It has come to my attention that I've been tagged by the secretGeek.  As you may know, few have ignored a tag from secretGeek and lived to tell about it.  So I don't plan on doing that.  But I do have a few more things to wrap up before I can return to the world of blogging. 

I hope to return to posting around March 12, with a minor re-design of this site coming sometime soon after that.

Something tells me secretGeek will be distracted for a while anyway... Congratulations Leon!!!
 

Yesterday, after enduring weeks of erratically lukewarm water, I submitted a ServiceMagic request for estimates on replacing our 40 gallon water heater.  We’ve been having trouble with the stupid thing for a while now, and since it recently reached its average lifespan (10 years), we figured it was time for a replacement.

But, life is too short to just replace things.  One should always take opportunities like these to upgrade.  I did a bit of research and found that tankless water heaters are gaining in popularity here in America.  They carry promises of endless hot water and increased efficiency since they heat the water as it’s being pulled through the pipes, as opposed to heating a giant tank of water that may or may not be needed anytime soon.

The plumbers who came by the house today all had varying opinions on the various approaches to heating water.  One guy said the tankless units don’t work very well and that I should be fine with a simple 40 gallon tank.  Another couldn’t stop singing the praises of the tankless setups, even offering the phone numbers of local, recently-satisfied customers.  Still another maintained that a 50 gallon “high output” tank would give us all the hot water we could ever want. 

The prices I was quoted ranged from $800 for a cheap tank to $2700 for one of the “continuous flow” systems.  Which leads me to my tip for the day…

Tip: Always double-check the temperature dial on your water heater before calling in teams of plumbers.  Otherwise, the first plumber who shows up will turn the dial from it’s current setting, “Warm”, to another setting, such as “Hot” or “A”, and there will be much awkwardness in the room.  The awkwardness is followed by a string of white lies to the other plumbers who stop by that day, all of whom are unwittingly wasting their time in the home of a moron.

Anyway, I hope you find this tip helpful.  For some reason, none of my Internet research revealed this nugget of wisdom. 

(The upside to all this, of course, is that I just saved $2700.)

I’ve always assumed that I would be too stupid to survive the Microsoft interviewing process.  In case you don’t already know, Microsoft is renowned for asking clever little logic questions during their interviews, and I am renowned for being really stupid.  Not a good combo.

But then Jensen Harris linked to a list of the questions a while back, and I gave them a look.  Much to my surprise, they weren’t that bad.  So I decided to face my fears, print out the questions, and give myself 30 minutes to answer all of them. 

Over all, I did pretty well.  There were only a couple where I didn’t quite understand the question. 

If you had an infinite supply of water and a 5 quart and 3 quart pail, how would you measure exactly 4 quarts?

Um, haven’t you seen Die Hard 3?  This is one of the puzzles Bruce Willis and Sam Jackson solve during their little game with the terrorists.  I’ve seen this movie eight or nine times now, so it would prove absolutely nothing if I sat here and recited the answer to you.  Even if I could remember it.

But, come to think of it, if I had an infinite supply of water I would end world hunger by watering the desert.  Then I’d use the proceeds from my Nobel prize money to buy a four quart pail.  And I’d do all of this just to satisfy you.  Tell me, would you love me then?

If you are on a boat and you throw out a suitcase, will the level of water increase?

Unless it’s a water-tight suitcase, yes, the level of water will increase.  Also the suitcase will feel abandoned as it drowns. 

Note: I don’t think this question actually makes any sense.

On average, how many times would you have to open the Seattle phone book to find a specific name?

Know this:  I am not a quitter.  I will open a phone book looking for a name, and I'll keep flipping around until I find the name.  I don’t know about Seattle, but in Denver, our phone books are alphabetized.  Between that and my never-say-die attitude, I don't think I've ever had to open a phone book more than once. 

If you look at a clock and the time is 3:15, what is the angle between the hour hand and the minute hand?

AM or PM?

There are 3 ants at 3 corners of a triangle, they randomly start moving towards another corner. What is the probability that they don't collide?

The probability of them colliding is zero for I would kill them.  Even if they look like circus ants.  If you're looking for the ant kingdom's genocidal maniac, you've come to the right place. 

Actually, they'd all have to go the same direction in order to not collide, right?  So either they all go left, or they all go right, right?  Three ants, each with two choices, gives us 2^3 possible combinations of movements.  2^3 is somewhere around eight, so I'd say you have a 1 in 4 chance (2 in 8, really, but I reduced, because that's one of my key skills (see Education and Certifications section on resume)) of them colliding.

If I'm anywhere nearby, though, those odds turn to 0 in 1000, since I really, really like killing things, and no one minds a few dead ants.  I'm not kidding.

What new feature would you add to MSWORD if you were hired?

I would add a button to the main toolbar that said "Quit Sucking Balls".  When you clicked the button, it would stay depressed and change to "Start Sucking Balls."  With the "Quit Sucking Balls" feature enabled, MSWORD would quit sucking balls.  It would stop re-underlining things I've told it to ignore, automatically formatting things I don't want formatted, and do away with the whole paragraph/style/styles-based-on-styles/everything's-a-nasty-long-style paradigm.

Why did you pick the school you graduated from?

First, it's nice to see you aren't all stuffy and serious about the whole "don't end a sentence with a preposition" thing.  Me to. 

I'll tell you this… My wife and I graduated from two different universities, and neither of us have a sweatshirt from either university.  In fact, we've never owned such sweatshirts in our lives, not even during the combined 17 years it took for us to get two bachelors degrees (and three STDs).

Now, I'm sure you're asking this question for some sneaky reason, so let me assure you, I'm much more assertive now.  If I were choosing today, I would probably pick MIT, because that's where Matt Damon went.

Why do you want to work for Microsoft?

Okay, no kidding here.  Take the highest prime number you can think of, square it, then round up to the nearest rhombus. 

That's how much I love Microsoft.

How many Gas stations are there in the US?

No way you can expect me to know that.  Are you merging with Exxon or something? 

