would sit at a red light, har har, while water streamed down onto the driver's seat from the apparent crack in the windshield seal.

We decided, mid-commute, to drive straight to the mechanic and make him deal with it.

"Franz!" I complained when we got there. "You have to fix our windshield NOW! It is undriveable and we need to get to work. Use duct tape or something, but do it NOW!"

Franz decided that duct tape was a bad idea, so he offered to get us a rental car while he fixed the car properly. And that was how I ended up with what seems to be the world's cheapest car this week, the low-end version of the low end Kia Optima.

Now, I'm not a car snob. Manual windows are not a big deal. Manual door locks are minorly annoying, but again, not a big deal. The fact that the windshield defroster time is measured in hours rather than minutes is frustrating, but again, I can handle that. And 60 mph seems to be the top safe speed of the car, but I don't drive on the freeway that much, so that's ok too.

What put me over the edge this evening, however, was when the guy in front me of me was driving like a complete ass, and I finally had to toot my horn at one of his transgressions.

The Kia Optima horn makes a sound somewhere in between a dying "neeeeeeeeeeee" and a "meh". Totally not cool.

On the plus side, the car does appear to be waterproof.

2009-10-12T19:42:00.000-07:00

I think I've found my thing.

I've got a list of skills that I'm decent at. It includes:

computer programming
long distance running
Scrabble
growing novelty-sized zucchini
making fun of the less fortunate
watching TV

I'm not sure if that's the whole list, but it's pretty close. However, it my proud pleasure to present the list of things that, as near as I can tell, I'm great at:

online Boggle

I've been a pretty good Boggle player since I was in high school, but being able to play on a computer, where I get to type the words instead of hand-writing them, has elevated my game to greatness. I've been destroying my friends at the game. I make occasional forays into the "Expert" room on Facebook to play a few dozen "expert" strangers and usually win there too.

Between the word lists I've memorized for Scrabble, my mastery of all things timed, my speedy typing skills, and my general competitiveness, all these things add up to a Boggle master. It's as though I've been training for this all my life.

So, this is it! At age 41, I've finally found out what my "thing" is. Now all I need to do is figure out where I sign up for the professional circuit. Life of riches and fame, here I come!

2009-10-07T20:58:00.000-07:00

Although Daisy loves to hunker down in front of the TV, she doesn't really have that many shows that she wants to watch. She's an unusually timid child and fears that any new show will feature spiders, or creepy robots, or god forbid, creepy robot spiders. So, she watches a few spider-free cartoons over and over again, mixed in with a healthy dose of Good Eats.

This is in stark contrast to my viewing desires as a child, which involved constant monitoring of all channels for any potential new show. Of course, we only had 5 channels back then and not the 500 that we have now, so there wasn't really ever a new show to watch. Instead, after school, I ended up reluctantly and religiously watching Gilligan's Island, The Brady Bunch, Leave it to Beaver, and other high-brow shows over and over.

Last weekend, however, Hank came across a Brady Bunch episode and showed it to Daisy. It was the one where Bobby and Cindy try to break the world record for teetertottering. Daisy watched it cautiously.

Afterwards we had this conversation:

"So, Daisy, did you like the Brady Bunch? I'm wondering if I should start Tivoing it for you," I said.

"Are all the episodes as great as that one?" she asked disbelievingly.

"Uh... great? Well, I guess technically, yeah, the other episodes are about as great as that one was."

So, she's watched a few more episodes and to be perfectly honest, I can't ever remember seeing anyone enjoy an episode of any TV show, ever, more than Daisy is enjoying The Brady Bunch. She is enjoying the hell out of it.

She screeches with joy and slaps her knee with laughter when Tiger the dog chases Fluffy the cat. She literally rolls on the floor giggling when the Bradys make their corny jokes. (I always thought that ROFL was just a figure of speech. I sure hope that either ROFLMAO is really just an expression or that we have really good health care).

I don't think TV back in my day was better than TV is now, but these old shows do seem to match Daisy's temperament.

2009-10-05T19:38:00.000-07:00

My wife, Hank, left town yesterday for 5 days to be with her mom and step-dad while he undergoes brain surgery. Obviously, the family is pretty worried. Although everyone is trying to keep a positive attitude and hope for the best, there's a lot of unspoken concern. No one really believes that I can successfully keep Daisy alive and fed for 5 days. Including me.

Ok, I'm joking here. Clearly I wouldn't let my wife leave for a trip without making sure that we were covered in the food department.

"Don't go!!" I howled, "We can't possibily survive that many days without you! We'll die without food!"

"Oh, you'll be fine," my wife assured me, "Humans can easily go 5 days without eating. Just drink some water."

