The best of Dogs of Atlantis...

The other day, I was playing around with the new Blogger program (Which I still dislike, by the way. Damn those facists at Google and their overly lavish employee perks!) and I started to read some of my older posts.

This may come as a surprise to many of you, but when I write for my blog, I generally don't think I'm very funny... It's not that I'm not trying to make a well thought out joke or two, it's just that I usually think I fall short of that magical little mark that will actually make someone laugh.

So, it came as a bit of a shock that many of my posts made me laugh out loud. In recognition of this, I've decided I'll pull a few links previous posts every so often. Enjoy!

Mission: Impressable.
What are you doing here?
Driving to a friends house
More about my love life... you wish.
To My Female Friends...
Letter to Rob, age 20.
Thousands of letters, all to Santa Claus (yeah, right)
The Generation gap gets wider
Life is short

A Meme Monday...

Something I know a certain friend will appreciate... (For those that don't know him, I assure you that those that do are right this minute chucking in recognition.)

My Peculiar Aristocratic Title is: Lord Robert the Villainous of Pigotts Guilded Sty Get your Peculiar Aristocratic Title

And now, a more traditional Meme:
WHAT WAS THE LAST THING YOU ATE?:

Odd Facts about ME
DO YOU SNORE?:		Yep.
LOVER OR A FIGHTER?:		Both... usually not simultaniously.
WHAT'S YOUR WORST FEAR?:		Death and Horses
AS A KID, WERE YOU A LEGO BUILDER?:		Huge cities on the floor of my room that my mom would complain about.
WHAT DO YOU THINK OF "REALITY TV"?:		"The Girls next Goor"is a guily pleasure
DO YOU CHEW ON YOUR STRAWS?:		only after I've finished drinking through it.
WERE YOU A CUTE BABY?:		Nope... I was all bug-eyed and stupid lookin.
HOW IS THE SINGLE LIFE FOR YOU?:		So far so good. Still a far cry from "played all kinds of palaces, Laid all kinds of girls..."
WHAT COLOR IS YOUR KEYBOARD?:		dusty black... emphasis on the 'dusty' part.
DO YOU SING IN THE SHOWER?:		As often as I can.
HAVE YOU EVER BUNGEE JUMPED?:		Something a Fat guy should never do, sorry.
ANY SECRET TALENTS?:		If I told you they wouldn't be secret, now would they?
WHAT'S YOUR IDEAL VACATION SPOT?:		A warm beach.
HAVE YOU EATEN SUSHI?:		Yep.
HAVE YOU SEEN THE MOVIE "DONNIE DARKO"?:		Nope.
DO YOU GIVE A DARN ABOUT THE OZONE?:		Are we talking the layer or that special part of a woman that makes her hit the ceiling?
HOW MANY LICKS DOES IT TAKE TO GET TO THE CENTER OF A TOOTSIE POP?:		According to Mr Owl, Three!
CAN YOU SING THE ALPHABET BACKWARDS?:		Actually, I can! Wait... That was a hidden talent! Now I have to kill you.
HAVE YOU EVER BEEN ON AN AIRPLANE?:		I prefer to ride in them than on them, thank you.
ARE SPEEDO'S HOT?:		No in every way I can say no to that question.
WHAT'S YOUR STAND ON HUNTING?:		Pretty simple... legs apart, with a gun in each hand.
IS MARRIAGE IN YOUR FUTURE?:		Not if I still have sufficent reflexes to dodge it.
DO YOU LIKE YOUR HANDWRITING?:		Yes... it's spunky.
WHAT ARE YOU ALLERGIC TO?:		Buncha nuts and fruits and grasses.
WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU SAID, "I LOVE YOU":		A very long time ago.
IS TUPAC STILL ALIVE?:		Sure... He has a timeshare with Elvis and JFK.
DO YOU CRY AT WEDDINGS?:		Not if I can help it.
HOW DO YOU LIKE YOUR EGGS?:		Scrambled with katsup.
ARE BLONDES DUMB?:		No more so than a Golden Retriever....
WHERE DOES THE OTHER SOCK END UP?:		in a separate dimension that also has lost pens and keys.
WHAT TIME IS IT?:		Time is an illusion, so this question is meaningless.
DO YOU HAVE A NICKNAME?:		Several. The one I like the least is "uncle Tookie"
IS MCDONALD'S DISGUSTING?:		tastes like maksing tape to me.
WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU WERE IN A CAR?:		about four hours ago.
DO YOU PREFER BATHS OR SHOWERS?:		Showers.
IS SANTA CLAUSE REAL?:		Sure... Paragraph 42b, section A reads that "No Elf can join a union"
IS SANTA CLAUS REAL?:		Yep. Owns the timeshare next to Elvis et all...
ARE YOU AFRAID OF THE DARK?:		not unless the lights are off.
WHAT ARE YOU ADDICTED TO?:		freebased peanut butter cups.
HAVE YOU EVER RIDDEN IN AN AMBULANCE?:		Yep, but not because I was injured.
HOW MANY TIMES HAVE YOU BRUSHED YOUR TEETH TODAY?:		once.
IS DRUG FREE THE WAY TO BE?:		Only if reality is too trippy as it is...
ARE YOU WEARING SOCKS?:		Yes
WHEN'S THE LAST TIME YOU CRIED?:		three weeks ago. Please don't ask why.
DO YOU LIKE YOUR LIFE?:		So far.
WHOSE LIFE IS BETTER?:		Hmmm... I'll have to think about that.
ARE YOU PSYCHIC?:		Not that I'll admit to it.
HAVE YOU READ "CATCHER IN THE RYE"?:		Yes.
DO YOU PLAY ANY INSTRUMENTS?:		I do a mean bongo solo.
CAN YOU SKATEBOARD?:		No, unless you like to see me fall.
DO YOU LIKE CAMPING?:		Yes.
DO U SNORT WHEN U LAUGH?:		Sometimes.
DO YOU BELIEVE IN MAGIC?:		Any sufficently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.
IS A DOG A MAN'S BEST FRIEND?:		Yep.
YOU BELIEVE IN DIVORCE?:		Yep.
CAN YOU DO THE MOONWALK?:		Yep.
a peanut butter cup.
DO YOU WEAR NAILPOLISH?:		No, cause I'm not Gay.
DO YOU LIKE SOMEONE RIGHT NOW?:		Yes.
WHAT'S THE MOST ANNOYING TV COMMERCIAL?:		the Chevy one with the divorced dad being dropped off by mom.
DO YOU SHOP AT AMERICAN EAGLE?:		No... they make nothing that would fit.
FAVORITE BAND AT THE MOMENT?:		Green Day

Tag-a-roo, I'm lookin at you:
Dave, Stacey, Mel, and Drew.

(Poetry! another hidden talent! Crap!)

Music Meme

Dave tagged me for this, and seeing as how I owe him big for scoring me that ticket for Saturday…

Itunes Meme:

Here's what you do: Go to your music player of choice and put it on shuffle. Say the following questions aloud, and press play. Use the song title as the answer to the question. NO CHEATING.

How does the world see you? “American Pie”- Don McLean
Uh… so I’m long and full of metaphors?

Will I have a happy life? “Captain Jack”-Billy Joel
One of the most depressing songs ever. All about feeling alienated and alone. Not a good sign.

What do my friends really think of me? “Born in the USA”- Bruce Sprinsteen
All about a loner that gets screwed up in Vietnam… but I tend to think of it as a “working man’s hero” song. I can live with that.

Do people secretly lust after me? A Ska version of “Time after Time”.
Awsome.

How can I make myself happy? “Rock-a-Hula”- Elvis Presley.
Lotsa hot chicks doing the hula, apparently.

What should I do with my life? “The Night they Drove Old Dixie down”- Joan Baez.
Uh, Drive?

Will I ever have children? “Viva las Vegas”- Elvis again…
‘There's a thousand pretty women waitin' out there… And they're all livin' devil may care.. And I'm just the devil with love to spare.’ Hmm… guess not.

What is some good advice for me? “Wheel in the sky”- Journey
And it keeps on turning : )

How will I be remembered? “Faithful to me”-Jennifer Knapp.
I can live with that.

What is my signature dancing song? “Cuban Pete”- Desi Arnez.
Equally awesome. BOOM-chicki-boom, boom-CHICKI-boom, boom-chicki-BOOM.

What do I think is my current theme song? “Everyday People”-Sly and the Family Stone. Getting far more accurate here.

What does everyone think my current theme song is? “You Sexy Thing”- Hot Chocolate
Awwww, yeah.

What song will play at my funeral? “The Promised land”- Bruce Springsteen
Not what I would have picked, but I can live with it. Or die with it, as the case may be.

What type of women do you like? “Hot Patootie (Whatever happened to Saturday night)”- Meatloaf, from the Rocky Horror Picture Show.
All about Nailing hot, easy rock and roll chicks. It’s like they know me.

What is my day going to be like? “Like a prayer”-Madonna.
Uh-oh. Better wear clean unerwear today.

I TAG—lessee… Melinda, Ducky, Dreamwalker, and my Brother.

Sailing on a sea of Black and Gold...

