September 2007 Archives

The only thing -- and I do mean the only thing -- I have in common with Indiana Jones is that I hate snakes, but I don't mind spiders. My grandparents lived in San Antonio for a few years in the 80s, and one time when we were visiting them, a large spider crawled into my sleeping bag on the floor. I think it was a tarantula, but as any scientist will tell you there are over 900 species of tarantula so its kind of hard to know. And I was 8 years old when this happened, and pretty much all big spiders are tarantulas when you're 8.

What I do know is that while it startled me, I wasn't exactly what you'd call "afraid". But you get a snake within six feet of me and I will freak out. I had an english teacher in seventh grade who was an extraordinarily weird guy. He had a large collection of exotic pets, such as gators, boas and spiders, and he would bring them into his classroom. The only thing that gave me pause were the snakes.

Of course, there's a difference between seeing a spider on the floor in your house and killing it, and putting your foot into a shoe to find an uninvited guest. That's exactly the scenario that unfolded on Tuesday, and in that circumstance, I was freaked out a bit. I put my shoes on to leave for volleyball, and because they get covered in sand, I leave them in the garage all week between games...you can guess what happened.

I wore the shoes on the drive there, and for about 20 minutes after we arrived as I drank a pre-game beer. Never noticed the spider. I felt a foreign object in there, alright, but I thought it was just sand. When I took the shoes off right before the game, I found a sight that was just a little bit freaky: a dead spider, and a big one at that -- even shriveled up, it was the diameter of a silver dollar counting its legs. I threw that shoe about three feet if I threw it an inch, let me tell you.

Now, here's where I got lucky to have busted my toenail a month ago -- and I never thought I would have reason to be thankful for that, believe me. Because I had broken the tip of my toenail off my big toe, I was wearing two pairs of socks on that foot for added padding against the top of my shoe. The spider might have tried to bite me, had it been venomous (I have no idea, I slept in Biology too often) but good luck getting those big, pointy fangs through two layers of cotton, my friend.

As it was, he couldn't, and the weight of my foot killed him. I prefer to think of it that way, in any event, although between you and me it was probably the odor. Either way, he met his demise.

You bet.

1. One Two Three Four, tell me that you love me more...Sleepless long nights, that is what my youth was for. SOMEONE STOP THIS COMMERCIAL. NO MORE FEIST!

2. So I hear Halo 3 came out this week. Actually, I wouldn't have known if it wasn't for Cliff Glypha waiting in line, in the pouring rain, to buy the game at midnight. I'm sure its fun, if you're into that sort of thing. First-person shooters are not my style. Throwing touchdown passes is my style. Bowling is my style. Shooting some nondescript enemy in the face with a bazooka is not my style.

We played against a guy at volleyball Tuesday night who kept insisting everyone call him Master Chief. I called him Master Dork. He says Halo 3 is the Harry Potter of video games, and he couldn't wait to get home to play it after volleyball. Myself, I couldn't wait to go have a beer at the bar after volleyball, but that's just me.

From the guy who brought you "Celebrity Suicide Kit" and "Actual Size Sports Hero Jersey" comes "Terrible Tighties"!

Sunday afternoon, Gilby, Dick and I spent over six hours at the bar watching football, and in no way is that depressing. Watching a "Heroes" marathon on cable? Depressing. Watching 8 NFL games simultaneously on big screen TVs, with wings and beer galore? The mathmatical opposite of depressing, which I believe to be...what's the word? Oh yeah: AWESOME.

The thing about watching that many games at the same time in a bar is that even if you don't like football, you could be completely enthralled just watching the other people around you. For instance, the tables immediately to our left were filled with Steeler fans, who were thoroughly enjoying their blowout win over San Francisco. One of the dudes had a Terrible Towel, the yellow towels that the fans at Heinz Field wave, and every time there was a huge play he would bust it out. Well, with the Vikings predictably making "Championship Paint Drying" a more compelling spectator sport by comparison, I began to watch the Steelers game. This required turning my head exactly 7.8 degrees to the left.

Before long, I mentioned to Dick that it was too bad I didn't have a Terrible Towel with me to wave, just because it seemed obnoxious and rude and fun all wrapped into an enchilada of awesome.

And thus was born Dick Herculanum's "Invention of the Month".