So, there! Plan A was all set. Drink water. Daisy, however, was not a big fan of Plan A. She urged me to try and make some meals in Hank's absence. Cooking isn't really one of my core competencies, but, what the hell! I was willing to give this the ol' college try, which as I recall involves smoking pot and then eating slices of pizza topped with Hershey's Kisses. Sadly, society frowns upon feeding a 10 year-old a similar menu. :(

So, on Sunday morning, after dropping Hank off at the airport, Daisy and I sat down to plan a menu.

"Daddy? You can make spaghetti, right?"

"Spaghetti? Yes! I can make spaghetti! The secret ingredient is sauce from a jar! Shhh!"

And we were off. So, Dinner 1 was spaghetti with meat sauce and Hank's Famous Roasted Brussels Sprouts (which I burned the hell out of). Dinner 2 was going to be frozen potstickers (hopefully unfrozen by meal time). Dinners 3 and 4.... uh.... take out! Wooo!

"Oh, I know what we can make for the last night, Daddy! Shepherd's pie!"

"What? Shepherd's pie? No. Jesus, Daisy. I have no idea how to make that. How about eggs?"

"Daddy, I'm allergic to eggs. Look, can you make mashed potatoes?"

"Nope."

"Can you cut up a potato and heat it up?" she asked?

"Yes! That I can do!"

"Can you cook ground beef!"

"Yes! I can do that too!"

"Can you add corn?"

"This sounds terrible, but, yes, I can also add corn."

Apparently this monstrosity is called Shepherd's Pie and apparently I'm making it on Wednesday night. I predict a large pot of lumpy potatos over oversalted beef and frozen (unfrozen by meal time) corn. Gack.

I'm going to buy some eggs just in case.

2009-09-28T20:17:00.000-07:00

My gaydar is really good.

I know everyone says that, and there's little reason to believe that a generally socially inept computer programmer can have an above average gaydar, but you're just going to have to believe me that for some strange reason, this is an area where I demonstrate competence. I don't know whether it's the voice, the mannerisms, where their eyes track, or what's left unsaid, but I have a decent level of accuracy in determining gayness.

My lezdar, however, is abysmal.

I don't know why this is. I live in an environment with an above-average density of lesbian women, but I'm still just terrible at guessing who is heterosexual and who isn't. I can't tell the I-have-short-hair-because-I'm-a-lesbian woman from the I-have-short-hair-because-I'm-a-no-nonsense woman, and don't even start me on lipstick lesbians. They're impenetrable in all ways to me.

Here's my best theory on the difference.

With gay men, there's the merest hint of flirtation, and at least an instant of a moment where the guy is deciding whether I'm someone he'd like to sleep with. Obviously once I start talking, or when they get a good look at me, they quickly realize that I'm not the droid they're looking for, but that previous millisecond of wondering is often enough to out them.

Women, however, straight or not, do not require that millisecond.

2009-09-27T19:15:00.000-07:00

Some companies inspire rabid loyalty. Although I'm personally loathe to describe myself as rabid anything, I can certainly appreciate the charms of an Apple or Google, and even a trip to Nordstrom can remind me what makes them superior to most other department stores (answer: employees whose motivations include more than just wanting to die).

I don't get particularly worked up over grocery stores though. I know that some are nicer than others, but mostly I want to spend as little time as possible on this weekly chore. Well, if you could find me a grocery store that banned slow-moving old people, I might get a little hot and bothered, but until then, meh.

One of our friends, however, goes ga-ga for Trader Joe's. In fact, she hosts an annual TJ's Soiree, which is a party where every guest brings some sort of Trader Joe's inspired/enhanced dish. This year we were invited, despite the fact that we rarely ever shop at TJ's. Regardless, we found ourselves at this party last night, the second weekend in a row that I was attending a party where I knew practically no one.

The party started off with names being chosen out of a hat for the judges, whose job it was to decide which of the dishes were the best. Two adult and two kid judges were chosen, and ironically one of the names chosen from the hat was my daughter Daisy, who is allergic to eggs, nuts, dairy, and most seeds. Hank and I reviewed the potluck dishes and determined that nearly every single one would either cause Daisy to break out into hives or stop breathing. We pointed out the 3 safe ones to her (answer: plain water crackers, a plain loaf of bread, and the goat cheese pizza).

Daisy decided that she was going to judge the foods based on presentation. Good call.

I impressed myself early on by carrying on an actual conversation with a real live woman in the kitchen at one point. She was an animated conversationalist and I did my best to keep up. When she mentioned how tired she was, I was eager to pursue that topic because I was also kind of pooped from doing an 11 mile run earlier that day. It's not often easy to casually drop that kind of bragging into conversation.

"Why are you so tired?" I asked, merely as a precursor to telling her how I got so tired.

"Oh," she sighed, "I had an enormous amount of sex today."

"You... had... an enormous amount of sex today." I repeated robotically, fairly surprised at this twist in the conversation.

Of course I uttered that sentence just as several other people entered the kitchen.

The sex-woman stared at me.