As you may have heard, Saturday afternoon Dave and I (lucky bastards that we are) got to go to the big game at the Superdome… the playoff game between the Saints and the Philidelphia Eagles.

Now, I normally don’t make too much of a fuss about it, but I’m a big NFL fan. (for my overseas readers, that’s the National Football League. And when I say Football, I sure as heck don’t mean soccer… I mean the game where we inflate a pig to throw at people and then bang into each other like drunken goats) I’m not one of those guys who plops himself in front of the TV every Sunday and watches every single game throughout the season… but late in the season, something inside me just gets all twitterpaited with the excitement of the upcoming playoffs and Super Bowl. Most of my life, I have been a NY Giants fan (go Big Blue Wrecking Crew!) but second to them in my heart for the past 10 years have been the New Orleans Saints. For most of my time living in this city, the Saints have been the quintessential loveable losers… The nice guys who try real hard, but always seem to blow it in the end like in an old Abbott and Costello movie. In short, they were the “Rob” of professional sports without the raw animal charisma. As the end of the season approached this year I was amazed that the Saints hadn’t blown it, and like everyone else in the greater New Orleans area I found myself yelling “Who Dat?” far more enthusiastically than I had in years past.

Problem was, the Giants were looking pretty good too. I actually surprised myself when I breathed a sigh of relief when the Giants were eliminated. I wouldn’t have to root against the Saints… who in addition to playing some superior football, were giving my Katrina-battered Neighbors something happy to talk about.

I say all this so it will come through just how excited I was when Dave offered me the ticket to Saturday’s game. I was beside myself… I did a little victory dance at my desk at work. I let loose a primeval ‘Yaulp’. I giggled uncontrollably like a schoolgirl for hours. I called everyone I knew that I thought would care. Most were happy for me. Others scared their child by yelling “You suck!” into the phone. Loudly. Dizzy’s mom still won’t speak to the “Damn Yankee what thinks he’s a Saints fan.”

I did not care. I was going to the game. “Who’s going to the game?” I would say to myself in the mirror, giving myself a ‘thumbs up’… “this guy!”

I had remembered the hoopla surrounding the Giants’ season (1990) when they went to the Super Bowl, and figured I was prepared for what awaited me when Dave and I arrived at the Dome. I was wrong. The cab let us out almost a half mile from the stadium, because that was where the tailgating began. As we walked closer, the crowds became thicker, a sea of black and gold jerseys upon which we were afloat. Even before the game, we received more than one high-five from faithful Saints fans that were simply delighted that the team had made it this far. We got there about an hour before the doors opened, and strolled through the crowd, people watching while various bands took the stage set up outside, adding to the party atmosphere. Wherever we stopped to rest or just take in the view, some stranger would start chatting with us about how great the Saints have been this season, and how they’ve been coming to games since the franchise started, and how this was their year. The crowd swayed to the loud jazz music coming from the band as they stated playing “I believe/Saints go all the way”, and the party was suddenly in full swing.

Let me tell ya… no one knows how to party like New Orleans. There were folks in costume everywhere… from old standbys like “Holy Moses” and “the Whistle Monster” to a septuplet of Elvi (or is it Elvises?) all decked out in matching black and gold jumpsuits. There was one group carrying around a bald eagle in a noose, at least one witch doctor I saw, and a guy dressed as an incongruant bottle of Duff beer.

Dave would later insist throughout the game that the Duff guy needed to get up and dance or something.

There were also a few Eagles fans circulating in the crowd, followed incessantly by a chorus of “boos” and “hisses”, as well as some more colorful terms I won’t go into here. We were following one such fan around, laughing at the comments of our fellow Saints fans, when the doors next to us suddenly opened, and in we went. Our seats were in a suite (skybox), a new experience for both me and Dave. It was catered complete with food, beer and drinks, so we grabbed a brew and watched the Saints warm up as the Superdome slowly filled. A roving photographer took our picture, ans suddenly I felt like one of the 'beautiful people'. (A fact I would later scream loudly after I got more beer in me) The music was being piped in from the stage outside, and the Steve Miller band took the stage while Dave started pointing out which player was which. I am ashamed to admit that without their uniforms on, I didn’t have a clue.

Predictably, the Superdome filled. The music started. The national anthem played. The game was on. We soon found out that our suite was right next to Deuce McAllister’s family suite, and so we got to hear his family yell at the coach every time they took him out of the game. The game itself has been recounted by better sources than I, so I’ll just skip to the after game fun…

We followed the river of black and gold (a tributary of the sea, apparently) as it made its way down Poydras street (effectively closing the street to traffic) to the French Quarter to celebrate. Dave and I found ourselves suddenly among 10,000 of our closest friends, most of whom were drunk. Everyone that stopped to chat/hug/high-five/scream ‘who dat’ with us, I would say “So, you’re coming with us to Miami, right?” while Dave started going on about renting an RV for everyone and bringing only a Hawaiian shirt, a swimsuit, and a Gumbo pot. After the twentieth time this scene played out, Dave grinned at me and said, “You know, I think we’re gonna need a bigger RV.”

Indeed.

From the Dogs Of Atlantis Management: Rob has a picture of him and Dave (taken by the roving photographer in the skybox) with Reggie Bush in the background warming up on the field below, but the scanner at DOA headquarters has been on the fritz. We will see to it that it gets posted as soon as we can.

Some Wednesday humor...

A little girl and her dog are walking through the forest when they suddenly fall into a pit. They scramble and scramble but can''t make their way out. The little girl yells, the dog barks, but no one is around to hear their calls for help. Slowly, the night sky turns black and they find themselves engulfed in utter darkness. Off in the distance, the wolves begin howling. Each howl is louder and closer than the last. The little girl holds the dog close to her chest and says sadly to the dog, "This is the worst mess in which ever have found ourselves, my darling Sparky." "Yeah," the dog says, "we''re really screwed." "Sparky," the girl says, astonished, "I didn''t know you could talk." "Well," the dog says, "I was kinda waiting for the right time to tell you."

Holy hitmen, Batman!

I swear, the Saint-sational story of my weekend is forthcoming, but I ran across something I had to comment upon...

As if all those offers for "natural male enhancement" in my mailbox weren't enough, now I have to be on the lookout for scam artists posing as hitmen that want to kill me.

As I read the above linked article, the following thoughts occured to me:

1) If an actual hitman approached me with this offer, I would still be screwed as I don't have 100 grand under my mattress or anything. Most I could counter offer would be 50 bucks and a coupon for a free pitcher of beer at Hooters.

2) Those that would fall for this must be some pretty paranoid people... my first thought when confronted with this would be akin to "There is no one on this planet who would shell out 50 thou just to see me dead."

3) It would be very easy to insert a few generic locations or events to that e-mail to convince a complete stranger that you actually had them under survellence. (I.E.: "I saw you in Wal-mart a few weeks ago and you even bought my employer a gift, you cheapskate.", "you really need to cut down on the between meal snacking" or "I'm sure the folks at that coffee shop will miss you.") I wonder how the con artist missed that.

4) I think way too much like a criminal.

Stupid busy at work today...

So, any facinating tales of my adventures with Dave at the Saints playoff game will have to wait till tomorrow. In the meantime enjoy this, arguably the cutest baby picture ever of Drew and Stacey's kid, Ace...

New York stinks. Literally.

I couldn't help but laugh when I read about the unusual smell that Manhattan residents have recently noticed in their air. You know, It's no secret that when you live downwind from New Jersey, things like this are going to happen occasionally... it's just that Manhattan normally isn't the one stuck downwind of it at all. Usually it's Staten Island, where I grew up.

Dats right, mon... I'm from de island. Now pass the duchie on de left hand side.

All you whiney Manhattan residents: suck it up and deal with it, like you've been telling Staten Islanders to do all these years when we would complain not just about the smell of Jersey, but the smell of the Fresh Kills Landfill that you refused to allow us to close for so many years. After all, those refineries in New Jersey are a nessacary evil produced by the port that turned your city into one of the richest on the planet.

Or, at least that's the line you've been feeding me since I was in grade school. Now that it's the air on the upper east side making your eyes water, is it somehow different? All it takes is a shift in the damn wind and our problem is suddenly yours.

See, folks... stuff like this is why I moved. At least here in New Orleans, the classism and hypocracy is right out in the open where it can't sneak up on anyone, and people recognize that a neighborhood's problems can be everyone's problem if left unchecked.

All rise for the traditional "Elvis' Birthday pelvis wiggle"...

So, Rob, how was your New Years Eve?

My New Years was fun, but I nearly wound up with pneumonia. I suppose that's what happens to a guy that has a bit of a sniffle who spends a large chunk of the evening loudly belittling his friend's neighbor's fireworks display. We would send up a mortar, they would send up a slightly inferior rocket... followed by me yelling "Is that the best you got? Alright boys, let’s show em how we do things downtown!" at which point my friends, (Dave and Bobby), would send up another round, followed by me screaming "Now thats what I'm talking about!" at the neighbors. Repeat this scene like 30 or 40 times, and keep in mind that I was out there wearing a t-shirt in damp, 40 degree weather (gotta love them Louisiana winters... high 70 degree days, but damp, cold nights)... I suppose it's no surprise that I spent the past week or so mostly in bed, coughing. :(

On the bright side, I had a chance to catch up on my movie watching… one of which is perfect to be reviewing today, on what would be Elvis’ 72^nd birthday- BubbaHoTep.