Ah, wait... This is one of those, "How do you think?" questions, isn't it?  Okay, then, here's my algorithm:

 1) Start with the highest prime number I can think of  (11)
 2) Square it (100+)
 3) Round up to the nearest rhombus (400,000)

So, 400,000.  On the nose.

How would you weigh a plane without using scales?

I'd hold it with my right hand for a while, write down an estimate, then hold it for my left hand for a while, write down that estimate, then average the two estimates.  Given the situation, I think a median average would be more telling than the mean.

How would you move Mt. Everest?
I would tell it a touching story about a boy in love with his bunny.  (Note: The bunny dies at the end.)

Two MIT math graduates bump into each other at Fairway on the upper west side. They hadn't seen each other in over 20 years.
The first grad says to the second: "How have you been?"
Second: "Great! I got married and I have three daughters now"
First: "Really? how old are they?"
Second: "Well, the product of their ages is 72, and the sum of their ages is the same as the number on that building over there.."
First: "Right, ok.. oh wait.. hmmmm.., I still don't know"
second: "Oh sorry, the oldest one just started to play the piano"
First: "Wonderful! my oldest is the same age!"

Problem: How old are the daughters?

Hopefully old enough to run away from their freakish parents.  I have to say, this test is starting to get a little weird. 

Why are beer cans tapered at the top and bottom?

How would I know?  I drink beer from bottles.  They're tapered at the top to serve as a proper handle in bar fights.

Soda cans are tapered, I believe, because soda’s for pansies.

Why is it that hot water in a hotel comes out instantly but at home it takes time?

It takes a while at home because the water sits around in the pipe and cools down, and you have to warm the pipe.  In the hotel, your pipe is already warm, if you get my drift.
 
How many times a day do a clock's hands overlap?

I'm going with 24.  Here's my algorithm:

 1) I think the hands cross once every hour.
 2) I think there are 24 hours in every day.

I can't wait for you tell me, with your smug little smile, what the hell I'm missing here.

Mike has $20 more than Todd.  How much does each have given that combined they have $21 between them. You can't use fractions in the answer.

So Mike has whatever Todd has, plus a twenty.  This means that there's no way for their total to be an odd number (since any amount Todd has must be multiplied by two, and 20 is an even number), and that you are stupid for asking this question. 

(Unless I can use decimals in the answer…)

There are four dogs, each at the counter of a large square. Each of the dogs begins chasing the dog clockwise from it. All of the dogs run at the same speed. All continously adjust their direction so that they are always heading straight towards their clockwise neighbor. How long does it take for the dogs to catch each other? Where does this happen? (Hint: Dog's are moving in a symmetrical fashion, not along the edges of the square.)

Thanks for the hint.

Do they take any timeouts to poop in my yard?  If not, then this question is too hypothetical and I’m done with this interview.  If so, then the answer is: they never catch each other.  They spend their entire lives pooping on my lawn, just like every other dog in this neighborhood.

I guess I’m not what you’d call “Microsoft material.”  But then again, neither is this guy.  But this guy is.

See also:

• Malcom Gladwell on structured interviewing
• Joel Spolsky's interview philosophy
• Scott Hanselman's questions for .NET candidates

To paraphrase the great Tom Petty, our boy Joseph is free.  Freeeee-ballin’.

At the tender age of 19 months our little Joe Baby has figured out how to remove his pants and the accompanying diaper.  And remove them he does, nearly every time we leave him alone. 

Let me assure you, nothing is cuter, and nothing is scarier, then coming upstairs and finding a free-ballin’ toddler running around.  What’s truly frightening is that even if the backside appears clean, you probably still have trouble.  I’ve come to learn that carpet makes a great wipe.

Naturally, we're concerned.  We're hoping it's just a phase and not a prelude to a life of inappropriate genitalia exposure.  But you know what?  Even if it is, he's our boy, and we'll support him no matter what.  In fact, for Easter we’re getting him a trench coat. 

It's adorable.

Dove is good at making soap.  Dove is good at making chocolate.  But, for some reason, Dove doesn’t make chocolate soap.  This seems like an oversight.  I say, these two companies need to get together and have a chat.  I believe that not only is chocolate soap the wave of the future, it is the brown wave.

Who wouldn’t love a bar of chocolate soap?  People with cocoa allergies and communists, that’s who.  As for me, I’d love it.  I’d take twice as many showers and stay twice as clean.  Of course, I’d also eat twice as much soap.  But hey, that would keep my insides nice and clean, and the toilet room would smell better too.  (See?  Upside all around.)

I would also enjoy chocolate shampoo.  It should resemble Hershey’s syrup, only soapier.  The conditioner, ideally, would contain a hint of vanilla.  Or even: butterscotch.

The lotion could moisturize and tan, with options ranging from milk to dark. 

Really, I can’t even tell you how much better my life would be with chocolate soap.  For one thing, my wife loves chocolate more than air.  So if I had chocolate soap, I would only partially rinse my privates.

And then everyone would be happy.

Well, unless they advertise it with naked fat ladies covered in chocolate.  That wouldn't make me happy at all.  That would make me sad.

You have no idea what you’ve become to me.  I consider you both friend and hero.  You are perhaps the only person on this planet who really “gets” me.

Thank you.  Thank God for you.  You are the wind beneath my taint.

Warmest,
Jason

British Phil usually has techie magazines lying on his desk. Recently, I wandered into his cube, picked up one of the newer ones, and asked:

ME
How are you liking this mag?

BRITISH PHIL
I read maybe one article per issue.

ME
Hmm. If you were smarter, do you think you'd like it more?

BRITISH PHIL
Probably.

ME
I'll take a look.

An American would have shot me by now.

It means something to be #1 on Google.  It’s important. Unfortunately, I'm #1 on Google for some crazy things, things I don't WANT to be #1 for.  For example, a while back I tried to avoid any more weird searches coming in by breaking up some questionable phrases, such as “Brooke Burke nud|e”.  Well, now I get all kinds of hits from people who can’t spell “nude.”  (I had no idea that word was a tricky one.)