"Gee, thanks, Mike. I opened up to you because you seemed like a trustworthy guy and the first thing you do is blab about my sex life to everyone at the party. Thanks."

I made my exit from the kitchen immediately thereafter to find the safety of my wife. I was pretty sure she wasn't tired from having sex all day, at least not during the parts of it that I was present for. We chatted with other nice folks and nibbled on the various dishes.

Watching the judges present their awards was my favorite part of the party. The other judges let Daisy do most of the presenting, and that's the sort of thing she shines at. Daisy is probably not the fastest runner in her class, and there are probably some kids who are better spellers, or do math more quickly, but I'd be VERY surprised if you found a better award presenter anywhere in Daisy's 5th grade class. The girl lives for an audience.

Daisy launched into her shtick, reminding us to applaud for winners, to thank our hostess, and generally exuding charm as she passed out the various awards. The other parents, most of whom had never met Daisy before, were pretty amused. I heard a lot of "Oh, my, she's going to host the Oscar's one day" and "Wow, there's the first woman president!" and whatnot.

Hank and I just sat back and grinned.

2009-09-21T20:51:00.000-07:00

My neighbors are pregnant with twins and have been busy preparing for this massive change in their lives by setting up a nursery, buying baby supplies, etc. Well, I assume all that stuff is going on. All I can see from my deck is that the husband has completely immersed himself into redesigning and landscaping their backyard. He's carved a new staircase in the hill, replanted both the lawn and every single plant, shored up the retaining wall, and built a deck. The dude is either the hardest working guy I know, or completely avoiding the fact that he's about to become a father twice over.

His yard is kickass now though. So, on side of my yard, I've got his new gleaming yard, with brand new yard furniture, heat lamps, 3 levels of decks, and a small but lush lawn. On the other side of my yard, my other neighbors have scrupulously maintained their recently redesigned yard, which is simply and elegantly sculpted.

In the middle, of course, is my own weed lot, replete with tarp-covered compost pile, pile of broken yard equipment, and of course, my hand-built caterpillar farm. I really am a miserable disgrace.

Anyway, I like my neighbors very much and was delighted when the new father-to-be, whom we'll call, uh, Hoppy, decided to celebrate/lament his upcoming fatherhood by throwing a backyard bash while his wife attended her baby shower. I was looking forward to hanging with him and the other neighbors for an afternoon of beering.

As it turns out, a lot of people attended, but I was the only neighbor who could make it. So aside from Hoppy, I didn't know anyone there.

I laid back for a bit analyzing the situation and taking stock of the people there. The crowd seemed jokey and boozy, so I cleverly decided to adopt a jokey/boozy persona. I am obviously very adept at this type of psychological analysis and chameleonification.

I promptly downed some beers and make self-deprecating jokes about my backyard. That went pretty well. My sense of humor seemed to jibe pretty well with this crowd. Phase two of my plan involved drinking scotch and making acerbic commentary about parenting. I carefully picked my spots and lobbed out a few lines.

When conversation turned to discussing various stand-up comedians, I promptly interrupted.

"Have you guys seen any Louie C.K. standup? The dude is hilarious and does a great bit on how his kid is an asshole!" I exclaimed excitedly.

What I had forgotten, at that particular instant, is that the most recent person to join the party, had brought his 14 month-old daughter, and was sitting next to me. He got up milliseconds after the phrase "his kid is an asshole" left my mouth, and marched out of the backyard.

Doh! People are hard.

So, uh, Hoppy, sorry about offending your friends.

2009-09-15T20:21:00.000-07:00

At work we have several non-profits and my employer (an unprofitable for-profit) all in one building sharing a lunch room and various corporate services (IT, HR, etc). Every two years they conduct an employee survey, asking folks from all the entities various questions about the workplace, ranging from satisfaction with management to opinions about kitchen snacks.

The survey was taken by nearly 50 people and was anonymous, to encourage honest answers. Today, during a lunchtime presentation, they reviewed the results with us.

Most of the questions were multiple choice, where we rated our satisfaction with some workplace aspect on a scale from 1 to 7. Some questions had a text field where we could add additional comments. The presenter ran though the first few sets of results on Powerpoint slides without discussing any the additional comments. The very first comment they put up on the screen was from a question asking us to list the kitchen snacks that were our least favorites. The anonymous survey comment said:

I dispute the premise of a least favorite snack.

Immediately several of the people around me whipped their heads around and stared at me. "Was that from you?" they all asked?

It was.

The next slide was about the idea of having an in-office talent show, suggesting that we could all demonstrate our singing, dancing or other artistic abilities. The presenter again picked out a single anonymous user comment from the survey question. The comment said:

Holy cow, that would be a train wreck! I have no artistic abilities, but could theoretically compose a poem under sufficient peer pressure.

Again, the people around me turned towards me and smirked. Larry leaned over and whispered, "You have a distinctive writing voice."