I originally put this one on the Netflix queue because of its star, Bruce Campbell. He has a tendancy to gravitate toward offbeat projects that I appreciate. Usually, they resemble old school ‘b’ movies in both theme (“The Man with the Screaming Brain” being a great example) and more importantly, humor. BubbaHoTep is no exception. The film takes place in a Texas nursing home, where we meet none other than the king himself… Elvis Arron Presley, who long ago gave up his fame to an Elvis impersonator that died before he could switch back. But all is not well… a soul-sucking mummy is preying upon the elderly, and it’s up to Elvis to stop him with a little assistance from fellow nursing home resident, JFK. This movie takes a while to get going, but is very clever once it gets its legs under it. It really surprised me that I would enjoy a movie with two geriatric heroes, but Campbell’s aging Elvis seeking redemption won me over fairly quickly. Go out and rent it yourself, and let me know what you think.

Opening the paranormal can of worms… maybe I should catch some paranormal fish.

For those of you that don’t read the comments left on each post, you may have missed this absolute gem of a comment about my last post:

Robert, I am surprised at you!
Seeking a purely "scientific" explanation of "paranormal" phenomenon! I would have thought you had enough exposure to entities such as "Whitney", (for one) to consider ghosts more than random glimpses of a parallel universe... And how would you explain Cousin Edward?

Personally, I don't like the term "paranormal". Anything the human mind is capable of IS normal - no matter how profound or far from our societal "norms". To be "paranormal", or METAphysical, the event would have to be something of which the human mind is NOT capable. With the current state of the psychological arts in our society, I think we would have great difficulty determining whether any particular event is something of which the mind is not capable.

Ladies and gentlemen… to me, this comment is proof of something that I have been saying all along… my Mother reads my blog. I say this for two reasons… One, there is nothing paranormal about the way someone’s neck hair stands up when their parent uses their full first name; two, no one else would know the “Cousin Edward” story. While not particularly surprising that Mom reads this stuff, it may surprise many of you to find out that my Mom is one of the major driving forces behind my interest in the paranormal, as well as my open-mindedness on the subject.

Throughout my life, Mom has manifested signs of latent psychic ability. (Although she would probably take exception to the term ‘latent’) One of the most compelling proofs of this ability to me was the “Cousin Edward” story. When I was in my late teens, My Mom’s cousin Edward was going through a rough time… he had an inoperable brain tumor that doctors said was going to eventually kill him. Eddie was a trooper though, and hung in there for a very long time through chemotherapy, surgery and everything else the doctors tried. He was only a few years older than I was, and it was very tragic. When we got the phone call that he had lost the fight and passed away, I was the one who picked up the phone. My memory is a little fuzzy on this part, but I think it was my aunt telling me that Eddie had passed away. I went to give the phone to my Mom, telling her that she may want to sit down first. She looked me in the eye and said “Edward passed away, right?”. “Yeah.” I said, “How did you know?” “He came to visit me last night and told me.” Mom said, without batting an eye.

This definitely rated a 9 on the weird-shit-ometer. Even for Mom.

The “Whitney” story is something else entirely. Whitney was the name my Dad gave the ghost that we believed haunted our house, and some of the surrounding area. Whenever a set of keys went missing, but was found later somewhere that we had already looked, it was invariably blamed on “Whitney”. Mom actually saw a man in a three-corner hat standing in our backyard one afternoon, but when she looked again, the man had vanished. "Must be Whitney" we all agreed.

Yeah, Jay and I still joke that Mom is a “Weirdness Magnet”. Believe me, these tales are just the tip of the iceberg.

Buuuuut…. Knowing now what I didn’t know then, I would classify the “Cousin Edward” story as an example of Mom’s latent clairvoyance, not Ghosts. “Whitney” on the other hand was indeed a haunting… and fits pretty well with my quantum intrusion theory, thank you very much… particularly if one is to posit that these alternate quantum states have some level of physicality in our plane of existence. Missing keys aside, I have seen some evidence to support the idea that ghosts can manipulate physical objects.

Unlike Mom, I do like the term “Paranormal”. It means, (according to the dog-eared Webster’s Dictionary I keep by my computer) “Not explainable by current science”. I certainly prefer it to terms like “supernatural” or “metaphysical”, which tend to have more magical and spiritual connotations in the popular culture. I also believe that science can explain most things in the universe if science is willing to keep an open mind to that which it does not currently understand. The sciences devoted to discovering some of this more wondrous stuff are Parapsychology and Paraphysics. Most people think of these as “fringe” sciences, stuff best not discussed in serious scientific forums. But remember, the cryptozoologists that discovered the existence of the giant squid were once “fringe” guys as well.

Science’s view of the universe is constantly under revision, and it is through these revisions that great breakthroughs in how we see the universe are born. It may be closed-minded to think that someday science will explain many of the things we currently do not understand, but it’s just as closed-minded to believe that some things are impossible for us to understand.

On the paranormal...

Recently, my buddy Melinda reviewed a book on her blog called "The Skeptic's guide to the Paranormal". Toward the end she mentioned a theory I developed about the nature of ghosts and such, which I have yet to put into print, or even comment upon outside of the occasional dinner party.

Fact of the matter is, I have said very little here about the time I spent working as a Paranormal Researcher, even though it was probably the coolest job I will ever have. For those of you that don't know, I spent some time working for some folks that were doing an ongoing study of a haunted property here in New Orleans Pre-Katrina. It was something I don't talk about unless pressed to, and never here in fear of tainting the research we were doing by having people read about my experiences. Part of the research was to see what would happen when people who knew nothing about what we were doing were brought onto a haunted property for the first time, and coming across my blogs about it could have made people biased. ("Well, this must be where Rob said on his blog he saw that ghost so my imagination will start playing tricks on me at this point and... HOLY CRAP, IT'S A GHOST!") So understanding why (at the request of my boss) I should say nothing about stuff that happened to me, I kept my fool mouth shut.

I may have to start changing that... I'd desperately like to get involved with the paranormal stuff again and maybe do more research. I think a good way to start that would be to share a little of my personal beliefs and experiences on the subject, starting with crackpot theory #7...

The Truth about Ghosts.

First off, let me start by saying to all the skeptics out there that I am one of you. I looked at everything that happened to me with a disbelieving eye, and it generally took a lot before I would label something that happened to me as "Paranormal". Having said that, I would ask that anyone reading these pages do so with an open mind... I know that a lot of the 'proof' generally put forth about ghosts and like phenomena is very subjective, and difficult, if not impossible, to reproduce. For the purposes of this article though, I would ask that you take my word for it that my experiences were indeed valid and yet defied conventional explanation.

My experiences in the field have convinced me of this, if nothing else... Ghostly phenomena is real. Something is happening to the thousands of people that encounter ghosts every year that is beyond our current science to understand. I will also state unequivocally that nothing in my experience has convinced me that ghosts are the immortal souls of the dearly departed. The truly sad thing is that because this is generally the accepted notion, no one is offering an alternative explanation. Heck, Freud once said "As for ghosts, there is scarcely any other matter upon which our thoughts and feelings have changed so little since early times."

So, If ghosts aren't the spirits of the dead, then what are they? Well, first lets take into account what I know of them through my observation:

-Ghosts can manipulate electric and/or magnetic fields, as evidenced by magnetometer (emf reader) results.

-Ghosts can be seen, but not easily. There are many ghost pictures on the Internet, but few that truly defy explanation to a serious photographer. many of the "orb photos" I've seen are quite obviously dust. However, I have indeed seen one, and the shadow of another as it passed. this means that ghosts can, under the right circumstances, reflect light.

-Ghosts can have shapes, but this shape can vary. Many Observers report translucent human forms, others report mists. I have seen both.

Now, things within the realm of science that generally can accomplish all three of these tend to be sub-atomic particles, and (more importantly) fit into most current quantum theories. My theory is that on an unconscious level, we are sensitive to minute changes in sub atomic and quantum fluctuation, and perceive this phenomena as ghosts.

So, sometimes, what we're looking into with this sense is an alternate reality intruding upon our own, which is why we interact with "humans"... it's entirely possible that on the other side of the dimensional barrier, the "ghostly encounter" is perceived by whatever sentient life forms are there in an entirely different manner.

Of course, I have no idea how to go about testing this... I know just enough physics to be dangerous... if anyone out there has an idea about how to measure or prove this theory, let me know.

Only a situation? Wake me when it becomes a catastrophe...

Apparently, we have a bit of a situation here in southeast louisiana... the entire half of the state is slowly sliding into the gulf of Mexico like a very lazy avalanche. According to the linked article, the state is falling into the water at a rate of about the width of 2 credit cards per year.

Okay, kids... time for some math:

My credit card (okay... debit card. I never said my credit rating was flawless.) measures 3.5 inches at its wide point... my house is approximately 35.16 miles from the gulf waters as the crow flies, (or in this case as the land slides) or 2,227,953.34 inches to the sparkling blue waters that separate me from Cuba.