If you really want to be #1 on Google, I bet all you have to do is write a bunch of crazy sentences that match what the crazies are searching on.  If you’re good and you guess right, I bet you blow right past the competition. 

The trick is to be both common and unique.  For example, take this sentence: Why does it hurt when I pee blood?

Boom!  See?  Someone asks Google that question tomorrow, and I’m #1! 

I think… Let’s see, I bet I will be if quotes are used.  Right now, here's what you get if you put in quotes:

So see, if they use quotes, I'll be the ONLY one!  And the number one!  Thrilling!

[Public service announcement:  If you are here because you are peeing blood, please call 911.  Whether it hurts or not, peeing blood can’t be good.  So get off the Internet, and go get some medical attention.  If you have to drive yourself and your bloody privates to "Urgent Care," then that's what you have to do.  Just go.  Now.  Bye bye.]

[Oh hey, be sure and bookmark my site before you leave!]

I love the context-sensitive power of Google.  Not only do they use it for advertisements and other non-evil things, but here they are, helping me out with my search.  Look, next to the giant red letters ("Did you mean:") they've suggested a better search.  See, that's the power of Google's technology.  Not only do their searches take a fraction of a second, but they also index the searches themselves so they can show me one that’s more popular than mine.

But wait a second... Wait just a second. 

People actually hurt when they see blood??  Wow.. that's really weird.  I wonder what that's all about.  Let’s try giving that link a try:

Doh!  Of course no one has ever written that sentence on the Internet.  How'd I get suckered into that?

But wow, look at those amazingly helpful suggestions from Google.  Aren't those wonderful?  Not the big red "Tip:" (that's pretty helpful, actually (if you know what I mean)), no, I'm talking about the giant "Suggestions:" there at the bottom.

Tell me, what kind of person is going to be helped by those suggestions?

----

INT. HAROLD'S AND MILDRED'S HOME OFFICE: NIGHT

Harold's alone at the computer.

Harold clicks.

Mildred comes in.

She looks over his shoulder at the screen.

Harold looks at Mildred for a moment, confused and quizzical. He looks back at the screen.

----

[Public service announcement: There is no such thing as a dotson puppy.  It's dachshund. Quit coming to this site looking for dotson puppies.  We only have Alan dotsons here.  Now leave.]

[Oh hey, be sure and bookmark my site before you leave!]

Finally, we need to talk about one more thing on that results page: That creepy logo in the top left corner. 

The first time I saw that logo, it was weird.  It just happened to resemble what I was searching for...

 So I thought, “Wow, maybe Google has made their logos context-sensitive too! How cool!!!”

I quickly tried another random search:

And Google gave me another context-sensitive logo that, again, matched almost PERFECTLY!  Can you believe it!?

But then I thought that maybe that logo looked kinda familiar.  So I tried another random search:

Hmm.  That logo TOO looks familiar.  So I had to try something I knew wouldn't work:

And that's when I knew it.  It must not be a context-sensitive logo.  Because that logo's not stupid at all.

Oh well.

Don’t ask me how I know this, but somewhere around 10:45 each night our local WB station runs a feature called “Last Look at the Weather.”  I don’t like this feature.

First, it’s not my last look at the weather.  It’s my only look at the weather.  I learned years ago that I don’t need to keep up with the weather since every human being I come into contact with is a walking, talking five day forecast.  If I’m ever curious, I can turn my head in any direction at any time and ask, “Whence comes this chill?”  Or, “Is it about to rain on my head?” And I’ll get a response.  Often it’s a multi-faceted response, like, “Yesterday they said sunny, but last night they said cloudy, and now they’re saying partly cloudy with a chance of sun, turning into rain and hellfire.”

Actually, I don’t know what all they say.  I drift off halfway through any explanation because, really, I don’t care.  I’m inside all day. This is the nature of my pathetic, computer-bound existence.  On any given day, I spend maybe 30 seconds out of doors.  I might not be Superman, but I’m fairly certain I can handle 30 seconds of whatever our climate dishes out.  Especially if I spread those 30 seconds out into intervals, intervals I call “walking from my car” and “walking to my car.” 

When on the rare occasion I do catch a televised forecast, I regret it.  They’re annoying.  The news people know the entire population is weather-obsessed, so they tease us with little weather hints throughout the newscast.  “Looks like tomorrow will be the same as today, with one MAJOR difference!  I’ll have the full forecast at 10:23!” [1]

Worse, when they finally get around to the weather segment proper, 90% of it is spent on what happened today.  Now tell me, who, exactly, is looking forward to this part of the show?  Is anyone shocked that it was two degrees warmer five miles down the road?  Doesn’t that happen every day?  Are there groups of people gambling on these numbers or something?  And what am I to make of all the giant maps of our country, with “jet streams” and “pressure systems” and temperatures that have already happened?  Is there going to be a quiz? 

Listen, news people of the earth, unless you have a photograph of ten identical clouds, all in a line, all resembling James Spader, I DON’T CARE what happened in the weather today.  I lived it.  I was there.  I may have been inside all day, sure, but if your goal is to taunt, please, keep it brief.  Just say, “Those of you who stayed inside today really screwed the pooch!”  Or, “Those of you who had to work outside today, well, I bet you wish you knew how to use computers now, DON’T YA?”

As for the only “actionable” part of the broadcast – the part where they tell you whether you should cancel tomorrow’s picnic in the park – they blow right past that.  It’s an afterthought.  Only after Mr. Suit And Tennis Shoes has spent ten or so minutes at the giant green wall (telling you about today) will he saunter back to his desk and casually mention, on his way, what might happen tomorrow.  Meanwhile, a grid pops up showing seven days of highs, lows, suns, and clouds… only you’re so distracted trying to figure out why the sun on Wednesday was crying, you miss it. 

And that’s how they get you. 

See, if weather forecasts could be trusted, we wouldn’t have twenty forecasters in every city.  Think about it.  Does each local station really need its own weather department?  Its own custom software and maps?  Its own NEXRAD?  Should you make any decision in your life based on what some woman who majored in Communications (at Podunk U.) thinks of a satellite map?