So much for anonymous surveys. Next time I'm answering in all caps.

2009-09-12T16:58:00.000-07:00

An Open Letter to the Caterpillars in my backyard:

Dear Vermin,

If you had asked me a couple of weeks ago to make an ordered list of bugs, sorted from my favorite to my most hated, it would have probably gone something like this:

1) Lady bugs
2) Pill bugs
....
8) Caterpillars
...
67) Flies
...
82) Spiders
...
87) Maggots
88) Wasps

Obviously that's not a complete list, but you get the idea. Pretty and charming bugs at the top, with stinging and nauseating bugs at the bottom. You, dear caterpillars, were in the upper part of that list, due to your picture-book charm and borderline magical ability to transform into butterflies.

Do you know where you are on my list this week? RIGHT AT THE FREAKING BOTTOM! I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.

Two weeks ago I had a lovely vegetable garden. I had bowls of sweet sugar snap peas, ripening chard, bountiful lettuce, and more horrid little zucchinis that I knew what to do with.

Today I have a planter box full of you. Hundreds of you. You've voraciously chewed your way through all of my tasty vittles leaving behind piles of poo as your calling card. Oh, and don't think I haven't noticed that you've left only the zucchini untouched. Nice touch, assholes.

This turn of events bodes poorly for both of us.

It bodes poorly for me because much of my hard work has gone to waste. It bodes poorly for you because now the killing begins.

I tried doing the eco-wacko-hippie thing, spraying each of the plants with a garlic solution, which was supposed to deter you from eating them. As it turns out, you LOVE garlic. I got tricked into seasoning the vegetables for you and you rewarded me by eating more of my plants.

Now I'm going to try something a little different. I'm going to rupture your gut cells! Hooray!

So, game on, bastards.

Your merchant of death,
Mike

2009-09-07T19:40:00.001-07:00

My life is pretty good.

My wife and daughter more than adequately supply me with the love and nurturing and blah blah blah that is inexplicably required by my built-in systems.

I love where I live, able to enjoy city life while living in a small neighborhood that features friendly neighbors and shopkeepers who know me well enough to guess what I'm about to order.

And despite the looming financial woes of my employer, my job has been great, providing me with intellectual challenge, engaging co-workers, and a paycheck big enough to let me live in this expensive city.

Finally, my friends are deserving of much praise. They are interesting, smart, caring, and funny people, who create art and good will in equal measure.

All of these things create an environment in my life where I'm delighted to be able to make an obscure geeky joke and be pretty sure that someone around me, whether friend, coworker, or family, will be able to understand it and fire one back in return. This particular thing brings me tremendous joy on a regular basis.

My life does lack one very important thing though. It is a hole in my life (and not that Angelina Jolie-shaped one that I often lament) that plagues me nearly 162 times each year.

You see, none of the people around me care as much about the San Francisco Giants as I do. Sure Hank enjoys some baseball and roots enthusiastically for the Giants. And Larry or Pablo would be happy to accompany me to a game and will cheerfully listen to my latest Giants rant, but when it comes right down to it, I'm the only one around here getting depressed when the Giants lose, or getting that little zip in my step when they win.

More importantly, and this is the precise hole that I need filled here, I need some human available to me either via instant messenger or via SMS who is very very Giants-savvy and can respond to important game-time messages about how freaking inept the Giants are every time one of them picks up a goddamn bat! I have time-sensitive jokes to make about slugging percentage and clutchiness and I need someone to reciprocate!

Ohhhhh, the hole burns!

I'm perplexed though. How does one fill this hole? Do I hang out and start commenting on Giants blogs, hoping to make a little e-friend? Do I lurk outside the ballpark at game-time, whispering equations involving veteran savvy multiplied by gamerness raised to the power of team chemistry?

Is there an MLB-Harmony site for me?

2009-09-02T19:59:00.000-07:00

Wow, I suck at this. At this point I think even my wife knows more about my daily life than my blog does. *shaking head*

So, let's get to know each other all over again.

Hi, my name is Mike and I'm a 41 year-old computer programmer living in San Francisco with my wife and 10 year-old daughter. I like word games, science fiction, booze, boobs, and cool foggy weather.

I also go running a couple times a week, despite the melodramatic posts I wrote in the last year about being injured, and how my knees are no longer capable of running. Turns out I was overreacting. I'm not running as often as I used to, but that's more an issue of schedule than injury. I'm also not running as fast as I used to. Now when I go run with my running club, there's a whole pack of people who kick my ass, including some gazelle-like women.

One of my previous main motivators for running was trying to break my records. I've decided that now that I'm in my 40s, I should reset all my records and start over. Maybe I'll do this every decade. Or year.

On other fronts, the job is going pretty well, or as well as possible given that my company is going to run out of money in just over 6 months. I anticipate sleeping a little less each night for the next half year.

