January 2006 Archives

Our phone system at the office is completely run on VOIP -- or Voice Over IP -- utilizing the internet and bypassing standard phone lines. Of course, this means we also bypass bureaucratic old phone companies.

However, while VOIP is great for home use (Vonage, for example), its got some kinks for business use. Fax machines, hundreds of extensions, voice mailboxes, and other such things of that nature all throw curveballs at it. The system works most of the time.

Voice mails reside as WAV files on a server in our computer room, which is kinda cool. This also means to make your phone ringer change, you just point the software on your computer to a different WAV file, like the "Theme from Manimal" that you downloaded off of Limewire or something.

Anyway, two weeks ago they had to install a new server for it, because the original one was not big enough. This of course reset all voice mail prompts to the generic computer-voice-man version. For mine, it said "Max Underscore Univers" in this awesome robotic voice, and then the nice human lady prompt finished the message.

Needless to say, I left my prompt as that. I mean, that's awesome, right?

Turns out some folks in the office didn't think so, and I was asked to change it. Didn't do it though, the robotic guy was just too cool. Today the phone guy literally stood at my desk and watched me change it.

Dullard. I rather liked being Max Underscore Univers. Dammit.

I've been to over 100 Creighton games in the 10 years I've lived here in Omaha, and I've never been present for a game-winning shot at the buzzer. Until Saturday night. For that matter, I've never been in an arena, or a stadium, or a ballpark and seen my team win on a last-second play. Until Saturday night.

Saturday night, Creighton fell behind 25-6 in the first 12 minutes of the game. A furious comeback put them in position for Anthony Tolliver to hit a 15-foot jumper as time expired to win 57-55. The entire 12-second sequence unfolded right in front of us...

As Johnny Mathies brought the ball up the court, my old college roommate John (who was in town for the game) was incredulous that the Jays weren't calling timeout. When I watched the TiVo of the game the next day, the TV announcers shared that opinion. I knew better -- Dana Altman prefers his teams to go for the winning shot without calling timeout. Sure, you can set up a play, but the defense can too, and he's always trusted his teams to create a shot without having to draw something up. Sometimes it backfires, like in the 2004 NIT game against Nebraska. Sometimes like Saturday night, it works beautifully.

This morning, I got an email from my buddy Cliff's brother, Andy. He told me he had happened upon ABC's "Dancing With The Stars" last night while channel surfing, and, well, I'll let his words speak for themselves.

"The host mentions right before the break -- 'Be sure to stay tuned as (skank) and (androgynous) dance to THE FINAL COUNTDOWN.'

And they did."

This means, of course, that the renaissance of Europe, spearheaded by my Millions of readers, has now jumped the mullet. When your song is used on "Arrested Development", its cool. When Lisa and Louis dance to your song on "Dancing With The Stars", its over.

As I did not see the show -- damn that CSI in High Definition! -- I'll take Andy's word for it when he says it was awesome, but in a decidedly not awesome way.

There's ridiculous, and then there's $795 shots. Not paid assassin shots -- shots of liquor. $795. Good lord. Where on earth did I come across such an atrocity? Right here in Omaha, at a restaurant named after a type of dark wood (heretofore referred to as TDW or That Dark Wood), located across from Boys Town on West Dodge.

You're probably wondering how I ended up at such a place that would have $795 shots. Well, its kind of funny actually.

There was a time in our volleyball league -- all of the last six years, actually -- that you would plays 9 weeks, and the tenth week was a BCS-style one game playoff. 1 v 2, 3 v 4, etc. So the only games that really meant anything that night were 1 v 2. But at least we all got to play.

This session, they implemented a playoff system. Everyone plays 10 weeks, and then two weeks of playoffs to determine a champion. And for the first time since high school, I experienced first-hand what its like to be left out. For years, I've watched as college and pro teams I follow would miss the playoffs, or bowls, or tournaments. And its sucks, but there's always another sport, another team, to follow.

Being part of it, I had forgotten how crushing it is. When we walked off the court last night, it hit me that we won't play again for three months. That's a helluva long time, man.