2 times 3.5 equals 7

2,227,953.34 divided by 7 is 636,558.097.

In short, by the year 638,565 A.D., my apartment will be beachfront property, and New Orleans flooding problems will be a much deeper issue.

At least it gives me some time to figure out where I should evacuate to...

Progress? you call that Progress?

Yesterday I realized that I've had my Buick for a little over a year, and thus far 'Maybelyne' hasn't let me down when its counted. Unfortunately, all my giddy little bits of sentimentality were blasted out of the water by the fact that it also means it was time for me to take the old girl for her yearly brake tag inspection.

I called work to say I would be late, and figured the whole process wouldn't take very long... After all, "hit your turn signals and honk the horn" is the automotive equivalent to "open wide and say ahhhh". So I pulled into the station like I normally would, waited paitently for the four cars ahead of me to get their inspection stickers, and greeted the attendant with a smile. She asked no questions, had me honk the horn once and presented me and Maybelyne with a pretty piece of paper that said "REJECTED" on it in large, friendly, red letters.

"Say what?" I asked calmly.

"I'm sorry sir, but all of your turn signal bulbs are not lensed." the Inspection lady said.

I felt May's engine huccup in dissatisfaction. The front turn signals haven't had lenses since I bought the car... I just taped them over and moved on with my life without incident.

"I know that. They have tape over them."

"Sorry, sir. No cars can be passed without lensed lights."

"It's never been a problem before, Darlin. You sure this isn't some plot just to get me to come back so you can spend more time with me?" I batted my eyelashes at her in a hopeless attempt to flirt my way out of this.

Nothing is less impressive apparently, than a large italian man calling you 'darlin' while batting his eyelashes at you.

"No, sir. New rules passed by the parish. All lights to be lensed, no cracks of any kind in windshields, and all windshield wipers must be functional. That's progress for you."

"But you didn't ask me to do the wipers."

"Saw the lens first, so I saw no need. I can give you a temporary tag till you get them fixed though. That'll be 20 dollars"

"Twenty bucks for just the temp one?"

"That's right. Make sure that you keep the temp tag somewhere hidden, though... these things are a very high theft item since the new rules."

No Kidding. I wonder why. I thought, scowling slightly."Not in the windshield? but what if I get pulled over?"

"Just show the cops the temporary one and they'll let you go."

Yeah. Right. I took the tag and drove off in search of turn signals, after calling in to my boss first to say I was going to be even later.

"Your car was rejected?" He asked.

"That's right."

"Well, how does your Buick feel about that?"

"She's a little upset about it. I'll be there as soon as I can."

"I've been to that inspection station before... the lines get pretty long after the morning hours."

"So, I promise I'll be in by 4:00. Bye." (we get off work at 4:30)

I went to several junkyards, none of which seemed to have any wrecked Buicks. I was ready to give up when someone told me to try one last one, an auto salvage place near the Huey P Long bridge. the man behind the counter had a thick cajun accent, but obviously knew his stuff.

"Nah. We got no buicks ov da riht year here. But we do have udders dat'l work."

"wait... you mean you have the lenses?"

"Uhns dat'l work, yah. Diffent year, riht part. Dat'll be 50 bucks."

"I only have 42 dollars on me, but I can.."

"Hokay... 42 bucks den."

I love this town sometimes. I thanked the man and ran out to the car before he changed his mind and had me wrestle an alligator out of a wrecked school bus to make up the extra eight bucks. I slapped the parts on the car, waited in line at the station for another couple of hours, but got to work by noon.

Maybelyne, with her new turn signals, has never looked better.

Hmmm... I see no difference... or do I?

I took the plunge today and switched over to the new version of Blogger... after all, a man's gotta face his fears sooner or later, right? I see no difference though, between this new version and the old except that now the Google Gestapo has a file on me.

In me, however I have noticed a change over the past couple of months or so... the spring is back in my step, the songs have returned to my heart, and I've been just chock-full of the spirit of the season. Compared to last year, when I was ranting about Festivus well into January, I think that this is quite the improvement.

I guess it's time to come clean, as well... I think had been suffering from a rather serious bout with depression for almost a year, and it seems no one noticed. I don't know if my acting skills are just that good, or if those that care about me just didn't know how to bring it up, but I finally caught on to this about two months ago and started doing something about it. For those who wonder about such things, for me it really didn't take all that much, either... an exercise routine here, learing to embrace my stupidity there, and I'm a whole new man. It also helps that there's a genuine feeling of hope in the city again as people start moving back into their rebuilt homes, and FEMA trailers start slowly disappearing. Not to mention the Saints having a winning season for the first time ever... for all those that wonder why it was so important to get the superdome up and running again when there is so much left to do, you should see the smile that crosses nearly everyone's face when they hear the word "playoffs" being spoken aloud in a bar here.

Anyway, I'm much better now. To those I had been aloof to for a while, I apologize. Won't happen again.

The Moral: True change comes from within, but you have to step outside the box sometimes to see when it's needed.

The miracle of creativity....

From Dave and I working on the Dyno man christmas special-

Dave; I've got King kong all dressed as Cindy lou Who... now what?

Me: Okay, for these next few scenes, David Hasslehoff will need a few costumes.

Dave: Sure... what do we need?

Me: He has to be convincing as a christmas tree, a judge, a reindeer, Ralphie, and...uh... tokyo.

Dave: a reindeer? that's gonna be tough.


Merry Christmas, Y'all.

Monty zuma's revenge on Algiers point?

I promise that this isn’t one of those “well, first I got up, then I showered, then I got dressed, then I did my hair, then I decided to have an egg, then some toast…” kind of blog entries that Lauren and I make fun of all the time. Read on.

Allow me to describe my morning to you...
1) Wake up
2) Take shower
3) Brush teeth
4) Get Dressed
5) Make some toast
6) Eat said toast with a bit of peanut butter
6) Drink a couple of glasses of tap water to wash down toast and peanut butter
7) Turn on cell phone and remove from charger
8) Check my voicemail messages.
9) Receive "MOM SAYS DON'T DRINK THE WATER IN ALGIERS POINT OR BRUSH YOUR TEETH WITH IT!!!! IT WAS JUST ON THE NEWS!!!" message from Dizzy.
10) Panic
11) Promise myself that I’m not having a heart attack
12) Check pulse anyway
13) Tell myself that the sudden queasy feeling in my stomach probably has more to do with the 26 hot wings I ate the night before than the water I just drank.
14) Watch morning news that doesn't say a blasted thing about the water, or what to do if you've already drunk a few quarts of water before hearing the news that you shouldn’t drink it.
15) Go to work, hoping that I don't suddenly die from salmonella behind the wheel.
16) Realize on way to work that the odds of anyone suddenly dying from salmonella are fairly slim
17) Hear report on radio confirming that Algiers residents need to boil their water before drinking it until Thursday because of a water main break, but not what to do if you’ve already drunk it.
18) Panic some more
19) Realize that dying from drinking tainted tap water has to be worth a Darwin award.
20) Get to work, check internet, and find out that the boil water thing is just a standard procedure precaution for water main breaks, and that anyone who drank the water before hearing the news should be fine.
21) Realize that I will live to blog another day

Some funny for a Monday...

Those of you that haven't should really check out Lauren's Gingerbread Minions. What she's not telling you is that they're really all 100 ft tall, baked in an enormous oven :)

And now, a joke...

After dying a grisly death in an Afghan cave, Osama made his way to the pearly gates. There, he was greeted by George Washington. "How dare you attack the nation I helped conceive!" yelled Washington, slapping Osama in the face. Patrick Henry came up from behind. "You wanted to end America's liberty, so they gave you death!" Henry punched Osama in the nose. James Madison came next, and said, "This is why I allowed the government provide for the common defense!" He took a sledge hammer and whacked Osama's knees. Osama was subjected to similar beatings from John Randolph, James Monroe, and 65 other people who had the same love for liberty and America. As he writhed on the ground, Thomas Jefferson hurled him back toward the gate where he was to be judged. As Osama awaited his journey to his final very hot destination, he screamed, "This is not what I was promised!" An angel replied, "I told you there would be 72 Virginians waiting for you. What did you think I said?"

The sum of all my fears... (with apologies to Tom Clancy)

Okay, let it never be said that I'm not man enough to look inside and figure out what sends me to the corner, curled up in the fetal position. If Dave can do it, after all...

I fear:

1) That all the world's major religions are wrong, and Death=nonexistance.

2) That the reason I have yet to publish a story or sell a screenplay is because I, in fact, suck.

3) That I have made misakes in my life that I will never truly recover from.

4) That no one that actually reads my blog really cares what I say here.

5) That no one but me and god actually see all the good I have done just trying to leave this planet a better place than I found it.

6) That I am a loser, but am too preoccupied to notice.

6a) That no one takes me seriously.

7) That what I think is "Love" isn't, but I'll never experience the real thing and will thusly never know for sure.

8) That the people I care about have no clue how much they really mean to me.

9) That when I switch over to blogger beta, I'll lose all my previous posts, and Google will be able to track my movements for the CIA.

You're wrong, Dave. This wasn't enlightening... it was depressing.