With my remaining time, I marvel at my iPhone. It's probably the crappiest phone I've ever owned, but it's the most amazing thing I've ever put into my pocket. I choose to think of it as a remarkable pocket computer that happens to have a really crappy phone app in it.

So, that's me. I look forward to blogging in the future.

-Mike

2009-08-23T16:33:00.000-07:00

I just returned from 8 days in Vermont, visiting the in-laws.

I sat one day in my mother-in-law's living room, chatting with her significant other, who, despite being a virtual in-law, manages to be a really good guy. He confessed to me, as we discussed the state of the world in San Francisco and California in general, that he would hate living in California and didn't really understand why people subjected themselves to it.

As I sat in the 90 degree heat, miles away from the nearest place to buy a loaf of bread, covered in a thin layer of sweat due to the humidity, and constantly swatting at tiny insects, I contemplated his statement.

I decided to silently disagree.

Anyway, I'm delighted to be back at home, basking in the cool foggy days of San Francisco. I've spent more minutes today in SF without my ass sweating than I probably did the entire time I was in Vermont. My ass hates Vermont.

We got home late, after many hours of driving and flying, and the first thing I did, despite the late hour and my general exhaustion, was to rush to the backyard and see how my vegetable garden was doing. You may recall that a few months ago, I used my keyboard-coddled hands and actually built something out of wood, using drills and saws and crap. A few weeks later I filled it with dirt and compost and soon thereafter I planted some seeds and seedlings. We were just getting to the point where some of the veggies were harvestable when we left for Vermont.

Now, I'm the urban farmer! We've eaten chard from the garden, made salads with the lettuce, had a zucchini and picked a bowl of sugar snap peas. It's pretty cool to eat things out of my own backyard, from a planter that I built, but that whole theory about food being more delicious if you make it yourself is total BS. Zucchini still sucks.

Here's a pic from two weeks ago:

There's zucchini on the left, a bell pepper and some cucumbers to its right. Sugar snap in the middle. Carrots to the right of that. Chard and lettuce to the right of that. One lowly green bean on the far right.

Not bad for garden 1.0, but I still have a lot to learn.

2009-08-10T19:36:00.000-07:00

We went camping this weekend, which was the usual delightful stew of dirt, chores in the dirt, dirty children, screaming children in the middle of the night, crappy nights of sleep, and bugs. I was delighted to arrive back at home on Sunday afternoon, and was looking forward to an epic shower.

After parking the car in our garage, I picked our mail up off the garage floor, where it falls each day, and noticed a small squished worm on one of the envelopes. I grabbed the next envelope and noticed the same thing. Hmmmm.

I looked down on the garage floor and noticed a dozen small wriggling off-white creatures. Uh oh. Our garbage can sits near this spot, so I rolled it out of the way. A dozen more little wormy guys were under that can. The green bin (for garden and kitchen scraps) sits in that area of the garage too so I reached for it to move it out of the way. I didn't get very far before I noticed that maggots were oozing out from under the lid of the green bin and dripping down onto the garage floor.

Oh. Crap. Maggots.

I called my wife over and she told me that the garbage people had somehow failed to pick up the green bin last week, so the stuff in there was pretty ripe. We eyed the can from a couple of different angles and saw more maggots dripping out of a goopy foam under the lid on the side of the bin. I looked more carefully around the floor of the garage and suddenly noticed quite a few more maggots, They had clearly all come from the green bin, but they were traveling fast.

Our garage, like many, does not have a high ceiling. Various things, like our mail bag, dangle from the garage ceiling and will brush up against your head as you walk through. Right about then, our mail bag brushed against my head, and I leapt out of the way in terror, hopping in circles while making a primitive throaty squealing sound, and flailing around, attempting to wipe nonexistent maggots off every inch of my body. My wife eyed me, alarmed. (I did not get laid that night.)

Maggots!

So now, after a couple of days camping, with a car full of soiled camping gear, and a body full of soiled camping dirt, when all I really wanted to do was take a long hot shower, I suddenly had to deal with a garbage bin and garage full of maggots.

(Each time I told this story at work today, I'd pause at this point and the listener would ask, "So, how do you deal with a compost bin full of maggots?" I'd then jump up and say "EXACTLY! HOW THE CRAP DO YOU DEAL WITH A COMPOST BIN FULL OF MAGGOTS?!?!")

Typically when I have something really disgusting in the house, I deal with it by throwing it in the appropriate garbage bin, but what do you do when the disgusting thing is already in the bin? It's a riddle! It's like trying to clean yourself with dirty soap! It's a riddle wrapped in an enigma shoved up the ass of a filthy maggot!

I gingerly grabbed the bin, which was constantly dripping maggots, and wheeled it out to the curb, instantly becoming the worst neighbor on the block. The wife and I then swept and hosed out the garage. Afterwards, we stared at the offending bin.