The fact that we phoned in all three games and lost big didn't help. Nothing to play for except personal fitness and fun -- what the hell is the point of that? If games were meant to be played for fun, they wouldn't keep score.

Recently, I updated my Blogger account to be able to utilize some of their new software upgrades, and in doing so, had to acquire a Google account. Having a Google account takes away the clean, simple Google search page and replaces it with a clusterfudge of modules such as a Wikipedia search box, a YouTube search box, news headlines from both the Omaha Weird-Harold and USA Today, weather, and other stuff that I've told it not to display. It also keeps track of your search history presumably for advertising research purposes, which the conspiracy theorist half of me finds slightly disturbing, but we won't get into that here.

The only module I've allowed to continue exercising squatters rights on my nice Google layout is a particularly felonious module called "<a href="http://www.wikihow.com/Main-Page">WikiHow How-To of the Day</a>". Seriously, I can't tell you the number of times I've been shanghaied into reading in-depth how-to manuals on such things as "How to Survive a Freestyle Rap Battle", "How to run up a wall and flip", "How to Calculate Pi by throwing frozen hot dogs", "How to win a street fight", and "How to stop a car with no brakes". I suppose this falls under the same curiosity defect that causes me to find reading the dictionary to be fascinating in small doses, but how can you not let curiosity get the best of you and read an article entitled "How to deal with being in Prison"?

Fascinating stuff, and it raises so many questions. What are the chances of a person who reads WikiHow entries will ever go to prison? Will I ever have a need to apply what I've learned about how to survive a freestyle rap battle? And when can I personally attempt to calculate Pi by throwing frozen hot dogs? That's my kind of math, baby!

So thank you, WikiHow, for keeping me up 10-15 minutes later than I wanted to be up for several nights in the last month. I hope you're happy with yourself.

You bet.

Saturday, I got all dressed up to go to a fancy wedding when I would have much rather been at my friend Nicole's bowling party (dubbed "Roll On Shabbos" on the fancy-designed invitation, it was to have featured a screening of The Big Lebowski, drinking of White Russians and later, actual Bowling). Because as always, I will take bowling over fancy parties every day of the week and twice on Sunday. Basketball over Polo. Schlitz over Wine. T-shirts to suits.

Yet there I was, in a suit, at a wedding. Some highlights (or lowlights):

That's a fine lookin' suit, yo.

If (when) I host my own late-night talk show, that's totally how I will dress. When the networks can no longer ignore my billions of readers, I will wear a suit on my TV show. You bet.

***

Ever since I graduated from college, my parents have occasionally brought up as a point of conversation whether I'd had to wear a suit anywhere. Point being, I ought to go drop $250 because I might need one someday on short notice. My argument was always that if something came up, I would go to like JC Pennys or Mens Warehouse over a lunch and just buy a damn suit. Not that difficult. Little did I know shopping for a suit is not like buying a shirt. Confusing as hell, it is.

Besides, I don't generally hang around a crowd that does "suit things". I don't have to wear one to work. I don't like going to restaurants that make you wear one and try to avoid them. I have never never had a relationship long enough to have to go on some fancy anniversary dinner where I might need one. I have never been invited to anything, anywhere, that required me to wear a suit. And Saints be praised for that.

I'm standing at the pop machine today, watching a replayed snippet of Chuck Norris on CNBC from last night, and as he talked about his favorite "Chuck Norris Facts", I misaimed the quarter into the slot and lost it under the machine. I immediately dropped to my knees to see where the quarter fell -- only to discover it had found its way five inches back under the machine.

This being a breakroom, I figured there had to be something I could use to rescue my quarter. First I tried a plastic spoon, which was about an inch too short. Next I tried a Bigg Nife (brand name for a knife, like Ginsu, except they're really bad and come from flea markets...actually they don't exist, I made that up. But this knife was plenty bigg, I mean big, and was indeed knifealicious). Alas, it was too inflexible to properly maneuver in such tight quarters, no pun intended.