Which brings me back to the “Last Look at the Weather” feature I hate so much.  I hate it because (1) I don’t like weather forecasts in general, and (2) I don’t need to know which of The WB's “Looks” at the weather this is.  Trust me, good people of The WB, I wasn’t tuned to your station for your frequent and accurate weather updates.  You can go home for the evening without telling me.  I don’t mind. 

I’ll be fine for the next seven hours without a weather update from The WB. 

Just fine.

——

[1] The major difference you waited 15 minutes for?  “Tomorrow never comes,” chuckles the portly and soon-to-be-slain forecaster.

I'm behind on my blog posts right now because I've been working on other things. This leaves me no choice (thanks to February (28)) but to "synergize" and post snippets of the stuff I'm currently working on.

(This type of thing that will eventually end up on the Blither Productions blog, as soon as I get around to launching it. Let me know what you think.)

INT. SHANE AND DIANE'S BEDROOM: NIGHT

Shane and Diane in bed. The lamps on their nightstands are on. She's reading a magazine, he has just put his down.

SHANE
Look, all I do is disrobe. The best place to disrobe is right next to the bed. I shouldn't have to walk naked across all yonder just so my clothes can spend the night in the hamper.

DIANE
Okay.

SHANE
You are a clothes changer, not a disrober. You change your clothes right in front of the hamper. So there should be no value judgement regarding where I leave my clothes at night. The only reason you don't agree with me is because you don't have to walk across the bedroom naked.

DIANE
The only reason I don't agree with you is because you never pick up your clothes in the morning.

SHANE
Aha! But see, that is not Nighttime Shane's fault.

DIANE
Oh yeah? Which Shane's fault is it?

SHANE
It is Morning Shane's fault. The guy who's still half-asleep and has to pee. The guy who, once he walks to the loo, will never have a reason to come back to this side of the bed for the rest of the day.

DIANE
One reason to come back would be to pick up the clothes you left there the night before.

SHANE
Exactly. There's nothing I can see that's wrong over here, and there's nothing over here that I need for my day. So I have to remember that I have some altruistic thing to do on this side of the bed.

Diane finally pulls away from her magazine and looks at Shane.

DIANE
So it's heroic when you actually manage to pick up your clothes.

SHANE
It's not an easy thing to remember.

Back to her magazine...

DIANE
You know, there are about twenty different ways you could fix that process and solve your problem.

SHANE
Yes. But my favorite way is to let you pick them up.

Diane gives a look, makes a show of turning the page, and goes back to her mag.

Today is Sarah's birthday but all she has to show for it, so far, is a cake that says “Happy Birthday Susie.”

We're celebrating her birthday with a dinner and a concert on Sunday, so today is mostly a non-event.  I'm even waiting until Sunday to give her the goofy birthday cards from me and the boys, since I plan on buying those cards sometime tomorrow.

Whatever decorum was once attached to our gift giving is, obviously, long gone.  I spent last Christmas Eve wrapping my own gifts -- DVDs that would have been surprising were it not for the barrage of e-mails I received regarding their shipment.  On Valentine's Day this year I emerged from my shower to find a sweater in a shopping sack sitting on the bathroom counter.  Later that day, I returned the favor by stuffing two DVDs into a gift bag with the price tags still attached.  And, instead of chocolate, I included a gift certificate for chocolate, good wherever $20 bills are accepted. 

So it's safe to say that, as of last week, I hadn't made any cake-related plans for Sarah's birthday.  But then, just a few days ago, a miracle descended upon our household.  A miracle in the form of a Safeway coupon. 

Ladies and gentlemen: FREE CAKE.

The postcard was addressed to Sarah and said "FREE CAKE" quite clearly, as well as some other things… things that may have indicated that the FREE CAKE was intended for a child.  But, knowing it was her only chance for a cake this year, Sarah called the store to place the order. 

Halfway through the conversation she realized just how heavily Safeway was emphasizing the child angle.  The baker himself made a point of it, saying things like, "Most children won't tolerate anything BUT chocolate icing!"  (Sarah: “Nope! White is fine for us!”)

As things progressed, Sarah felt pressured to supply a fake name for the top of the cake.  After all, the checkout girl might see the postcard had Sarah's name, and using one of the boys' names would make things weird around the house.  Know that Sarah's love for cake runs deep.  Very deep.  It's not something that a few scribbled letters can deny.  So when the baker asked Sarah what name to write on the cake, she answered, "Susie."

The baker sounded unsure. 

“Susie?” 

Sarah started to defend this not-so-common name as important to our family, but luckily, the baker moved right on to the spelling. “S-U-S-I-E???” he asked.

"That's it!" chimed Sarah.

The baker took the order, Sarah hung up, and our house smelled of victory.  But, upon further review, tossing out a girl's name might not have been the wisest move.  Our two children are both boys, and she knew that both of them would be with her when she picked up the cake. 

All this made for a real dilemma late last night.  It spurred a debate most spurious.  How could we explain our missing Susie to the cashier and other shoppers?  Would the baker be suspicious if all he saw was two boys?  Would our white-frosting lie inspire a state-wide Amber Alert? 

In the end, we took a long look at our two beautiful and innocent children, and asked ourselves a simple question.  It’s one of the toughest questions in the world -- a question NO parent should ever have to ask...

"Which one do we dress like a girl?"

—

Happy Birthday Susie!

Last night I asked Jackson, our three year old, about his day.  He said, "We bought you a long shirt." 

Jackson is definitely my favorite kid.  The other one would never divulge a golden nugget of secret information like this, probably because he hates me.  Or maybe because he can't talk yet.  In any case, this was a great piece of data for me to have.  It told me two things:

1. There is some sort of gift giving occasion nearing.  This might be a good time for me to remove my head from my anus, at least long enough to glance at a calendar and figure out, roughly, what season we're in.

2. I'm getting a shirt.  So assuming the gift giving occasion isn't within a few minutes of receiving this info, I should have time to purchase something shirt-level for someone else.