"So, now what?" I asked Hank. "I'd like to pour bleach or poison in there, but the garbage company is going to take the contents of that bin and turn it into compost. We can't poison it because it's going to poison somebody's food. So, what do we do?"

"Well, let's just keep an eye on it and see if it gets worse," Hank suggested.

"Are you suggesting that this could get worse? That bin is SPEWING maggots. Are they going to come bust down our door? " I asked, incredulously.

We tried spraying some not-too-toxic stuff in the bin, but the maggots were unaffected, athletically leaping from the bin every chance they got. We considered pouring boiling water in the bin, but there was so much mass in there, that we concluded that we'd merely end up making a warm slush, which was probably an even more superior breeding ground.

So, we pretty much left the bin as-is on the sidewalk, praying that the infestation wouldn't get any worse overnight and that our neighbors wouldn't come and lynch us.

By this morning, things hadn't gotten any worse, but they weren't any better either, with hundreds of maggots on the sidewalk, making a surprisingly vigorous charge for our front door, like salmon swimming back to their spawning ground. We did another round of sweeping and hosing, and ultimately did pour a kettle full of boiling water into the bin. Then, I crossed my fingers and went to work.

I called the garbage company this morning, waiting in the hold queue for about 20 minutes and finally spoke to someone. I was feeling indignant, battle-hardened by my heroic efforts against the maggots. I explained the situation to the customer service representative and asked them to send a truck out early to come pick up my "compost", anticipating their excuses and waiting for a fight.

They politely agreed and picked it up later that day.

So, the story has a happy ending, but goddamn. Maggots! And camping! That was one nasty weekend.

TGIM, baby.

2009-08-03T20:34:00.000-07:00

Sometimes the clutter in our house gets to us. Our house is plenty big for the three of us, but the forces of entropy are both relentless and sneaky, so the equilibrium organizational level of our house tends to a value somewhere between disordered and pathologically chaotic.

Some of the people reading this entry who have been to my house and successfully emerged without getting a child's toy lodged in their sphincter might dispute how I've described the household clutter, but I must remind those people that they have not spent time in The Crap Room(s). You see, we've actually got a room (or two) that isn't used for day-to-day activity and thus becomes the place where stuff accumulates. Before guests enter my house, I make sure to "disappear" all non-essential items into The Crap Room(s) and that's where those items stay until my wife finds them years later. (In fact, just last week Hank found an old Winter Present Tree Day gift that I intended to give her 2 years ago, but apparently hid it too well in the weeks before the big day)

Now, when I get the itch to tidy (and I'm more likely to get jock itch than tidy itch), it's generally because I can no longer safely access parts of the house that I value, like the couch or the toilet. So, I clean up by removing the bad things (pokey toys, toe-stubby books on the floor, flammable towers of this-n-that) and disappearing them into The Crap Room(s). Once the bad things are gone, the house is tidy again!

My wife, Hank, applies a different algorithm to tidying. She prefers to approach the mess holistically. She will spend a good deal of time thinking and will come to some conclusion like "Every bookcase needs to be in a different room!" or "Daisy needs a bed with drawers!" and then she'll spend a couple of hours on Step Alpha-1-A of the Master Plan which invariably involves taking every item off of every shelf in the house and putting them on the floor. Often this step consumes all the time we have to dedicate to cleaning, and I then shortcut steps Alpha-1-B through Zeta-Infinity-Z by fork-lifting the new mess into The Crap Room(s). Voila!

You see, Hank suffers from the delusion that the reason we have clutter is because we don't have enough boxes, shelves, and drawers to put stuff in. What she fails to realize is that her utopia, a sort of organizational nirvana where every physical item in the house has a cozy home sorted by function and aesthetics, would be a completely temporary condition. It would last as long as it would take me or Daisy to actually use one of these stored items and then leave it laying around on the nearest surface.

I'm just not motivated to find or remember which box we use to store our extra boxes. The Crap Room(s) used to always be the answer. It was where the old computer, exercise ball, extra couch, my favorite dust bunny, That Box I've Had Since College all lived. Now, instead of one all-encompassing answer for where things should live, there are millions of answers.

Anyway, I'm just bitching here because I'm losing this battle. Hank is fully entrenched in the current reorganization and it's all I can do to not be either given away to Goodwill or stuffed into a spiffy wicker box from the Container Store myself. I just wish it to be known that I mourn for The Crap Room(s).

2009-08-02T17:13:00.000-07:00

A few years back I wrote several entries about Barrington Hall, the Berkeley student cooperative in which I lived during college. (see links in the right-hand margin if you care). My final post on the topic discussed how the last time I stepped foot in the building was nearly 20 years ago, summoned in the middle of the night to oversee the latest interaction between the police and the building squatters. Barrington Hall, which had been officially shut down months earlier by a student referendum, was in its final stages of being Barrington Hall.