How exactly did we end up in Council Bluffs at 3am on Saturday night/Sunday morning for the stupid ticket for running a green light? Funny story.

Saturday evening, I was in no hurry to have a drink -- Friday night had been a rough one (and a rather late one) at the Mai-Tai Lounge, mostly because we had chosen to end the night there. When an idea like that comes in the mind of the brothers Nemitz, even at 11:30, there is no stopping it. We took a vote, and it came down 3-3. I had the tiebreaker, since my vote was not tied to the whims and wishes of a wife or girlfriend. I of course voted yes, and off we went. By virtue of my "yes" vote, the guys bought my drinks the entire time we were there, and the ladies all held me in contempt. Its so easy to be the bad guy when you don't have to deal with the consequences of a pissed off significant other, and while its not an ideal role, it does have its benefits, like free Mai-Tai's and not having to drive...

So saturday night while Cliff was being the good soldier and accompanying his fiance while she shopped for shoes, Continental and I went out to Cici's Pizza for the $3.99 buffet. Not sure there's a winner there between those two activities, honestly.

Because near as I can tell, the demographic you get when you offer a $3.99 buffet is similar to that which you would find at the Wal-Mart food court. And true, the pizza is not all that dissimilar from frozen pizza in its cardboard-boxness. But the salad bar, complimentary with the price, is damn good, even as good as some I've paid $3.99 for in fancier joints. And the cheesebread is damn tasty. So the pizza is really free. And can you complain about free pizza? Of course not. My conclusion is Cici's rocks. I will not argue this.

A $65 ticket for running a green light at 3am on Saturday night. The cost of doing business. The cost of being Tom.

The bitch of it is, it was one of those stupid intersection-camera things that take photos of your vehicle as it crosses through the intersection. We approached it, and the light turned yellow  -- and I went on through, as I sometimes am want to do. As I did, it turned red very quickly -- much too quickly for my taste, and flashbulbs illuminated the intersection. Son of a bitch, I was pissed. It was almost like I was set up. There was seriously only a split second delay between green and red. I hesitate to say that's not fair, because that sounds like whining and sour grapes, but come on.

You take a chance running a yellow turning red, for sure. A chance that a cop will pull you over. A chance you'll get in a crash. But you take a chance just getting out of bed in the morning, or when you stick your face in a fan, or your balls in a weedwacker.

The reason those cameras are evil is that you have no chance.

If a cop in a squad car pulls me over, I will accept I've been caught and gladly pay the ticket. I have done it many times. That's the cost of being Tom. But a camera that shoots three digital photos and 12 seconds of digital video? That's just weak. You can't contest it, because ooh, everyone believes video, especially a judge. Its video, ooh, it must have happened just as it looks! You can't argue with video!

According to my research, within 18 days, pending investigation by the CBPD, I can expect a ticket in the mail accompanied by photos of The Colorado "barreling" through the intersection. Problem is, everyone in my vehicle swears that light changed too quickly, and almost anyone would have been guilty there. You almost couldn't NOT run it. Totally bogus. A ticket for running a green light! Who heard of such a thing? But alas, when it comes right down to it, I'm basically screwed. Because everyone believes video. Even when its wrong.

$65, though? Jeez, why don't you slap my wrist a little lighter?

If you have yet to stop by the Chuck Norris Facts website, you need to stop reading this right now and go there.

Since Continental forwarded the site link to all of us two weeks ago, we've been cracking up every day coming up with new "facts". The set-up is simple: Chuck Norris as a Paul Bunyan-esque character. You just come up with mythologically ridiculous tales, generally involving roundhouse kicks and sexual virility, and make it as funny as possible. Because people can submit their own new Norris facts, the site is quite fluid and always has new stories. Even my buddy Cliff has got in on the action, penning a long, winded but ultimately hilarious fact:

I gave it a 10. Then I wrote some of my own.

However, since the site was featured in the Washington Post, its gone from an underground site to being ripped off by posers and punks who have stolen the facts and started rogue sites.

Like this one.

Posers.

You bet.

