Todd Stadler's blog

Burantcracy (a tirade about work)

Ah, how many times at work today did I ponder shoving my computer keyboard through my monitor with glee and exclaiming "I quit!" to anyone I happened to pass on my way out of the building? Suffice it to say that I think things could be better.

It started with how they set up the campuses at work. Unlike the monolithic Microsoft Quarter in Redmond, WA, where all of their buildings are lumped together, Intel has seen fit to spread its campuses all over the suburban Portland metro area. You might think this nicely avoids the appearance of an engineering ghetto, but you also probably don't take public transportation to work.

See, when I first started my job out here, I worked at this one campus called Ronler Acres.

I should explain - all Intel campuses have ill-fitting agrarian names, apparently to remind us that the unremarkable soulless office buildings where we spend the bulk of our days occupy land once worked by farmers, who made honest livings without once assigning "ARs" (actions required) or uttering the phrase "operational excellence". But of course, the campuses are usually referred to by their two-letter abbreviation and building number. I refer here to RA2.

Anyhow, when I moved into RA2, my project had just moved there from JF3. I'm not sure why, but I assume it had something to do with where there was available space. A year or so later, the project moved back to JF, this time in JF4, which had just been built. Maybe because of space again, maybe to deal with the ever-changing corporate hierarchy.

A note on corporate hierarchy: to my knowledge, the umbrella groups my project has fallen under since I've worked at Intel include MD6, MPG, DPG, IAG, and maybe something called IACG. Not that it makes a whit of difference - all I get is some e-mail telling me to refer to the new acronym and that some überboss of mine is now reporting to someone different.

Anyhow, in spite of the fact that the new campus was fifteen minutes farther from my home (a 25% increase, for you statisticians) by train, I grew to like it. We soon had a nice new cafeteria where the food was actually decent, and there had apparently been great advances in corporate architectural psychology since my days at RA2, as the walls were brighter, and the conference room chairs more comfortable.

But that wouldn't inspire such an acerbic journal entry, of course, so naturally it was deemed that my project would move back to RA2. Well, sort of. Some people on the project worked in RA2. Some remained in JF4. Depending on whom I needed to talk to, I would go to one building or the other. And if I had to talk to people in both, well, I'd have to take the shuttle between the two. Clearly this was the result of some good efficiency planning.

So I had to set up my new office over at RA2 for the times I would be there. Unfortunately, owing to the economic situation of the day, or perhaps just more stellar planning, Intel scraped the bottom of the barrel to supply my cube. No dual processor Win2K machine for me. In fact, nothing running on an Intel processor at all, but a clunky IBM 3600. But at least it's ugly, and comes with a really crappy keyboard. And a monitor that struggled to outshine the overhead lights. And a mouse which I had to disassemble just to remove years of dust and gunk from, so it would, you know, move both horizontally and vertically.

Not content to simply make the computer annoy me, they gave me a desk set at a height for a much shorter person and told me ergonomic adjustments weren't allowed. I had to steal a whiteboard from a different office. And the phone in my office was completely dead.

I tried calling the "Action Line" on a phone in a neighboring cube to get a new phone. I was greeted with a phone menu that had been "recently reorganized for efficiency". Which meant I had only to press 1 "for problems with [my] phone or electrical system", then press 1 "to replace [my] phone or to order a new one", and then press 1 "to order a new one" in order to reach someone who thought she could help me. I explained the situation.

With any tool I could use to do work dead or annoying, I decided to go back to JF4, where things worked and at least the walls weren't so depressing. While there, I got a call from a technician who at first couldn't find my cube over in RA2. After I gave him directions, he called back to confirm, much to my surprise, that I had a dead phone in my other office. Huh.

He told me I needed to file an ESR. Unfortunately, he was new at his job, and so didn't know what an ESR was or how I could go about filing one. But he promised that his boss would send me an e-mail telling me how to do so. Why he couldn't file this ESR for me was not made clear.

I decided to try and get some actual work done, but there was a knock on my cube wall. "You're having problems with your phone?" asked a man I'd never seen before.

"Uh, at the other building, yes."

"Oh, okay, that makes sense now," he replied, some dilemma apparently resolved in his head. Now freed of that issue, he asked if there was anything he could help me with.

"Well, I apparently need to file an ESR."

"Good, then you already know about that!" he cheerfully replied.

I explained that I had no clue what it was. At that point, the promised e-mail showed up in my inbox, so I and this as-yet unintroduced man read it together. He looked at the URL listed therein and expressed concern that it might be incorrect.