A near miss

Well, I think that I probably came the closest I will hopefully ever come to winning a Darwin Award this morning… by nearly removing myself from the gene pool in a spectacularly stupid manner.

It was a fairly normal (if chilly) morning here in the big easy, and overnight the temperature had dipped down near the twenties. Of course, this meant little to me as I hopped into my car to head to work, other than that I grabbed my sweater before leaving the house. Or so I thought.

While passing over the bridge, I noticed that my windshield was kinda dusty, and instinctively pressed the washer button to clear it. Predictably, wipers started, and the washer fluid sprayed over the windshield…

And froze solid on contact.

I was rendered totally blind to the cars in front of me in less time than it takes to tell, and still moving at 60 miles an hour. My windshield wipers made no headway against the super thin sudden frost that my stupidity had rendered upon me. I frantically pushed the heater lever over to defrost, but nothing happened. Terrified, I found the presence of mind to pull over, and waited there on the side of the road for almost a half hour for the defroster to finally melt the mess that sat there mocking me after nearly getting me killed.

I realized a few things from this experience.

1) My worst fears are true… Without my ex-wife around, I have indeed become the ‘stupid one’ of my clique of friends. The ‘Joey’ of our little group, as it were.
2) After living in the deep south for 13 years, I no longer think it important to carry an ice scraper or deicer in my car, despite the fact that I am known for my long drives into northern climates.
3) All this time, the oil change place I go to has been adding water to my windshield washer bottle instead of washer fluid.

I’m still working on which of these makes me more upset.

Drunken babies... what will they think of next?

The Dogs of Atlantis Management would like to say that while the following post is meant to be funny, we in no way condone child abuse through accidentaly having a baby ingest alcohol. People who are dumb enough to do so don't deserve kids, and should be spayed and/or neutered.

I came across this story while watching the news last night, and it brought to mind the following questions:

1) How could she not smell that the clear liquid she was mixing with the baby formula wasn't water? Furthermore, did she not 'test' the bottle in any way before feeding it to her kid?

2) Do they have a 'worst dumb-ass parent ever' award (like the darwin awards for parenting)? If so, how do I nominate this lady?

3) How can one tell if a two month old is drunk? It's not like they start stumbling around and slurring their words, right? Furthermore, what prompted the doctors to check his blood for alcohol?

4) Why is there even a process for determining the blood alcohol level of an infant? It's not like they're gonna get behind the wheel of a car, right?

5) Wouldn't shotgunning the formula been more efficient than a bottle? For that matter, a funnel!

6) Do babies have drunken parties behind our backs?

7) At what point does alcohol not nearly kill you when ingested?

8) Wouldn't having a drunk baby take 'peekaboo' to a whole new level?

I desprately need some funny.

Today, I overslept. In itself, not a truly bad thing, but enough to throw my morning into chaos. Usually, it means a longer commute because I normally avoid the long lines at the toll plaza for the bridge by getting there before they develop.

But like I said, I overslept.

After spending about a half hour waiting in line to get my toll tag scanned so I could proceed, I get to a toll booth and nothing happens. The tag (which I just got last week, and have been using since) will not register for the toll collector. The lady in the booth says "I'm sorry sir, but you'll have to pay me a dollar if you want to cross the bridge."

Of course, I don't have a dollar on me. That's why I have the freaking toll tag, so I don't have to say "hey, do I have a dollar" before I leave Casa Kahunah in the morning. So she has me back up a bit, in hopes that the scanner will pick up my tag. the hundred or so folks behind me began to honk their approval at this particular tactic.

Which of course, didn't work.

"I'm sorry sir, but I can't let you cross the bridge." the toll lady says, a little smug about it.
"So, you're telling me that there's nothing I can do to get across this bridge now? I mean, I do have the toll tag..." I said.
"Well, to go across without paying is a 26 dollar fine... or you could ask the people behind you if they have an extra dollar..."

Great... so I'm either a beggar or a criminal. Thank you, but you can keep your stupid bridge, lady. I pulled off onto the special ramp they have for idiots who can't pay the toll with my blood pressure threatening to blow the top of my head off.

By this time, I'm already 15 minutes late for work, and still at least a 45 minute drive away. The tempatation to just go home and back to bed was almost overwhelming, but then I realized I really can't afford to lose a full day's pay this close to Chrismahannakwanzaka. So I went over another (fairly terrifying) bridge to get across the river, getting to work an hour late.

I guess some days you're the big dog, and some days you're the dog chow.

So, to lighten the mood, A joke I heard today:

A salesman from KFC walked up to the Pope and offers him a million dollars if he would change "The Lord's Prayer" from "give us this day our daily bread" to "give us this day our daily chicken." The Pope refused his offer. Two weeks later, the man offered the pope 10 million dollars to change it from "give us this day our daily bread" to "give us this day our daily chicken" and again the Pope refused the man's generous offer. Another week later, the man offered the Pope 20 million dollars and finally the Pope accepted. The following day, the Pope said to all his officials, "I have some good news and some bad news. 'The good news is, that we have just received a check for 20 million dollars. The bad news is, we lost the Wonder Bread account!'''

Gotta love a good pope joke.

A Few quick thoughts for a Friday afternoon…

1)Fry-day this year was better than ever. Best newcomer award goes to the crab Rangoon… biggest surprise was Dave’s fried ice cream. Our menu was far more extensive this year, primarily because we had a year to think and plan for this one. I would love to see fryday catch on somehow. I need to see if the domain name fryday.com is still available.

2)About a month or two ago, I embarked on a crusade to improve my life in general and reverse the downward spiral I seemed to be locked into. So far, I’ve gotten into an exercise routine, mended some interpersonal relationships that really needed it, and think i've finally personally come to grips with my new life (post divorce and post Katrina). So far so good, I suppose… It still bothers me that there is so much left to do. It amazes me that I got so emotionally detached there for a while that I let everything get as bad as it got. I think I’ll probably feel better when I can stand on the deck of my houseboat and say that. Whenever that’s gonna be (sigh).

3)At my weekly pub quiz, there’s a rival team of women that thinks they’re just so like the women from “sex in the city”… they’re really much more like “The View” with a mean drunk on.

4)A good way to know that it’s Christmas time in L.A…. The Grinch just signed a deal for a book and interview deal called “If I actually stole Christmas, here’s how I would have done it”.

5)At work, when my desk looks like this:

It’s amazing how little work I’m actually doing.
When it’s clean, however… watch out!

6)New Orleans Update... there are now two fast food places and three gas stations on my commute. Progress goes forward with a boink. :)

Have a nice weekend, y'all.

a passionate italian... who knew?

There's something I need to get off my chest, and so this post will be a fairly serious one. Those of you that hate maudlin rants, tune in tomorrow for stories of this year's Fry-day.

Warning: You must be at least this emotionally mature to ride this ride--------------

It occured to me the other day that at 209 some-odd entries, this blog is probably the longest thing I've ever written. It is also in many ways the most dishonest. I don't post a lot about my personal life here, primarily because almost everyone I know reads this blog, and I am constantly worried about hurting those I care about, or making bad situations worse. Plus that, I really try to write to entertain.

I'm thinking that needs to change. (the not writing about my personal life and those important to me part... hopefully not the entertaining part). I can already see in my mind's eye some folk cringing as I say that. "Oh, great" you're thinking, "he's gonna tell the world about that story with the three hookers and the Chimpanzee". No... I have no desire to air the dirty laundry of others. "Uh-Oh..." Others are thinking, "so he's gonna rat me out for pantsing him in front of the girl he had a crush on in high school". No, sorry... my personal pain and humiliation isn't on today's menu either.

What I'm talking about today is passion.

I am passionate about a lot of ideas, people and things. I tend not to let it creep into these pages, and I think that is doing a disservice to my readers. My passions tend to get me into a lot of trouble... and are directly responsible for many errors in judgement over the years... I say this not for any sort of absolution, but simply as an obsevation. I think that a passionate soul is simply something no writer can be without... Just like the fractured parts of my personality that make for vivid characters in my stories (shizophrenia isn't just for actors anymore:)). I think that by not including my passions on these pages, it has led this Blog to be perhaps the most unreal thing I've ever written.

But I am passionate. I get very, very angry at more than just mice. I have been very deeply hurt by people I care about more times than I care to recount, each time leaving a permenant scar on my silent soul. I have cared so deeply about some people that I would tell them that daily if I didn't think that they would find it just a little bit creepy. I have been through things that have made me question my existance. I have and still do deeply love many women that i've known, even though all common sense says I'm a complete idiot for doing so (Yes, despite any ex-wife jokes to the contrary, Charity is still among that number). I am forceful with my ideas, and would gladly give my life for my right to express them... even the stupid frustrated artist type ones. I believe in many things not just with my mind, but with my soul.

Most of all... I am really passionate about my life... and I'm thinking it's time these pages reflected that.

Maybe I just woke up on the wrong side of the bed... maybe I'm being overly dramatic, but it's something I needed to say...and that's what a blog is really about, isn't it?

Some Tuesday humor...