The other night, I'm at the bank filling out a deposit slip. I'm the only one at the table so I use the right-mounted pen even though I'm standing on the left. Lady comes up to the table and because I'm a gentleman, I throw down my pen and start using the one closer to me so she doesn't have to wait for me to finish. Do I get a thank you, or at least a polite nod? No, I get a "What, is that one dry? Hmmmph."

And people wonder why being nice to your fellow man/woman is slowly stopping.

First of all, I hope you all saw some or all of that USC/Texas National Championship Game last night -- just incredible. That's why you watch sports, hoping once in your life you see a game that good. And last night, we did. As good as advertised and then some, with Texas winning 41-38 on a last-second TD. It was in my mind the greatest college football game ever. Never again can 1971 Nebraska-Oklahoma make that claim. Seriously, that was a REGULAR SEASON game. This was for the NATIONAL CHAMPIONSHIP, and it was just two heavyweights slugging it out, going back and forth, punch for punch. The second half was the most amazing half of football -- no defense, sure, but that had a lot to do with two offenses simply doing whatever they wanted. It will be a really long time before you see another game this good. Seriously.

My buddy Continental and I watched it last night with many many cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon, and while we talked over the game most of the night, late in the fourth quarter when it became apparent we were watching the greatest game ever played, we just shut up and enjoyed the ride in awe of two magnificent teams playing the best games they had ever played, and on the same field against each other -- which never happens! Wow. Here's a recap:

Over lunch I was at the Post Office, because I needed stamps to mail my mortgage check. The line was ridiculously long -- 20 persons deep -- so I headed to the automatic postage machine. Put in my $20 bill, and selected the Lady Liberty stamps, a nice choice. And then I heard horrifying things...the sound of many, many coins falling into the change return. Should have been $12.60. Two quarters, a dime and some bills. That doesn't make that much noise. So I reached in with much trepidation, and my worst fears were realized:

The machine had returned my change in a collection of dollar coins. Gold Sacagawea dollars, andworse yet,  (gasp) Susan B. Anthony dollars! The dreaded hendecagon, an 11-sided monstrosity! Good lord!

In fact, that's what I exclaimed at that moment, out loud, at the post office. Good lord. What the hell am I going to do with this crap?

As the new year rang in, I was thinking "Why does everyone pronounce the year 'two-thousand-five'? We didn't say 'nineteen-hundred-ninety-eight'." This pissed me off.

Shouldn't it be 'twenty-oh-six'? It should be, I thought. Then I saw Kanye West on the Dick Clark New Years Eve show, muted at the party I was at -- and the closed captioning had kicked on. It said, and held at, "(rapping)" for the entire song. That is hilarious.

--

This year, I had a great idea of showing bowl game picks from both me and my brother. You may have noticed I did not list our picks for yesterday's bowl games, nor for the weekend. See, here's the thing. I stink at picking bowl games this year. And for the first time I can remember, so does my brother -- who has either won or finished second in MY OFFICE POOL three straight years. And he doesn't even work here. People barely know him and they despise him. He picked wrong the first 7 games this year, and all of a sudden he's in the running for last place, which wins you back your $5 entry fee...

Did the Hawks get hosed in the Outback Bowl yesterday by refs who had a bad day? Probably. But you know what? Iowa didn't deserve to win anyway. The team trailed the entire game, was in danger of being blown out midway through the 3rd quarter, and was behind 31-7 entering the 4th. Its always been my policy to say if you get your ass kicked, the refs are not the reason. Period. In a close game, maybe, but complaining about the refs is never going to win you much sympathy, so its best to just keep it quiet and get out your voodoo dolls in private.

Literally 30 seconds after the refs called the onside kick penalty that ended the Hawks chances, sending me into fits of rage, Cliff showed up early for our podcast recording session, and Dick was right behind him. God wouldn't even let me stew and be pissed for even a full minute. Not fair! I earned that right, dammit!

They couldn't figure out why I wasn't answering the doorbell, and called to see if I was even home. Just needed a minute to take a deep breath, fellas. No harm meant.