So I'm moving to Montana to herd sheep or something.

Like the Superfriends, but more moralizing

I have decided to create a cartoon in the vein of do-gooder Gaia-worshipping Captain Planet and the Planeteers. But mine will be different as it will be called Admiral Eco and the Ecoteers.

And instead of merely fighting evil, polluting corporations as the milquetoast Captain does, Admiral Eco will fight everyone who pollutes or litters, down to the smallest child!

In short, he will be an overbearing environmental zealot. As he swoops down upon an urban area, haphazardly annihilating any car or litterbug he sees, he will turn to his horrified young Ecoteers and explain, "I'm sorry, but it's for the planet."

At the end of each episode, as we see yet another of the world's great cities laid waste by the good Admiral, with dead bodies strewn everywhere, he will proudly say his catchphrase, "sometimes you have to spill a little red, to be green."

Naturally, the show will be sponsored by PETA and the Earth Liberation Front.

(Some of) the kids are alright

I saw the Mates of State for the first time this past weekend. They were very good, of course. It's hard not to like a pair of lovebugs playing drums and a wacky old keyboard while making bubblegum little harmonies. Actually, that description doesn't do them justice. Which is why I'll never make it writing for the local alt.weekly.

In addition to the music, the crowd itself was rather entertaining. In particular, there was a crew of maybe twenty kids bent on dancing and screaming and singing and flopping about and generally having a good time. This is somewhat unheard of at a Portland show, much less at an indiepop one.

It was interesting to see these kids clash with the more staid scenesters. One fellow in particular stood just off to my left. He had his arms crossed the whole time and did not move. He was probably enjoying the music, but maybe he was trying to keep it secret.

Anyway, he was clearly getting annoyed by the raucous kids dancing mere inches away from him, often bumping into him. Perhaps they weren't taking the music seriously enough.

They picked up on his little snit and began antagonizing him deliberately. Admittedly, this wasn't very nice of them, but it was funny. They would dance in his face while he resolutely remained all the more motionless. It was a clear contest of wills. They were going to have their fun, and he wasn't going to move. He didn't seem to be having much fun at this point, but you know how contests of wills can be.

At some point, it turned into a shoving match, which was unfortunate. The raucous kids attempted to point out to that there was any number of places he could stand and not be near the dancing people, while standing near the stage was probably not the best place for placidity.

But he held his position. This was his scene, and he'd likely been a part of it for longer than these wet behind the ears kids singing along with each tune quite enthusiastically.

Oh, it made me laugh. It brought all the catharsis of watching the crusty old dean, counselor, or CEO getting a pail of water dumped on him by those underachieving but loveable scamp kids, campers, or SEC agents, respectively. And while the behavior of both parties wasn't perfect, I couldn't help but sympathize with the kids having fun.

After all, who wants to fight for people's rights to be pretentious and boring? That's what's so wrong with Portland's music scene in the first place - it's choked by scenesters who could care less about good music innovation but want their indie cred props for those dope threads. Sigh.

It's enough to make me want to dance at every concert, whether it's called for or not. People usually clear a spot when a 6'2" sweaty guy is jumping around, and I could use the exercise. It's not exactly finding my life's purpose, but it's a start.

Object lessons from Easters past

When I'm undertaking a large project, I have this bad habit of taking pride in my baby steps. Not that I have any large projects that I need to work on right now or anything.

But I'll get to a point where I can say "I've accomplished something" and be happy with that for a while. Like, say, I'll learn how to solve some problem with Javascript. Then I'll show some friends of mine, because I'm happy I solved the problem. But the larger project remains unfinished.

Part of this is just the problem with working on labors of love. There are no goals, no deadlines, and not even much of a push from whomever might peruse my work. I just work on it when other things in my life don't preclude me from doing so.

But I find that this behavior eerily parallels an event from my childhood - one that I remember vividly for no good reason. It was an Easter egg hunt when I was a wee lad. After some adult yelled "Go!", I frantically ran around, determined to find many eggs, cheap plastic basket held firmly in hand. When I found one, I was so happy I ran back to where all the adults were to show my mom. Look, Mom, an egg! I remember her smiling politely, happy that I was happy, but worried that in taking the time out to show her, I would likely miss out on the other eggs rapidly being discovered by older children, who were naturally more skilled egg hunters. So I delved back into the fray to find another egg. And when I did, I again showed my mom, because hey, I was proud. The memory kind of peters out there, but I think you get the point.