I ordinarily wouldn't bore you with a story about my Fantasy Football team. However, with Cliff Glypha waiting in line with a bunch of 14-year olds right now as I type this at 11 pm for his copy of Halo 3, I figure he can't give me too much crap. You know, because he's waiting outside in a thunderous monsoon for three hours with high school and college kids to buy a video game. Mind you, he told me in August this was not necessary; "you just have to man up and waltz in at 12:05 after everyone who waited in line is already in the store!".

You bet.

So Monday night, Dick Herculanum came over to watch Monday Night Football and help me eat the FOUR POUNDS of wings that I had as leftovers in my fridge from the weekend. I was trailing 82-79 in my fantasy football matchup, with both Drew Brees and Deuce McAllister playing in the game. There was no way I could lose, barring injury and/or Rex Grossman Syndrome.

McAllister: 4 carries, 5 yards. Left in the first quarter with a knee injury

Brees: 29-45, 225 yards, 4 interceptions, 1 fumble. Should have left in the fourth quarter with an injury sustained when a mysterious fantasy owner in Omaha hurled a shoe at his face

Seriously, who throws four picks and loses a fumble? I went from winning 86-82 to, at one point just after 10pm, being behind by 1. I called him every made-up heinous name in the book...because made-up derisive names are A) much more effective and 2) much funnier immediately afterward.

I yelled, pouted, got surly, and paced around the room. It was a demonstration that was quite amusing, I'm sure. I just like to win, is that so wrong? Maybe yelling things like "Brees is a punk. Its a good thing next week is a bye week for the Saints, because I might have cut him otherwise!" at the TV isn't the greatest thing in the world, but if that's the worst thing I ever do, I'm quite confident I'll be alright.

What's worse: the knowledge that my starting running back, the guy I took with the 10th overall pick in the draft, now has a torn ACL and is done for the year...or the knowledge that my QB has been abducted by aliens and replaced with an inferior clone who makes Rex Grossman look GOOD in comparison. Sheesh.

Both of those unpleasant realizations lead me to the almighty waiver wire, where because my team has the fifth best record, I am 11th in the waiver order. This means that if I claim someone, the 10 teams with worse records can all block the move by claiming him themselves. So I put in claims on the best 10 available backs, the theory being they 1) won't know who I really want and B) can't block all of them. Call it cheating if you will. I call it good strategy.

You bet.

Friday was Dick Herculanum's birthday, but before I could get to his party at the Dundee Dell, there was a little matter of a tailgate party at the office. We shut down at 3:30, or at least, most of us did.

I had a few things to finish up, and it was looking like I wouldn't be able to join the party until 3:45 or so. Not the end of the world; the beer would be waiting. But at 3:29, our Safety Guy ran a fire drill which I inadvertently ignored. Seriously, I was engrossed in my Genesis tunes (specifically the under-rated "Abacab" album from 1981) and the tail end of my work for the week and completely didn't hear the announcement. When he flushed me out, I told him not to worry because it wasn't really me still in the building, but a clone -- the real me was already outside. Something tells me he didn't quite buy it.

When I finally made it out into the parking lot, I saw three Bongo Ball courts. This sounds like the dumbest game in the history of dumb games -- you heave a piece of rope with golf balls attached to both ends towards a three-foot high fence of PVC. There are three horizontal bars on this PVC fence, each one worth 1, 2 or 3 points. You score it like shuffleboard. Again, it sounds dumb, and then before you know it you've spent two hours throwing golf balls on a rope at a PVC fence. Which is to say the game itself is probably provides copious amounts of fun, except I stink at it.

Eventually, this grew tiresome (I know, hard to believe) and I moved on to join the rest of the group down in Dundee. Mr. Cliff Glypha was in rare form, but all I can remember is that I thought he was in rare form -- I can't remember why that thought entered my mind. This is how high he has raised the bar. I do, however, remember the greatest knock-knock joke ever, and I do mean EVER.

Mrs. Cliff Glypha: "Hey, I have a joke! Knock, knock!"

Gilby: "F***ing go to hell!"

The delivery was sublime, and the fact that he burst into laughter immediately after saying it showed a lack of malice that made the joke hilarious.

You bet.

Wednesday, I was home over the lunch hour, and after enjoying a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios (or maybe it was Cap'n Crunch...I get my ever-changing cereal choices confused sometimes), I laid down to take a nap on the couch. I do this every day that I can. But just as I'd zonkjed out, my doorbell rang. Understand, my neighborhood is a veritable ghosttown during the day; so this was unusual for a couple of reasons. A), that there was someone else on the street, and 2), that someone was visiting me.