As the night wore on I grew more curious about this "long shirt."  My bride has purchased some, how you say, interesting clothing for me in the past, so I decided to interrogate the boy further. 

I chased him around his great grandmother's kitchen, scooped him up, and held him tight.  From the outside it looked like a loving embrace.  But I knew full well that, to a three year old boy, any cessation of movement while conscious is pure torture. 

ME:  What kind of shirt did you get Daddy?
JACK:  Down?
ME:  Was it a sweater, like this one?
JACK:  Daddy, can I get down please?
ME:  Does it have buttons? 
JACK: [struggling] I said please!
ME:  You can get down as soon as you tell me about this shirt.  Which store did you go to?

Jackson thinks and thinks -- he doesn't know the name.  This is good.  It means it's not from Target, Wal-Mart, Hobby Lobby, Home Depot, or King Soopers.  He knows the names of those stores.  I press on.

ME: Is it blue?
JACK:  No.
ME: Is it green?
JACK: No.
ME: What color is it?
JACK:  Um, I don't know.  Down?
ME:  Jackson, tell me the color and I will let you down.
JACK:  It's blue.
ME:  Oh yeah?
JACK: And green.
ME: Really?
JACK:  With socks on it.
ME:  Alright. 

See?  Torture doesn't work, even with three year olds.  As it turns out, Sarah gave me the gift this morning, and it's an orange sweater with no socks on it anywhere.

The kid is good.

There's nothing quite like the 8:00 AM meeting.

As soon as you see the invitation you know it's trouble.  You've missed these things before — the one morning you roll in at 9:30 is always the morning of an 8:00 AM meeting.  So when you accept the invitation you take preventative action: you change the reminder from "15 minutes" to "20 hours."  You know that Future You will appreciate the heads-up. 

The day before the meeting the reminder comes.  You pat yourself on the back a little and set the reminder to “snooze” for an hour.  After all, you are a moron, and you'll need hourly reminders for the rest of the day if you're to have any chance of making the 8:00 AM meeting.

The reminders continue popping up all day, so you actually remember to tell your wife, "Hey, I have an 8:00 AM meeting tomorrow."  This is a critical move on your part.  Your wife is not nearly the moron you are, and she will remind you to set your alarm before going to sleep.  (Nicely done.)

Later that evening, every decision you make considers the 8:00 AM meeting.  Should we start this movie?  What if it keeps us up too late?  Should I eat this extra snack cake so I can skip breakfast in the morning?  And why do we never have sex anymore?  No seriously, why?

Morning comes, the alarm rings, and you press Snooze.  At least you think you do.  It's 50/50 that you actually turned the thing off.  All you really know is that you successfully quieted the stupid thing.

Twenty minutes pass.  Then ten more.  You're dreaming now.  You're on an island, perhaps, or in the mountains.  Or maybe you're dreaming of a bed where people have sex at night.  In any case, soon enough, a simple thought rips your dreamland apart:

8:00 AM MEETING!

Up like a bolt, you check the clock.  [Expletive deleted!]  You're late.  You speed into the bathroom and become Economy of Motion Its Very Self.  The shower is started, towels are thrown, clothes fall, and urine is dispensed.  You will make up the lost time by multitasking!

"No shaving today," you say as you step quickly into the shower.  With this sentence you've gained at least five minutes.  Immediately, you soap up your face, and rinse.  Other parts, and rinse.  Some shampoo, and rinse. More soap, and rinse. 

Golly, rinsing feels good.  Very good.  The water is warm, oh so warm.  My body is finally de-thawing from the bed.  Aahhh, bed.  We used to have fun in that bed…

8:00 AM MEETING!

You've squandered the five minutes you saved from not shaving with unneeded rinsing.  Idiot!  So you kick into overdrive.  One hand brushes teeth, while the other brushes hair.  Shoes and socks are chosen by their proximity to your feet rather than their appropriateness with your attire.  Lotion, of course, is summarily skipped.  Lotion is a luxury for those without 8:00 AM meetings.

Miraculously, you make it to your car only a couple of minutes late.  You know the commute well — if you can get just a tad lucky, maybe speed a little in a couple of spots, you can still make it.

Except you haven't factored in the rest of the planet, all of which is also trying to make it to work by 8:00 AM.  (They must all have 8:00 AM meetings, or something.)  Speeding and luck are no longer options.  The roads are overflowing with cars and you're now hitting lights that you never, ever hit.

But you're an enterprising person — it takes more than a little traffic for you to give up.  You decide that now is the time to explore an alternative route.  These other cars are all driven by average people, lemmings.  You can use your wit to beat them down the map.

So you turn.  Only you don't really know any alternative routes.  The road that looked promising is now curving, taking you AWAY from your office.  And the road has no traffic whatsoever, which in hindsight, is probably not a good sign.  After all, you're not THAT witty.

So now it's 8:00 AM and your car is parked on Farmer Jed's sprawling gravel drive.  You have two choices: 1) Call the office and let them know you're "en route," possibly throwing in a lame excuse about vomiting children, flat tires, or a complete lack of sex at nighttime.  2) Build a time machine.

Being somewhat witty, you build a time machine, enter it, and go back 20 minutes and make it to work in time.  (Nicely done.)

You stroll into the office and, without breaking stride, drop your belongings at your desk on the way to the meeting room.  The office is quiet, giving you a fleeting moment of peace. 

You enter the meeting room proud.  You're not annoyed by the traffic or the fact that someone called an 8:00 AM meeting.  After all, you made it on time, and now you know how a time machine works.  It's all good. 

Except…

The meeting room is empty.  Completely empty.   No lights, paper, people, or projectors.  "Good thing I rushed," you think.  Then, "Slackers.  Can't even make their own meeting." 

You pick the best chair and try to look relaxed, as if you've been there for hours.  No one comes.  You find a position that looks more relaxed, more confident.  No one comes.  You're now genuinely relaxed, even sleepy.  No one comes.  Now you look relaxed, sad, and lonely.  Still, no one comes.

You return to your desk, press a button, and wait for your computer to do its thing.  The office remains quiet. 