If not, the point is: Easter egg hunts are a good way to introduce your child to the spirit-crushing concepts of competition in a capitalistic marketplace.

Now you're cooking — with time!

I think more than any other household appliance, the microwave makes me really think about the nature of time. It's just the most time-based device I can think of.

Put in your food, enter a time, and go. The food usually doesn't change appearance, it just gets hotter. Not like an oven, where time isn't as important as, say, whether the cheese has melted, or if the dough has risen.

But what really gets me about microwaves is the important lessons they teach me about what time is worth.

I am constantly surprised by what I can get done in the time I'm waiting for the microwave to go thirty seconds more. Thirty seconds - it seems like an infinitely short time. Nothing. And yet I can often go to the bathroom and wash my hands in that time. A complete voiding of my bladder, in zero time! Of course, being a guy helps.

Still, give me a minute, and I can gulp down a vitamin with my water, set the table, and still make it to the bathroom. A minute. I mean, really, it's barely enough time to bother marking on a clock face. People routinely ask me to give them a minute, and then take five or more. And yet the microwave gives me precisely that, and I am amazed at what I can get done.

It makes me wonder what I'm doing in the rest of my life.

If I can do all that in a minute, why do I feel like I got nothing done this whole evening? That's six hours - three hundred sixty minutes! I could go to the bathroom seven hundred twenty times, if I and my bladder were so inclined. Can't I at least get some good writing done, maybe pen a song or at least a song's lyrics or for heaven's sake a song's chorus' lyrics? Apparently not.

Viewed at such a larger scale, time slips by. It makes me think of quantum physics, in that there's something different going on at the smaller scale.

It really puts me in awe of people who create television commercials. They have but thirty seconds to not only tell you who they are, what they're selling, and why you should buy it, but often a compelling story with characters to wrap the whole thing in. They know the real value of thirty seconds.

And yet for most of us, thirty seconds are like pennies - we have them in spades, but if we lose them, well, that's okay. It's not until you realized that you didn't lose just a penny but several dollars that you feel at a loss.

I think the antithesis of the microwave is the television. Which is odd, considering how similar they look. Or used to, before TVs got rid of buttons on the actual set. I can only hope that man's unceasing quest for innovation in technology will someday lead to a microwave that can only be programmed with a remote control.

Anyhow, on a microwave, you say that you want to use it for so much time. Then you usually stand there waiting for those blasted two minutes to be over. Or, in my case, you go to the bathroom.

With a TV, you start it usually without any clear idea of when it'll be done, and the time flies by so quickly. No one would complain that a two minute show is too long.

I've seen people watch shows they considered utter bilge for longer than that, just because they didn't feel like changing the channel. You may argue that television programming is more entertaining than watching a burrito reheat, but have you seen some of those sitcoms? Are you sure that you wouldn't sometimes prefer the burrito?

Wait, when did this turn into a self-righteous anti-television screed? Criminy, can't I write one entry without resorting to hackneyed urban liberal claptrap?

The good old days

And now a moment of self-indulgence masked as a recollection...

I remember the day Chris Gouge said I was a genius. Actually, it was Jenny Lee who told me he thought that. That was back when she and I talked. Chris thought I was a genius for using HTML tables to align my text and my images on a page I'd written about my first college spring break trip. He thought I was so clever for doing that. Really, I'd stolen the idea by looking at someone else's HTML code, of course. That's how I learned everything back then. I couldn't tell Chris, though. He was too busy thinking I was a genius. He had plenty of time to learn otherwise.

As cool as the web has gotten since that day long ago, I do miss the ability to impress people using as simple a construct as an HTML table. Nowadays there's a hundred different ways to serve flashy, yet vacuous content (or lack thereof) to the masses. It makes me wistful. I am full of wists.

Little fat girls at Taco Bell

I ate at Taco Bell this weekend. Had my first cheesy gordita crunch, in which a regular taco is enveloped by the flatbread they use for their "gorditas", the two sealed together with, you guessed it, cheese. Well, not really cheese, but the orange liquid stuff that passes for cheese.

To some degree, I had predicted this food item, although I assumed the cementing agent would be beans, a la the double decker taco. Taco Bell is nothing if not efficient, and they try to use every item in their kitchen in as many ways as possible. I mean, they have tortillas, flatbread, chips, crunchy taco shells, lettuce, tomatoes, rice, beans, cheese (both regular and liquid), beef (both regular and liquid), and chicken. With those simple items, they make almost everything on their menu. I was surprised when they added the flatbread, as it must have incurred a large initial cost to add a new ingredient. But they have made up for that by reusing it in the cheesy gordiat crunch and the "chalupa", a deep fried version of the gordita.