This Saturday night however, for 4 hours and 4 hours only, a small portion of Barrington Hall was reopened for the first, and probably last, reunion. Although I've never lived in a place where I was more out of place, I couldn't not go. Barrington Hall reunion, baby!

Not wanting to drive to a place that was most famous for LSD-spiked punch, I hopped on a train Saturday night to Berkeley. Mid-way through the train ride, after repeatedly thinking that the elderly well-dressed lady next to me was sporting some serious body odor, I realized that I had forgotten to apply deodorant after my shower. Frankly, I was a little nervous about going to the reunion since I knew that several ex-Barringtonians had stumbled across my blog over the years, and read stories about themselves that may have (unintentionally!) seemed somewhat unflattering. So, I was sweating a bit.

Thus, my first stop in Berkeley was a drugstore to buy the smallest and cheapest deodorant I could find. I was NOT going to be the smelliest guy in a room full of ex-hippies. Once I had fully Shower Freshed my armpits, I strutted down the street to Barrington.

Anyway, one of the things that had surprised me at my 20 year high school reunion was the realization that no matter who you were in high school: stoner, rocker, jock, nerd, slacker, etc, that almost everybody needs to earn a living, and usually the best way to do that is to clean up and put on corporate clothes. I recall being amazed at the high school slackers who were now managers for investment firms. Like the sands through the 20-year hourglass, these are the paths of the ex-stoners who now work for Charles Schwab.

This was not the case with the Barrington reunion. I marveled at the sheer number of people who were clearly living off the corporate grid. For example, as I stood outside the Barrington front door, I heard a man screech exuberantly behind me. I turned to see an 60 year-old-ish obviously homeless man, pushing his two shopping carts down the street.

"Pink Cloud!" several people excitedly yelled, and then they helped the man hide his shopping carts in the bushes and they escorted him into the building.

This Pink Cloud fellow was, apparently, before my time. He was not, apparently, currently working for Schwab. Another guy drove up in a big mass-transit bus that had been converted into his living space. We did not discuss real estate prices.

Anyway, so I partied with Pink Cloud and the other people who lived lives orthogonal to my own. I chatted for a while with one guy wearing a "Satan" name tag and another guy wearing a "You are old and withered" sticker.

In fact, upon meeting "Satan", he eyeballed me accusingly and asked, "Are you the guy who wrote those long posts about Barrington on the internet?"

"Uh, maybe," I said proudly, cowering.

"The posts describing all your suite-mates?" he asked

"Umm, that might have been me," I whispered, casually looking around for an exit vector.

Satan smiled. "Those were excellent. Thank you."

Woo! Satan approved of my blog! That may have been the nice compliment I've ever received.

Anyway, I had a pretty good time at the reunion. Most of the people there didn't know who the hell I was, but I had good chats with several of my ex-suitemates and spent a lot of time chatting with my old roommate, who I don't see nearly often enough. I did find a few people who became doctors, lawyers, and computer professionals, but mostly it was a reminder that there are many paths through life, and some of them involve being Pink Cloud.

2009-07-20T19:49:00.000-07:00

On Saturday I went to one of our local water parks, Raging Waters in San Jose, with a student group that Daisy is part of. Water parks aren't my favorite thing, but it's hard to argue with the thrill you get when speeding down a good water slide.

I will now, of course, argue with that thrill.

The lines at Raging Waters weren't particularly long. They were the sort of lines that would take 5 or 10 minutes at a Disney park. No such process here though. Instead, the lines typically took between 30 and 60 minutes.

The reason for the glacially slow lines was that the water park employee wouldn't let the next person on the slide until the previous slider had completed the slide. This is totally unnecessary. In general, it takes about as long to situate yourself on the slide and get going, as it does to move out of the way once you splash down at the bottom. So you could, in theory, ram people down the slide as fast as possible, and have very few collisions.

However, I understand that "very few collisions" is probably a phrase that does not resonate well with actuaries and other amusement park professionals, so clearly a buffer is desired. I would recommend a 10 second delay. That is PLENTY of time to get out of the way at the bottom of the slide. And, since most of the rides involve sitting on an inflatable device of some kind, the worst case scenario is that one person's raft bounces into another person's. That's not a tragedy. That's what we in the business call "fun".

Instead, before the water park employee would send the next rider, they would dutifully watch for the current rider to get to the bottom of the slide, get out of the pool, dry off, make their way to the parking lot, go home, have a sandwich, sleep, grow old, have kids, and die. Then the next person could go. It was interminable.

Also, when did everyone except Hank and me get tattoos? The park was filled with tramp stamps, flaming skulls, dragons, ancient chinese laundry secrets, locker combinations, and directions to various vaginas. I felt so unadorned. I've often considered getting a tattoo, but have never thought of something that would be timeless and durable enough to still be worthwhile when I'm 80.