A quick look in Outlook confirms your worst fear…

The meeting has been moved to 9:30.

British Phil and I are in Minneapolis this week for some hacker training. 

You can tell which one of us has hacked your web server by studying the politeness and grammar of the messages we leave behind.  Phil's messages are along the lines of, "I've compromised your site, as you do, and taken the piss out of your configuration files.  I rode the lift this morning."  Mine, on the other hand, are more like, "Elmo was here pooping in your lawn.  And then Elmo left behind another surprise gift for you: poop on your lawn!  By the way, you should check your lawn for Elmo poop.  Because I'm pretty sure I just saw Elmo poop on your lawn.  Poopie poopie poop!  I took an elevator."

This is only my second trip to Minneapolis and I've enjoyed the town immensely both times.  Here are 16 random observations from a guy who has spent a grand total of six or seven days here:

1) It's cold.  You probably knew this, but did you also know that Jeff Bridges and Jeff Daniels are different people?  Well, they are, and as a guy who has a home at 5,000 feet, trust me when I say you need a jacket in Minnesota in February.

2) Minnesota's nickname is "Land of 10,000 Lakes."  As you fly in, you can see why.  There are a lot of lakes.  All of them are frozen solid, of course, since it's cold enough here to freeze Han Solo.  I've been trying to make friendly with the locals by inserting lake-related comments like, "Oh, I'd say that guy's a hectare or two short of a lake.  He's a total pond!"   Or I'll break the ice with questions along the lines of, "So, do you ice fish?  Really?  How do you catch ice?  What do ice eat?  How do you like your ice cooked? Can I huddle with you for warmth?"

3) Minnesotans are tall.  I happen to be 5 feet and 11 inches of pure muscle, and in most parts of the country this makes me average.  Not here.  In Minnesota I'm the little guy whose head you pat when he says something cute.  At the Timberwolves game last night I was carded twice -- once for popcorn and once for nachos.  (In the lady's defense, I did order extra jalapeños.)

British Phil and I have been debating how to explain the noticeable difference in height out here.  We've come up with a several competing theories. 

  a) From what we've learned from the sports mascots, this area was originally settled by Scandinavian Vikings who were too big, strong, and stupid to know that things get warmer the farther south you go.  No one else comes up here to live, on account of the fact that the human body freezes at low temperature, so you have a fairly pure bloodline of tall ignorant people.

  b) Tall people can climb out of a hole in the ice easier than short people.

  c) Tall people's heads stay warmer (because warm air rises and they're closer to the sun and whatnot) so they have an evolutionary advantage.

  d) The airplane ride shrunk us.  By the time we get home we will be like Danny DeVito and Rhea Perlman.  (I'm Danny.)

  e) The taller people eat the shorter people because it is too cold in the winters to risk a trip to the grocery store.

4) Minneapolis is a really cool city.  Downtown has some beautiful architecture (a nice blend of old and new), skyways everywhere, and one of those "silent killer" light rails (a must for any modern city).  The "Uptown" area is eclectic and engaging, although I'm not entirely sure what that means.  And down by the airport there's a giant shopping mall with parking garages that swallow cars whole. 

5) There are a surprising number of fine-looking women here.  Not that I've noticed, personally, of course, but British Phil keeps saying things like, "Wow, aren't you surprised how many skinny and pretty ladies there are here?"  To which I respond, "No, Satan, I hadn't noticed.  Hey, how about you walk behind me.  Satan." 

6) Even the finest of Minnesotan ladies knows how to stack a bowl of pork at the local Mongolian barbecue joint.  I'm used to the place in Boulder, CO, where women bring their own chunks of recycled tofu for a light grilling.  Up here they burn so many calories shivering and nearly dying that, apparently, they work up a real appetite.  I haven't seen so many pork obelisks in one line since, well, ever.  [Feel free to go ahead and insert your own pork obelisk joke here.]  

7) It's so cold here that Antarctica called and they want my nipples back.

8)  I am now a Ricky Davis fan.  I don't really follow the NBA anymore (for all the same reasons you don't) and so I had no idea who Ricky Davis was before this trip.  He's a Timberwolf and, man, that guy can play some ball.  He's one of those players who brings it on every play, and whose presence completely changes the game.  If every team in the league had a couple of Ricky Davises, no one would care what clothes the players wore to the arenas or whether traveling should be legal in professional basketball.  He pushes the ball on offense, plays dogged defense, and can put the ball DOWN.  I could give a rat's ass about a Wolves/Cavs game, but after Ricky reached back and grabbed a crappy alley-oop pass with one hand and put in the face of a couple of Cavs, I popped up and shouted like someone had just stolen my children.

This made it frustrating later, of course, when my children were stolen by wolves and no one noticed.

9)  LeBron James might be overrated.  I've seen him twice in the past two weeks, and I haven't been impressed.  Phil and I think maybe he should have chosen a different jersey number than 23.  He's more like an 18 right now.

10) MINNEAPOLIS is just too many letters.  Even the locals agree — the abbreviation "Mpls" is used everywhere.  Normally I would complain about such a stupid-looking abbreviation, but these people have frozen fingers six months of the year.  I'm not going to start pointing my toasty warm Denver fingers at anyone.

11) The Mississippi River runs through Minneapolis, Minnesota.  Try typing that twelve times fast.  Now try it with frozen hands and a tall guy gnawing on the back of your neck.

12) Minnesotans are Minnesotans.  By that I mean, there seem to be fewer racial cliques here than other places I've traveled.  Of course, I'm making a lot of assumptions based on just a few days experience, but Minnesotans seem genuinely nice and pleasant.  They seem honest and non-judgemental.  I guess that's what happens when you're trying to avoid angering the tall frozen people who want to eat you.

13) Many people here have strong Minnesotan accents.  I KNOW, CAN YOU BELIEVE IT??  WILL THE WONDERS EVER CEASE?

14)  New cars are nice.  We rented a Toyota Camry that had 7 miles on it when we left the airport lot.  It now has close to 70.  We are responsible for increasing the mileage on this car by a factor of 10.  I know I shouldn't feel guilty about this, but I do. 