A lady was walking past a pet store when a parrot said, ''Hey, lady! You're really ugly!" The lady was furious and continued on her way. On the way home, she passed by the petstore again and the parrot once more said "Hey, lady! You're really ugly!" She was incredibly ticked now, so she went into the store and said that she would sue the store and kill the bird. The store manager apologized profusely and promised he would make sure the parrot didn't say it again. The next day, she deliberately passed by the store to test the parrot. "Hey, lady!" it said. "Yes?" "You know."

So this preacher gets mugged in an alley...

This is not a joke post, but darned if it doesn’t start like one. I’m listening to the radio the other day, and they told a story of a Texas inner-city preacher that after having been mugged, decided that his mission was to bring the Lord to the inner city youth of today. Apparently, the preacher turned to his bible for guidance on the subject, and came to an interesting conclusion: The bible was really long and difficult to read.

No huge mystery there, padre. It was written and re-written at least a thousand years ago (no, I don’t need the exact date... It’s not integral to the point of this story) and our language has changed since quill met papyrus. Inspired by this bit of divine obviousness, the preacher has decided to do something about it.

He is writing a Hip-Hop translation of the bible.

To quote psalm 23: “Yo, check it…even tho I’s walkin thru an evil hood, I got no fear… cause God got my back. Though them Gangstas try to bring a playa down, I got no worries, cause my homey… the Lord… is with me.”

Now, I understand the time honored tradition of translating the bible into another tounge to convert the unbelievers. If you want a populace to get the message, they need to be able to read it. This still seems like a stupid idea to me… Gangstas so inclined to pick up a bible won’t care if it’s in hip-hop or not, will they? I just don’t understand how this will not directly contribute and encourage the decline of the English language. Why bother to learn the finer points of our language if we’re gonna translate everything into our slang anyway?

So says the fat white guy of course, so I’d be interested in hearing any dissenting opinion.

Man vs. Mouse-round 4, and more!

"To depend strictly on defense means that there is not enough strength of purpose in your heart" --Sun Tzu

So, before going home to decide the fate of my P.O.W. in the great Mouse police action of 2006(see previous entry) I had to do my civic duty. That’s right, kids… it was voting time once again. This time, one of the issues was about how the parish has the right or lack thereof to tax me for owning a car. Personally, I think that’s ridiculous, and just another excuse for the government to shift as much of its overweight bureaucratic ass as it can upon the backs of the working stiff.

Anyway, seeing as how Ducky lives basically across the street from me, he decided to tag along and vote, too. He was however, turned away at the polls. As it turns out, that even though he changed his address after Katrina to reflect his residency in my neighborhood, not a single state or federal agency thought it appropriate to share this with the voters registration people. They were nice about it, but basically told Ducky that if he really wanted to vote, we would have to cross the river and drive the 17 or so miles down a still-dark-cause-the-streetlights-still-haven’t-been-fixed-since-the-storm road to Chalmette to do so.

In the 37 minutes before the polls closed.

“Dude…” I said, stifling my righteous indignation, “you have just been disenfranchised.”
“So it would seem.” Ducky replied.
“Isn’t there something in the bill of rights about this?”
“It’s taxation without representation, at the very least.”
“Hooters?” I suggested, thinking that going for chicken wings was somehow appropriate just then.
“Hooters.” Ducky agreed.

It was trivia night at Hooters, but we still regaled the waitresses with Ducky’s tale of woe. While managing to win a pitcher of beer. (Behold our brilliance!) The problem is, Ducky doesn’t drink, and I was driving. We got several thousand points for style when we decided to donate our hard-won pitcher to the team that came in last place.

Afterward, Ducky told me he had read my blog entry from earlier that day.

“Yeah,” I said, “I still haven’t figured out what to do with that P.O.W.”
“He’s not a P.O.W.!” Ducky quacked at me, “He’s an enemy combatant and a thief! He pillaged valuable resources and attempted to spread disease among your populace! He deserves no mercy!”
“My regime is not one to line people up in front of a firing squad, my friend.”
Ducky frowned.
“And you call yourself a dictator.”
“I prefer to think of myself as a benevolent Monarchy.”
“Most dictators do.”

I got home fairly late, half expecting that the Mouse in the wastebasket would have managed to escape somehow, but he was still there.

“You have been tried and found guilty of crimes against the sovereign state of Casa Kahunah.” I said to my furry prisoner, “we have decided that the sentence for your crimes is…" I paused, still unsure of his fate.

I thought of Sun Tzu, and his quote above. I thought of the errors of the current regime of the United states government, and why so many other nations don't like us.

I sighed. I'm just not a bully, I guess.

"Your sentence is banishment and exile.” I said.

I guess I lack strength of purpose... but at least I can live with myself.

I know what you’re thinking… I’ve tried this before. This time, I walked two blocks away, with the wastebasket and let him loose in a small park. The Mouse ran off into the night, in the opposite direction of my house. The war, for the moment, was once again over. Casa Kahunah is apparently mouse free but we can never forget the great police action of 2006, lest we repeat it’s mistakes.

Now if I could just get rid of that squirrel in the attic…

Man vs. Mouse, round 3.

The struggle continues to make Casa Kahunah rodent free… and I am seriously considering borrowing a friend’s cat for a few weeks. I just don’t think I can borrow Drew’s cat (Nimbus) in good conscience, because A) I live in a more urban setting that an indoor/outdoor suburbs cat like Nimbus might not find as safe, and B) That cat’s a bit of a jerk (according to Stacey).

Plus that, I’m thinking that these mice are not nearly as smart as I’ve been giving them credit for.

Case in point… Last episode, I found a mouse trapped in the living room wastebasket, and released him to the wild. At least, that was the plan. (no snickering out there… I’m lookin at you, Melinda.) The wily beast ran back into the house before I could react… Well, this morning, as I got ready for work, I heard a rustling in the (still empty) wastebasket again. I looked over the rim, and there was the same, stupid mouse.

At least I’m pretty sure it was the same mouse… I didn’t ask him for any I.D.

I didn’t feel like dealing with it just then and there, so I put a board over the wastebasket to confine the little S.O.B. till I get home. I also intend on stopping at Wal-mart to pick up a few more of those nifty traps. (The link is for Dreamwalker, who liked the sound of the design) I still have to decide what to do with my P.O.W. when I get home though… I think just outright executing it may be against the Geneva convention.

I’m off to re-read Sun-Tsu… but I’ll be damned if I know how to take a mouse’s wind.

Man vs. Mouse, round 2.

Okay… I’m willing to admit that my conclusion that it was just ONE mouse that had set up shop on the premises at Casa Kahunah was maybe a tad optimistic. As I sat down to the computer the other night to pound out a few more pages of my latest screenplay, I was quite startled as a second mouse jumped out from the couch cushions and took off across the living room floor.

Needless to say, I immediately checked my hard drive to see if he had been downloading any mouse porn.

The short lived peace it seemed, was over. I had once again underestimated my enemy, but would not do so again. The score was once again even: Man1, Mouse1. I put the remaining trap I had into position once more… baited yet again with that most magic of foods, peanut butter cups.

As darkness feel, I retreated to base camp Beta (my bedroom) and watched some Pinky and the Brain cartoons for inspiration. I was just dozing off when I heard the trap in the kitchen go off.

“HA HA!” I yelled from the ramparts of my mattress, “Man 2, Mouse 1! Take that, you foul beast!” As I stooped to pick up the trap, I looked at the little plastic indicator and noticed that it was in a different place this time. Could it be that the mouse had somehow set off the first one to lull me into a false sense of security? Or was it just a smaller mouse the first time? Did this mean there were more? Were the mice better organized than I had previously assumed?

I pondered this as I tossed the trap into the trash outside. I went to sleep, fitfully dreaming of the Brain and Pinky leading these field mice in an attempt to breach the levees of New Orleans (again) in the aftermath of hurricane Narf.

I awoke Sunday morning in a pensive mood. The house was quiet… a little too quiet. I cautiously took out the trash, (emptying the kitchen can and the waste basket in the living room as I try to do every Sunday), and made myself breakfast. As I settled in for a morning of shows I had taped throughout the week, I heard a rustling. From the living room trash can I had just emptied, no less! I slowly leaned over and looked into the basket, and saw a mouse struggling to climb the sheer, blue plastic walls. To be honest, I don’t know who was more scared.

We have met the enemy, and we have the common ground of being chickens.

As I looked down into what the mouse must have considered his pit of doom, I felt sorry for the little guy. It had to really suck to be him. In short, despite generations of conquerors in my Italian DNA, I couldn’t bring myself to put it out of it’s misery. After all, I’m a lover… not a killer.

I put a board over the wastebasket, and walked out to the very back of my back yard, and let the mouse go. It promptly ran across the yard and into the open back door of my house.

The stream of obscenities I yelled at that point is best not recounted here.

Man 2, Mouse 2. It isn't over.

Making with the funny on a Monday...

A policeman pulls over a driver for swerving in and out of lanes on the highway. He tells the guy to blow a breath into a breathalyzer.
''I can't do that, officer.''
''Why not?''
''Because I'm an asthmatic. I could get an asthma attack if I blow into that tube.''
''Okay, we'll just get a urine sample down at the station.''
''Can't do that either, officer.''
''Why not?''
''Because I'm a diabetic. I could get low blood sugar if I pee in a cup.''
''Alright, we could get a blood sample.''
''Can't do that either, officer.''
''Why not?''
''Because I'm a hemophiliac. If I give blood I could die.''
''Fine then, just walk this white line.''
''Can't do that either, officer.''
''Why not?''
''Because I'm drunk.''