Since I'm not a particularly profound or reverential man, I'd be inclined to get a humorous tattoo, but what kind of joke will endure and give me pleasure for the next 40 years? Frankly, when I look back on the last 40 years, the only humor that has been a constant in my life is probably the fart joke. So, I guess if I had to pick a tattoo right now, I'd get some nice wavy stink lines coming off my ass.

And that's why the search continues.

On a final note, my friend Ray, who was perhaps the one person at Raging Waters who looked more out of place than me, summarized his afternoon by saying, "It was like they emptied out all the trailer parks in San Jose into the water park."

2009-07-09T20:51:00.000-07:00

Yesterday Google announced that next year they will release their new operating system: Google Chrome OS. So, by then Google will be offering the following services:

World's best search engine
A suite of office productivity applications (spreadsheet, word processor, etc)
One of the most popular email services
Their own whizzy browser
YouTube
A cell phone operating system
Really cool desktop programs like Google Earth and Google Desktop
... Aw, hell, the list is really long. You can see most of it here

To this list, they will be adding an operating system, something that competes with Windows.

How much do they charge people to use this stuff? Zero. All these products, which include some of the world's best and most popular software, are basically free. Not only do we get to use this stuff for free, but Google has so much extra cash to burn, that they spend a lot of time working on most any crazy idea they can think of, in case it turns into something cool or indispensable.

What pays for all this? How does Google get the money to afford giving away these services for free while simultaneously working on countless other unprofitable efforts?

It's those little text ads that we see next to the results when we search for something. It's the couple of ads on the right hand side of the page of my gmail page. It's a few more on various pages scattered through the web. Every time someone clicks on one of those ads, Google makes a few pennies (sometimes more). This leads me to a question that has been haunting me for many years.

WHO THE HELL IS CLICKING ON ALL THESE DAMN ADS?

Is it my mom? Is it you? It's sure as hell not me. I mean, I've clicked on a few of them throughout the years, but if we all clicked as few as I did, Google would be about as profitable as the company I work for (not very).

Furthermore, out of the few ads that I have clicked on, I don't think I have ever purchased the corresponding product afterwards. So, why is it worthwhile for advertisers to pay Google so much damn money for all these clicks?

Every time I think about it, and I contemplate this often, I'm amazed that a behemoth like Google, as well as countless other dot coms, make all their money from some set of unseen masses furiously clicking on ads. Who are you people? Freakin' crazy.

2009-07-07T19:46:00.000-07:00

My family took a lot of road trip vacations when I was a kid. We'd all pile into the car for a week or so while my parents dragged me to all the sightseeing destinations in the western states. I recall countless hours of reading in the backseat while my parents begged me to look out the car window at the latest mountain/lake/redwood/ocean/formation/castle/geyser/canyon/etc.

Sightseeing didn't really enthrall me, but I would dutifully raise my eyes from my book for a quick peak at nature's nearest miracle and then would grunt a quick "uh huh", making sure to use the necessary pauses and sighs which simultaneously and efficiently communicated both my compliance and annoyance.

Now that I'm older I have a different perspective on those vacations. Now I want to subject my daughter to the very same experiences my parents subjected me to. It's why we become parents.

So, during last weekend's trip to Pismo Beach, we spent some time at Hearst Castle, of which I only have vague "what the hell?!?" memories from a childhood trip. The flaw, however, in my torture-the-daughter plan was that Daisy LOVES this kind of crap. She loves old and ornately decorated houses. Thus on my return trip to Hearst Castle, I was once again the person in the family who least enjoyed it.

That being said, it was interesting in a train-wrecky sort of way. You've got William Randolph Hearst, an obscenely rich man who was the inspiration for Citizen Kane, deciding to build a grand home in the coastal hills of California. His idea of the perfect home involved collecting the oldest things he could buy and then building a house around them.

Giant Spanish tapestries that are hundreds of years old? Hearst and his architect Julia Morgan designed the main room in the main house to fit them. 2000 year old mosaic tile floor? Sounds just right for an entryway. Ancient statue of Neptune? Stick it by the pool. Gothic lamps? Build a dining room around them.

Every single room was planned around these ancient artifacts. It was more of a museum than a home.

Let me tell you something. If I suddenly come into many millions of dollars and decide to spend them on a mansion, I will NOT be filling it with old stuff. Is a chair from the 18th century really the most comfortable chair I could sit in? Does a tapestry from the 17th century depicting men on horses in battle against other men on horses have value to add to my life? Uh, no. War and religion seemed to be the major art themes, and I can't imagine there are many things that I want further from my dream house.

If I have a zillion dollars to burn on a home, I'm building a MODERN home, filled with light, technology, and contemporary art. I'm emphasizing comfort over antiquity. The craftmanship on that 2000 year-old mosaic floor was pretty good, but I'll bet for the huge cost of buying, transporting, and reinstalling that floor, you could have gotten a pretty good modern one, maybe even one with radiant heating AND a purty pattern.

Just ridiculous.