I groggily got up, with the surly eyes of a man who had been prematurely woken from his midday slumber. It was the mail man.

"So someone DOES live here! I can't fit any more mail into your box. Its filled to the gills. Don't you ever check it?"

Remember, I was groggy. "Wait, I have a mailbox?"

But not too groggy to snap back a smart remark.

1. If I hear one more person say some variant of "Wow, O.J. got arrested and a Clinton is running for President, did we get transported back in time?", I will commit multiple felonies myself. STOP.

2. Little Caesars Hot-N-Ready Pepperoni Pizzas for $5 are the greatest innovation in pizza, maybe ever. Last week, I stopped and got one on the way to volleyball, walked into the bar with the pizza, and enjoyed it. Mama's Pizza might be better, but you have to plan ahead, order it, and wait. Who has time to plan ahead?

3. Read this. Know this. Live this.

4. Target's collection of $1 Office goodies is dominant. Dwight Schrute stress ball heads, pen and pencil sets, notepads, and magnets. All for just $1. They're in the dollar aisle, and you need to buy them. The Dwight security badge magnet is worth $5 by itself, but you get three others and the entire set is just $1. One of them is an action shot of Karate Dwight smacking Karate Michael. Buy them now before they're all gone.

There's extraordinarily bad ideas, there's Bad Idea Jeans, and then there's the Golf Pub Crawl. For those of you never participated in a Golf Pub Crawl in college, I'm sorry. And for those of you have participated in one after college, well, I salute you.

Friday night, I did just that, and I did so with a significant handicap. The rules of Golf Pub Crawl are so simple, and yet so stupid.

1) A pint glass of beer is one hole.

2) A drink is one stroke.

3) Each hole is a Par 4.

Doing some quick back-of-the-napkin figuring, that means you get four drinks to get a pint glass down. If you can do it in three, its a birdie. Two drinks is an eagle. And if you slam the whole pint glass in one drink, its a hole-in-one.

There is no time limit, but to win you need to complete 18 holes. That's 18 pint glasses.

You guessed it...a Frank Stallone: Street Corner Singer action figure. The story behind this Super Epic Awesome Hero Star after the jump.

A couple of weeks ago, Dick Herculanum, Nicole and I went to the Nebraska State Fair to see Joan Jett & The Blackhearts. On the way there, we drove past the Nebraska Crossing outlet mall along I-80, and I made a snarky comment about how there were no stores left in the mall, and how it was crazy to think anyone would drive halfway between Omaha and Lincoln to shop at the five stores still open. Dick begged to differ, and even said that the Toy store in the mall was dominant.

I countered that if it was anything like the outlet mall toy stores I remembered, it probably just had overstocked, old and unpopular toys and bad video games. "No, they actually have decent stuff. I buy something everytime I go there," Dick said.

Well, well well. The latest company to needlessly burn their cherished brand identity is the last one you'd expect. Or maybe the first. I don't even know anymore. As you might guess from the title, its the National Football League.

I'm supposed to hate it. If you've ever read anything online written by a graphic designer, EVERY NEW LOGO SUCKS! ANYTHING MORE THAN 20 YEARS OLD IS UNTOUCHABLE! SHUT YOUR MOUTH WHILE I'M SHOUTING!

My good buddy Continental Frutiger was not able to make it to either the Loverboy or Joan Jett free concerts that we enjoyed in the past month. As he told me at the time, the fact that he missed both shows did not mean he was becoming Cliff Glypha, just that he was busy. Cliff predictably told us all to quote "bite" him; Continental not so predictably bought bargain basement gifts for Dick and myself to make up for his absence.

For the better part of two weeks, Continental taunted us with the existence of these gifts. He said not to get excited, as they had cost just $2 a piece. Of course, price is not necessarily a reliable predictive indication of awesomeness. On the contrary, often times it could be said that the cheaper and cheesier the gift, the better. Video footage of the epic unveiling of these cheap but awesome gifts...after the jump.

I'm about three weeks late in bringing this up, but you'll have to excuse me, for its just been brought to my attention.