Man vs. Mouse

Over the past few weeks, I have noticed that a mouse has taken up residence in my home. It wouldn’t even especially bother me so much, were he paying rent… but this mouse turned out to be quite the freeloader. He even ruined a large Sam’s Club pack of oatmeal.

So I tried the usual things… laid out a few of the old Tom and Jerry spring-type traps… some mouse poison… did a little song and dance number hoping the mouse would join in… I also considered (briefly) setting out a Wile E. Coyote style trap, but it somehow seemed unlikely that the mouse would be able to read the signs I put up saying “this way to the cheese”, “cheese around corner” and “stand here for the cheese” below a large rock.

Please keep in mind that my major source of knowledge about mouse behavior and how to get rid of them comes from hours and hours of Saturday morning cartoons.

In any event, I’ve been trying to evict this mouse for almost a month. I finally had the last straw the other morning, when as I sat up in bed, trying to blow away the cobwebs of sleep from my mind, the mouse struts across my bedroom floor.

And when I say ‘strut’ I mean a leisurely, I-got-nowhere-to-be, I-am-king-of-the-beasts kinda stroll.

I was too in shock to react to the thing, but one thing suddenly became etched in my mind: This mouse thinks it’s his freaking house. It was then and there that I declared war on this rodent. This attitude of his would not stand.

I went to Wal-mart that day, and bought the latest, greatest, state of the art in mouse dispatching traps, which were a real bargain at only 2 bucks each. I considered the glue traps too, but then reminded myself that I had duct tape at home that would work just as well if I needed it… The traps were this nifty little spin-guillotine thing that kills the mouse, and hides the carcass from view. The trap had a little piece of red plastic to let you know if you actually caught a mouse, and you could just throw the whole thing away without having to get squeamish over a dead mouse.

Thus armed, I determined I should set up a perimeter in what would be known as “No Mouse’s Land” for the duration of my police action (known to non-combatants as my kitchen). Keeping my head low and watching for ‘charlie’, I crawled under the table and carefully armed my traps, baiting them with my favorite food, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.

“Indeed,” I thought as I carefully placed the trap in what I assumed was a well-traveled mouse path, “how could they resist the power of peanut butter and chocolate?”

I set a few more traps in what I figured were key mouse strongholds… places where I was sure that the rodent was gathering his forces together to put a peanut butter cup sandwich under a very large rock, with a crudely drawn sign that said “Free sandwich for guys named Rob”.

I shuddered at the thought as I retreated to the relative safety of Base Camp Alpha (known as my living room couch to non-combatants) and waited for the inevitable sounds of carnage. Though I dared not turn up the TV lest I give away my position to the enemy, I still heard nothing.

War was much quieter than I had previously heard. Eventually I fell asleep, with nightmares of my time in No Mouse’s land waking me periodically. In them, I was a Wooly Mammoth… and the mouse and his furry brethren were hunting me with toothpicks while carrying bitty torches and wearing loincloths.

The next morning, I checked my traps. Nothing. My adversary was obviously more clever than I thought. I decided to give the traps another day, while I considered an alternative strategy. (Of course, the alternative strategy was moving away, but hey… I was a little upset)

The next morning I checked the traps again, and was amazed to see the little red indicator showed a mouse in the trap! I thumped my chest and let out a primal “Yalp”. I wondered aloud if a taxidermist would be willing to stuff and mount the beast’s head for my wall. I did the little happy dance. Man 1, Mouse 0.

In the end, I carried my worthy adversary in his round plastic coffin outside to the trash can, where he was dumped without further ceremony. The war had taken it’s toll on me… but history will remember this as the day that a brave man stood up to the rodents that dare intrude upon our homes, and said this far! No further!

Maybe I’ve just watched “Star Trek: First Contact” too many times.

A thought for all saints day...

I was reading over at Behind The Counter, where the unnamed wal-mart associate that keeps the blog had to ring up a purchase of 60 pumpkins, leaving our intrepid reporter to wonder just what they were all for. I know that you’re thinking, “Well, Halloween decoration of course”. And it is the obvious answer… but 60 pumpkins is a LOT of freakin gourds. More to the point, it got me thinking, “What the heck is this lady gonna do with all these pumpkins come November 1st?”

Alternative uses for 60 pumpkins the day after Halloween:

Pie. Lots and lots of pie.

A cheap 'b' horror movie for release next Halloween called "Attack of the Killer Pumpkins"

Spray paint them white, for easily compostable, warm weather climate snowmen.

Cheap Trebuchet ammo. (Not my idea, but really funny… posted in BTC’s comments, and the inspiration behind this post)

Impressive but cheap orange bricks to make a pyramid for a grade school production of "the ten commandments".

Festive way to smash windshields, so that the local glass companies get a much needed economic boost.*

Let them rot in the crawl space under the house of someone you don't like.*

Cheap Tourist attraction- "Rotting Gourd City"

Smash em on the desk of each co-worker that didn’t attend your Halloween party. Claim it’s an ancient religious forgiveness ceremony for your people (so you don’t get in trouble). Wear safety goggles and a raincoat while you do it.*

Pick a house at random and leave one on the doorstep. Replace it each time they throw one away until there are none left. (this gets even funnier as they begin to rot).

Sandbags? who needs stinkin sandbags?

Carve all into Jack-o-lanterns, place them all around co-workers car in the parking lot or their cubicle and say in a creepy voice "Ve have you surrounded." or "Surrender now, and ve vill kill you quickly." Better yet, just leave a note in red crayon saying such.

Dodgeball practice. (if you can dodge a pumpkin…)

Leave them all outside your local green grocer in a line with picket signs that say "Halloween unfair to pumpkins", "Pumpkins are people too!" and "Stop killing our Kin!"

Cut them in half, and use them as “biodegradeable siding” to tick off the local facist homeowners association.*

Two words… Highway overpass.*

Five more words… Empire State Building Observation Deck.*

and of course... (my favorite), create instant high ground in the event of levee breaches.


*the Dogs Of Atlantis Management does not condone or approve any acts of violence/revenge/vandalism, no matter how side-splitingly funny or silly they may be... unless of course you send us a video tape of such acts of violence/revenge/vandalism that we can win 10,000 dollars with, In which case... high five.

Upon the eve of the all-hollows…

I was thinking of writing a ghoulish tale today, about Halloween and it’s growing significance to America, and maybe a thing or two about how it’s changed in my lifetime… I also toyed with sharing a few choice stories of my own encounters with the paranormal from my time as a researcher…

But then I said “Screw that… an actual essay seems way too much like work.”

So, instead, I present the following…
(with apologies to The late, great Vincent Price, and the very scary Monogloved one:)

Darkness falls across the land…
The midnight hour is close at hand.
Creatures crawl in search of blood…
To terrorize y’alls neighborhood.
And whosoever shall be found,
Without the soul for getting down…
Must stand and face the hounds of hell
And rot inside a corpses shell.
The foulest stench is in the air…
The funk of forty thousand years!
And grizzly ghouls from every tomb
Are closing in to seal your doom.
And though you fight to stay alive…
Your body starts to shiver!
For no mere mortal can resist
The evil of… the thriller.

Bwah-ha-ha-ha! Bwah-ha-ha-ha!

Happy Halloween.

Some funny on a friday...

When Mozart passed away, he was buried in a churchyard. A couple days later, the town drunk was walking through the cemetery and heard some strange noise coming from the area where Mozart was buried.

Terrified, the drunk ran and got the town magistrate to come and listen to it.
When the magistrate arrived, he bent his ear to the grave, listened for a moment, and said, "Ah, yes, that's Mozart's Ninth Symphony, being played backwards."
He listened a while longer, and said, "There's the Eighth Symphony, and it's backwards, too. Most puzzling."

So the magistrate kept listening; "There's the Seventh... the Sixth... the Fifth..."
Suddenly the realization of what was happening dawned on the magistrate; he stood up and announced to the crowd that had gathered in the cemetery, "My fellow citizens, there's nothing to worry about. It's just Mozart decomposing."


And if that weren't funny enough for y'all... check out this video of a friend of mine at a costume contest... (make sure you watch the whole thing through.)

Corny jokes surround me.

Did you hear about the dyslexic devil worshipper? He sold his soul to Santa.

A jumper cable walks into a bar and orders a beer. The bartender says "I'll serve you, but don't start anything!"

Cell phone rudeness…

It amazes me sometimes just how rude other people can be in the use of their cell phones. I have seen this happening a lot lately. Sometimes, it’s a woman ignoring the check-out person at the supermarket because the horrible job her friend Yeveonne had on her nails was simply more important… sometimes it’s the man at McDonalds who thought that talking cutesy-wootsy to his girlfriend surely took precedence over his (or any of the people behind him in line) need for a Big Mac. These are signs of the times we live in; An irrefutable symbol of our growing need to not interact with people in the world around us save through the buffer of our technology.