The car has a sunroof, which is a pretty cool feature downtown.  You can look up at the buildings as you drive into the back of the truck in front of you.   The truck with the giant lettering that says, "Life is a VIRGIN because if it were a BITCH it would be to [sic] easy."  (Not only is there a misspelling in this professionally printed decal, but it makes no sense.  What's "easy" about a bitch?  Frankly, I'd rather be around virgins all day.  And I will now stop talking about this subject.)

15) My family isn't here and I miss them.  This situation isn't helped at all by my final observation:

16) British Phil doesn't like to cuddle.

Today we have a guest blogger. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome my beautiful wife, Sarah Looney.

My husband drinks Fresca with dessert.

Enough said.

I subscribe to Newsweek, mainly for the columnists, but partly because it's now a thesaurus for awkward ways to say "an unidentified source."  When Newsweek fell into hot water a few months ago because of their use of unidentified sources they committed to cleaning up their act.  So these days, they still use unidentified sources for all of their political stories, but now they throw in overblown explanations as to why the sources are unidentified.  Things like, "… a source who wishes to remain anonymous because speaking to the press can occasionally have unexpected and negative political effects" and "… a source who does not like the way his name looks in print." 

Anyway, I'm sure other newsy and political-type blogs are already covering this issue.  That's not why I’m here.  What I bring you today is a fun and exciting game that you can play while reading Newsweek's letters to the editor.  I call it, Spot the Political Non Sequitur.  The game is simple.

1. Find a letter to the editor about a non-political subject.
2. See if you can find the political non sequitur.
3. If you do not find the non sequitur, you lose, because they all have at least one.

Here are some sample letters from the Feb 6 issue. All of these letters are in regard to a cover story on Bode Miller, the American skier who recently admitted that his partying and his racing have overlapped a bit in the past (a first for professional skiers, I'm sure).

I'll walk you through the first one.

From Tuscon: Why do we have to send losers like Bode Miller to the Olympics?  Is winning so important to us [Note: Remember, we're looking strictly for political non sequiturs in this game] that we have to send a disrespectful, egotistical showoff like Bode Miller to represent America?  Or is his kind of personality the norm for behavior in our country? [Note: Not there yet.  Righteous indignation is expected.  In fact, it’s assumed.]  Your article pointed out that each sport has had its bad boys.  But to be blatant about it and to be proud of displaying it reek of a culture that has lost all respect for decency.  [Note: Close, but not quite...]  Isn't it bad enough that the United States' image has become greatly damaged by our political posturing? [Ding ding ding!]  Why do we have to send this degenerate to the Olympics as a representative of who we are?

See, it's fun, isn't it?  Here are a couple for you to try on your own.

From Chaska, MN: It's interesting that Bode Miller has gotten into trouble for telling the truth about skiing hung over.  Our society encourages politicians, athletes, and other newsworthy figures to be as evasive as possible when answering questions so as not to get themselves in trouble.  Perhaps if our Supreme Court nominees were as forthright when answering questions we would know exactly where they stand prior to making decisions that will have an impact on all our futures.

From Lahaina, HI: No bigger moron exists than Olympic-medal hopeful Bode Miller.  Running his mouth on "60 Minutes," he sank what could have been a stellar career, along the lines of Jean-Claude Killy's.  So, at 28, he skis drunk, or is still drunk from the night before.  What a talent.  Hear that sucking sound?  It's his endorsements going down the drain.  Ask anyone who drinks and drives: it's only a matter of time before you end up arrested, paralyzed or dead.  [Note: ?]  Please, send Miller to Iraq, where he can share stories with injured and maimed soldiers on how he blew his career -- but had a good damn time doing it.

Clearly these people need blogs.

Alan: The Dilbert guy has a good post about Hamas winning that election.
Alan: http://dilbertblog.typepad.com/the_dilbert_blog/2006/01/dog_catches_car.html
Jason: I haven't watched television or read the Interline in a while.  I'm completely out of it.  I thought hamas was a dip for stale bagels.  It isn't?
Alan: No, it is.  It just won the Palestinian elections.
Jason: They voted in a dip?  Have they even TRIED ranch dressing???  What about salsa? 
Jason: No wonder there's so much strife over there.  This whole thing could be solved by a single veggie tray from King Soopers. 

We’re heading up to Alan’s to watch the Super Bowl this afternoon.  We’re taking a dip that includes barbecue chicken, ranch dressing, mozzarella cheese, cream cheese, and buffalo sauce, among other things.  We’ve never tried this recipe before, but on paper, it has the potential to change the world. 

Could it be the long-awaited exit strategy for Iraq?  Quite possibly.

In this post I would like to address Microsoft OneNote directly. 

Hi Microsoft OneNote, my name is Jason.  I'm the one who's always using you.  I keep my meeting notes in you, my blog ideas in you, and those really dark thoughts about the Mr. Clean guy in you.  Hi.

I'll cut to the chase.  You need to get off your ass and do something when I hit Ctrl+S.  I realize you're always saving things in the background and that you don't have a Save button and that you are saving me work by not making me hit Save.  But OneNote, your predecessors TRAINED me to hit that Ctrl+S.   They couldn't do auto-save.  They didn't have versioning or disaster recovery.  They put the onus on ME to hit Ctrl+S as often as I could.

Your parent company has me trained like a lab monkey, and now you have the gall to sit and quietly ignore me when I press Ctrl+S??  Come on!  After all the Ctrl+S'ing I've done in my days, you owe me.

So do something.  Anything.  Go back up a document or something.  Optimize one of your INDICES.  Find a movie I’d like on the Internet.  Make me some coffee.  If nothing else, just say something.  Something nice.

 Ctrl+Z = Undo
 Ctrl+A = Select all
 Ctrl+S = "Thank you, Jason."

Is it too much to ask?

See the spikey-haired boy ostensibly resembling a young Albert Einstein? 

My son thinks that boy's name is Julie Clark.  Sure, I could tell him that the little boy with the crazy hair isn't named Julie Clark and that Julie Clark is the pretty lady who founded the company.  But I don't.  Because I want him to be stupid.