We're all following the exploits of Van Halen as they prepare to embark on their sham reunion tour sans Michael Anthony. Some of us are even taking side bets as to how many shows they make it through before Eddie and Dave decide enough is enough and cancel the rest (My money's on 31). Some of us might just be happy they're back touring with Diamond Dave. And some of you frankly might not give a damn about Van Halen at all.

Regardless of where you fall in that spectrum, this story is awfully shitty. After unceremoniously kicking Anthony out of the band, a fact he found out by reading the internet story, not from the band (stay classy, Eddie), they went a step further and engaged in some revisionist history.

New Natty Light cans?

Budweiser has turned the cheapest beer that is still drinkable from a classy silver-and-dark-blue design into the Detroit Lions Football Helmet of beers. Seriously, is that a Lions helmet, or is a can of beer? I can't tell. All I know is I hold this beer and I feel like I want to retire from drinking many years before my career should be over, even though I could break every drinking record on the books.

Hey, if your head coach was Wayne Fontes, you'd quit too. What's that, I'm not the Barry Sanders of drinking? Whew, that's a relief. I take back all that retirement talk. But this new design still stinks.

You bet.

When we went to Lincoln for the Nebraska State Fair (more specifically, to see Joan Jett and The Blackhearts) last week, it reminded me of our trip two years ago to see Styx. I was driving The Colorado then, and we did the very pickup truck thing of drinking beer out of a cooler in the middle of a field. Specifically, we drank Hopluia 16 oz cans.

Dick Herculanum had bought Hopluia at the Saddle Creek Drive-Thru on the way to the fair for no other reason than because its a Nebraska beer. He pronounced it "Hop-a-loo-oww", although it looked to me like it should be pronounced "Hop-loo-yeh". Regardless of how you pronounce it, the beer tasted like noisy piss water.

I made kind of a big stink about my lack of enthusiasm for the way this beer was treating me, and Continental did the same. Dick put us both in our place by promptly slamming the full 16 oz. Continental got his down eventually. I tried, but I couldn't do it.

This is the most terrifying story I've ever told.

"How can we be lovers if we can't be friends...How can we start over when the fightin' never ends?

Tell me, how can we be lovers if we can't make amends? How can we be lovers if we can't be happy friends?"

Dude. I know the words to a Michael Bolton song. Cue my lame excuse.

Over the past five days the following things have happened. This is like that movie "Final Destination" except its real:

1) I was rearranging my living room in barefeet and dropped my couch on my foot, severely mangling my big toe. 1/2 of the toenail is completely severed. I can barely walk right now. Its amazing how much you rely on your toe for walking. I never knew.

2) The lawn company that takes care of my lawn did a particularly shoddy job last week, and shot grass clippings all over the side of my house, the windows, the deck, everywhere. They even covered the air conditioner such that it overheated. Lest you think they have it in for me, my neighbors all suffered similar fates. I was on a ladder cleaning the grass off my windows, and because the yard slopes a far amount, I had to set the ladder up at a sort-of-perilous angle. I think you know where this is going, but the ladder tipped over and I fell eight feet to the lawn below. Just a scraped knee and a further injured toe were all I suffered.

3) Later that day when I was feeling better, I got out my hose to spray the clippings out of the vents on my air conditioner. I made sure it was turned off first, don't worry. My hose had apparently sprung a leak since the last time I used it, because when I turned it on, I got a good soaking. This would ordinarily be funny, but my new phone -- just 10 days old -- was in my pocket and it got wet. Really wet. Like "won't turn on wet".

4) My parents and grandparents were in town for the weekend and stayed at my house, which meant my grandparents took the futon in my basement, my parents took my bedroom and I took the floor in the Polyfro Studios office. During the night I rolled over and knocked my Mac Book onto the floor. Scratched it up real good, but no functional damage occurred that I can tell.

5) Sunday I was emptying the dishwasher and didn't realize my dad had loaded a knife in handle-side-down. You guessed it, I sliced my finger open.

6) Monday, I was grilling out for the family, and when I lit the grill, the flame burst up with such force that it singed my eyebrows.

7) Monday night, I watched Justin Timberlake's 2-1/2 hour HBO concert special in High Definition.

Seriously, that's a Chevy Chase movie, right there. That's every Chevy Chase movie. This kind of clutzy isn't an everyday occurrance for me, which is what makes it so ridiculous that it all happened over the span of a few days.

You bet.