I’m not a cell phone Nazi, mind you… but there are times when it is simply inappropriate to take a call, and other times when you should just turn the damn thing off. To not do so is simply rude. Maybe some people just don’t get that their cell phones have an off switch for a reason. I know that I thank the lord every day that if I don’t want to be bothered, I can just turn it off… but then, I’m the type that does that.

I thought I had hit the height of witnessing cell phone rudeness a few months ago, at the movies with JavaFooFoo, when a woman answered her cell phone, and proceded to have a full on conversation, annoying everyone in the theatre. (FooFoo, to her credit, leaned over and told the woman to either shut the hell up or take the call outside) We joked later about how it doesn’t get much ruder than that.

Ha. I wish.

For those of you that haven’t heard, Ducky’s father passed away this week. Funerals are never fun… very un-kahunaish. I usually get through them with my “why do we call it a wake” jokes, or the ever popular rant about how I insist on being buried in a hawaiian shirt. This one was no exception.

The ceremony was dignified. Sadly, it was really clear to me that the pastor giving the eulogy had no clue about who Ducky’s dad really was… but it was still a pretty good sermon. Got me thinking though; in the unlikely event I don’t outlive all of y’all, I fully expect my eulogy to be given by someone with a sense of humor who actually KNOWS me. Preferably in the style of those classic Dean Martin celebrity roasts. (Jay, Lauren, Dave…I’m lookin at you!) That and lord help the person who ignores my Hawaiian shirt request. I am not above coming back to haunt whoever decides a suit would be more appropriate. I have friends on the other side, you know… being a paranormal researcher was not without its perks. A few strippers at the wake would also be good…

But I digress. Back to the funeral.

Ducky’s dad had been in the military when he was younger, and so got full military honors. It was perhaps, the most moving part of the ceremony, as the USMC honor guard approached the coffin, and the bugler started playing “Taps”… I was getting a little misty-eyed when someone’s cell phone went off.

I thought this was kinda funny (at first), thinking to myself how mortified I would have been for my phone to ring at that moment. Everyone looked around (except the Marines, who stayed focused on the solemn duty at hand) and saw that it was one of Ducky’s aunts (one of his Dad’s sisters) whose phone was ringing. My amusement quickly turned to disbelief however, as she then ANSWERED THE CALL!!!!

“Hello? Yes… No…” (then notices everyone staring) “Can you call me back tomorrow? I’m at my Brother’s funeral. Okay. Bye.”

The phrase “Have some respect for the dead” comes to mind. So do the phrases “Were you raised by wolves with manners like that?” and “Are you handicapped or just stupid?”

I know Cell Phone Jammers are illegal in the US, but I would think with the number of businesses that would want one (theatres, funeral homes, schools and churches, to name a few) that the FCC would get off its fannies and figure out how to make them work within their guidelines.

Opinions anyone?

Fun with photoshop... part deux

This week on "Pimp my ride", we heard from D. Grayson of Gotham city who wrote, "I know that older chicks dig my benefactor's car, (which is fine for him) but I also know that there is no way that the fly young honeys will want to be seen with me in this tank. I mean, that cars style is like, 'Holy 1930's Batman!' Help me, please!!!! Pimp my ride!!!"

And so we did. We gave the whole thing an updated look, added some 40" rims, a sound system that even the Joker would think is crazy, and a built in 90" plasma that rises up out of the hood. as you can see, at least one fly honey agrees that Grayson's new ride is off the hizzle:



Next week, W.W. of NYC has a plane that she says makes her invisible to the opposite sex. We'll see what we can do about it next time on "Pimp my ride"

Making with the funny...

I think sometimes, that I have waaaaaay too much time on my hands at work.

A moment at the job....

Apparently, the sheet metal buisness is a little hazardous... One of our shipping guys came into the office today with a bit of a gash on his hand. It wasn't deep, but he was acting like a two-year-old while Mama Janet (my co-worker) was applying the peroxide and a band-aid. All the while two new job applicants (who can't see that it's really just a scratch) are wondering what kinda death trap they've signed on to work in. To hear the shipping guy, you would think his thumb was about to fall off.

"Do you have your tetnaus shots?" Mama Janet asked.

"No, but I have my rabies shot." He said.

Too good to pass up, I immediately chimed in with "The hell with that, just make sure he's had his distemper shots!"

Everyone in the office laughed....


I love this job.

Why some folks shouldn't have kids....

Is it really immature of me that I laughed for a full five minutes at the thought of this?

I mean, please... put down the kid and pick up a bat, lady. You get no distance or additional force with a child, and I care not to think what the melee modifier would be to hit! (Sorry... can you tell I play RPGs?) And furthermore, if you are too darn lazy to put down the kid and look around for a sledgehammer or something, why on earth do you think you'll actually WIN a fight?

Still, I suppose you don't have to worry about keeping the label up with a baby, huh?

Revelation of the week...

My laugh sounds just like Barney Rubble.

Arrrgh… A little about me Buddy, Drew…

Seeing as how me good friend Drew was the only scurvy swab confident enough to take a guess as to my vacation whereabouts, he be the winner of the “Where’s Robbo?” contest. It should be noted for all you sea salts out there that his answer was only half right… While I did indeed partake in the plunder of yer nation’s capitol, I also made me way up ta see me pappy. Along the way, I made the aquaintence of various wenches and scullery maids that ain’t been seen by my eyes in a whale’s age. I would make the obligatory “booty” joke here, but it seems forced somehow.

By now, I know there be those of you land-lubbers wondering why it sounds like this entry be logged by the dread pirate Kahunah… Fer those not in the know, today is national “talk like a pirate” day here in the states. In addition to giving me an excuse to wear me eye patch, it affords me the rare opportunity to write the winning log entry about Drew in pirate speak, which be far more fun than seems would be allowed by law.

I met the scurvy dog back in the school of higher learnin that I met most of me friends… where while I spent most of my time chasing haughty wenches, Drew spent his time learnin ta build things what make use of the power behind Poseidon’s stormy bolts from the sky. While many would probably think that Drew was unlucky in the ways of cupid back then, Twas not his fault ya see… as his Privateer Place room was built upon cursed ground, which allowed none who laid their head there to ever get laid… but instead allowed those around him to consistently get some in his room when he be not there. I would tell you some of me better scandalous Drew stories, but he now be a family man, and it just don’t seem right somehow.

I will however tell you the story of how all the educatin’ in the world will never make up for the stupidest thing I have ever seen him do. We were out for a night on the town, having gathered a veritable heard of wenches into the back of his old Chevy Cavalier and made our way along the costal waters to the port of Biloxi fer doughnuts. As I recall, we crammed three wenches of ample frame, Myself, a Duck, and Drew into a car designed to seat four at the most. There was ample booty, (sorry, couldn’t resist) but I was riding shotgun and merely laughed heartily at the sight of the wenches squeezed into the back seat like dubloons in a buried chest. We were on our way home when Drew makes a turn to port… right onto the port side of a divided highway… completely ignoring all the oncoming headlights, and the large red signs saying “WRONG WAY”. I covered me eyes. The women screamed. The Duck quacked loudly. Drew calmly said, “oh, wait… this is the wrong way.”, put the car into reverse, backed quickly to the intersection where the trouble began, and us back on course on the STARBOARD side of the road.

To this day, when I catch him doing something stupid, I say “Ruh-ohn-guh wuh-ay Drew.” If ye sounds it out, it’s a lot funnier.

Tagged like the fat kid in the playground....

Tagged by Mel:

State three for each of the following:

Favorite food you eat till you puke and don't mind eating it again and again and puke it all over again:

1. Barbeque Spare Ribs.
2. Souvlaki sauce from Mike’s Place on almost anything.
3. chocolate chip cookies

Favorite stores to shop till you drop (and might never fit in their clothing, but you buy their stuff anyways, because you are in denial):

1. Wal-mart
2. Toys ‘R’ Us
3. Barnes and Noble


Favorite shows that you quote like madness and will totally attend a convention if ever existed:
1. Star Trek (quelle suprise.)
2. Family Guy
3. South Park

Favorite movies that you just never get tired of:

1. Mel Brooks’ History of the World- Part 1
2. Star Trek II- The Wrath of Khan
3. Galaxy Quest

Things you wish to do before you die:

1. Prove to the world that I’m not a loser.
2. Get paid to write something.
3. Pull off a prank that will garner national attention (A.K.A: ‘the big one’)

Places you want to go before you die:

1. Beyond the Horizon
2. Above the atmosphere
3. Where no man has gone before

Things you fear the most:

1. Death
2. Horses
3. Falling

Things that make you happy:

1. Orion Slave Girls
2. Hot Asian chicks
3. Both of the above, simultaneously.

Things that you wish to excel in:

1. Telling jokes
2. Helping others
3. fighting the good fight

You feel strongest about:

1. My privacy (That’s right, all you psychologists… make sense of that).
2. Freedom of speech and expression (in the form of beer can siding)
3. Learning from my own experiences.

Your favorite quotes:

1. “The principles of freedom must apply to everyone or they are meaningless”- James T. Kirk
2. "All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing." -Edmund Burke
3. “God heals, and the doctor takes the fees.”- Ben Franklin

Tag 'em:
Anyone who has a blog that doesn’t post comments on mine.