He just turned three and he knows more about classical music than I do. Why?  Because I read Greek tragedies and teach things to children?  Of course not.  Genetics?  Get real.  No, the blame rests entirely on Julie “The Homewrecker” Clark.  Her better-than-me videos have taught my boy Bach, Beethoven, Schubert, and daWhoGivesAFrig.  I can hum any classical tune and he’ll instantly cite the source.  "That's Mozart!"  

He can name the composer of the tune that I'm humming and I have no idea if he's wrong or right.

So now you can see where I’m coming from.  If the little snot wants to think he's so smart, fine.  Just don't expect me to point out the obvious and glaring differences between a grown woman and some squiggly lines. 

“Julie Clark” it is.

I'm not sure what to think of the words "Sleep Lab." 

I have trouble sleeping from time to time, but my insomnia is usually caused by anxiousness and/or the lack of a nearby refrigerator.  In other words, for me personally, knowing there were sensors and humans watching me try to fall asleep would be enough to keep me awake for all of eternity.  They could leave me in there for years. I couldn't even die, since that would resemble sleep. I would just dissolve and float away, into the very air ducts of the "Sleep Lab" itself.  (From there I would occasionally whisper, "They're watching…" to the suckers coming after me.)

Anyone who can fall asleep in something called "Sleep Lab" obviously has a different brand of insomnia than I.  They must be cool, laid-back people who have an open-door policy when it comes to their private time.  They probably ask questions like:

"Hey, did your sensor hear that fart?  Cuz that one was a ninja!"
 
"Will the same person be monitoring both my morning and evening woods?"
 
"Did I say any names during my sleep?  They were all girl names, right?  Cool."

Not me, kemo sabe.  I sleep for no man.

I live in a normal house in a normal suburb, and I’m pretty bad at math.  Even so, I must admit that I am guilty of sending suspicious packages across international boundaries. 

(I wonder if this is how Kaczynski started.  Maybe I should look into Mailers Anonymous before this becomes a thing.)

The boys are eating some of those new Colored Goldfish here at Grandma’s house.  Sarah is making the kids refer to them as Aquatic Americans.  Good times.

I hate the snobs who think they're above making New Year's resolutions.  Do they really think there's nothing about themselves that could use some changing?  No aspect of their life has been sliding in the wrong direction?  Really?

Life is busy and crazy and it's easy to lose our balance, forget priorities, and run our credit cards up to stratospheric levels.  It's the human condition.  To battle this, I believe we all need a deep and honest annual review.  And I think it's a good thing for us to talk about our resolutions in public and with those we care about.

So here is my own list of resolutions for 2006.  I've been thinking about many of these for a while.  I hope you will follow my example and publish a list of your own. 

Happy New Year!

Jason's New Year's Resolutions (2006)

1. Write and publish blog posts in a more timely fashion (starting after this one, of course).
2. Stop killing.
3. Write fewer posts involving toilet humor and/or snack cakes.
4. Really, really ease up on the killing!
5. Lose the 15 pounds gained in 1997 (and have been resolving to lose for eight years running).
6. Lose the 10 pounds gained in 1996.
7. Lose the 5 pounds gained since Lay's introduced their Natural Sea Salt Widow Makers.
8. Less taunting of the police dudes who investigate killings.
9. Read at least one book or blog post per week.
10. Spend more time with the kids, less time killing.
11. Give more to charity.
12. Use fewer colons, semi-colons, and conversational connectors like "so." Use short sentences instead.  Like this.  Or even.  This.
13. Consume less man flesh.

The good people of Springfield, Missouri are routinely subjected to bad and cruel things.  Grey winters, exposed power lines, and newscasters so awful you can't even laugh at them, just to name a few.  But this year a thing so horrifying has been foisted upon this town that all past grievances pale in comparison. 

Imagine, if you will, the gravelly voice of man who might announce a monster truck rally.  Only this voice is singing, and it's singing these words:

All my Missouri friends save at Reliable Che-VEE!

Based on what I've seen in the past few days, the average Springfieldian endures this jingle between three and forty seven times a day (depending on how many Law and Orders are shown).

Each time it's played the jingle eats a piece of the listener's brain.  Are non-Missourians allowed at Reliable Chevrolet?  No one can say.  Does "saving" at Reliable Chevrolet involve spending thousands of dollars on a vehicle, taxes, licensing, and finance charges?  I sure hope not.  Have Springfieldians grown so worldly and cosmopolitan that they now reference groups of friends with geographic qualifiers?  Exciting!  And why is the guy singing "Che-VEE" when the words on the screen say "Chevrolet"?

Even the name of the dealership is perplexing.  I mean, Reliable Chevrolet?  Isn't that an oxymoron?  Do these people own other dealerships with names like this?  As in,

 Youngblood Buick
 Good Choice Pontiac
 Investment Kia
 Plenty-o-Penis Hummer
 Plenty-o-Research Ford
 Forever Yugo
 Lady Dodge
 Working Jaguar
 Never Settle Saturn
 
I should also point out that I have friends in Kansas City and St. Louis who have never even heard of Reliable Chevrolet.  Or even, Reliable Che-VEE.

Sometimes I love being me.  But most of the time, I hate it.  Never am I anywhere between these extremes.

I sleep a third of each day away, and it's in this happy, happy time that I'm fairly fond of myself.  In my dreams I lose complete track of reality.  This is why I wake up expecting to see Brad Pitt in the mirror, but instead find Gollum, from Lord of the Rings, if only Gollum, from Lord of the Rings, weighed a buck eighty and glowed bright white.

My waking hours are filled with self-loathing.  If Larry David has taught me anything, this means I must be part Jewish.  Although... aren't Jewish people supposed to be good with money?  I must only have a little bit of Jew in me then  — probably in that toenail on my left foot.  You know, the one who always refers to himself as Ishmael.  (Hi Ishmael!)

Yep.  I just gave a shout-out to my Jewish toenail. 

Thank you for stopping by today.