I should note, as a former resident of Texas, that both the chalupa and gordita are horribly misnamed. Mind you, the tacos and burritos are a far cry from what you'd find in a taqueria. But the chalupa and gordita are completely unlike their namesakes. In fact, when I originally proposed my version of the cheesy gordita crunch, I assumed it would be called the huarache, a tasty masa patty with beans and toppings. But then, no one in their right mind thinks Taco Bell has anything to do with real taqueria fare.

Bad for the body, bad for the mind

So the Battleship Texáco party went well. The movie was laughably awful, but this was rather expected and, as such, enjoyable. Not only was there consumption of tasty tacos from a gas station (washed down by an "extreme" citrus beverage for that added "zing"), but we finally tasted the fatty goodness / technological marvel that are "sizzin'" microwave pork rinds.

These space age chunks of fat were purchased many months ago, but never eaten, because everyone who would appreciate them could not be gathered together. Until, that is, the acting power of John Travolta acted like a beacon, beckoning to all who enjoy bad things. I refer to them as "sizzin'" because that's what the package says they are. I assume it's a typo, but I also assumed microwave pork rinds weren't possible, so what do I know? How can pork fat not need refrigeration? How can it be simply microwaved and inflate to tasty proportions? And for the love of Pete, how can they be called "low fat"?! They're pork rinds - nothing but fat, no? Whatever. I may not have understood them, but I do know this - they're tasty.

At some point someone suggested a Battleship Earth drinking game. Every time there's a ridiculously poor screen wipe (worse even, than those in Star Wars), slow motion, unnecessary odd camera angles, or a Psychlo mind trick*, you drink. The problem with this game is that it would necessarily induce alcohol poisoning, likely well before the movie ended.

*A Psychlo mind trick is the amazingly clever bait-and-switch tactic exemplified by the following:

Fred: Promise me you won't do something bad.
Ted: Okay, I won't do something bad.
(It becomes apparent that something bad is going to happen)
Fred: I thought you said you wouldn't do something bad!
Ted: I won't do something bad - you will do it for me!
Fred: Oh no, I've been tricked!

Micro(tele)phones

There was a guy on the train the other day with his new Nokia 8260 cell phone. What struck me as unusual was how he was using it. He would put it to his ear to listen, and then put it in front of his mouth to talk. Back and forth, back and forth, through the whole conversation. Apparently, the phone was so small, he figured it couldn't pick up his voice unless he spoke right at it. And really, this isn't surprising.

We've been conditioned to think that you have to speak into a phone, not just near it. In spite of the apparent advantages made in cell phones, home telephones remain big enough to encourage this behavior. I guess this guy had never bothered finding out if the phone would work normally up against his ear.

It's all very interesting to me. I've seen cell phones that had flip-out extensions for no good reason, except that to give people something to talk into, even if there was no microphone in it. That something also gives a (false) air of privacy, since one's voice is blocked by this piece of plastic, right? Indeed, when I'm using my hands-free earpiece with my cell phone anywhere outside of my house or car, I feel oddly as if I'm talking to the world, since there is no microphone in front of me. It's funny how a wee bit of plastic builds an imaginary cocoon of silence around me, although everyone in my vicinity is perfectly able to be annoyed by my chatting.

But then humans are prone to wrap themselves up in their own little worlds that completely ignore the laws of reality, let alone neighboring human beings. Cars, anyone?

Commercial endorsement

So I didn't watch the Super Bowl this year but I have been catching up on the commercials at adcritic.com. There are plenty of lousy ones, but a few do stand out enough to justify voluntarily watching advertising: E-Trade's dot-com graveyard spot, Budweiser's "what are you doing" spot, and maybe Pepsi's Bob Dole ad.

Perhaps most intriguing was Volkswagen's tonic water ad. Upon first viewing, I thought they had gone completely surreal, with a total disconnect between what was shown and what was being sold. I later realized what they probably meant, but that ruined my fun.

None of this changes the fact that I watched commercials on purpose. Oh well.

My friends are funny

The sign in the residential area stressed that the speed limit was 25 mph. "Keep kids alive" it pleaded. Colin wondered if this would then lead to an increase in hostage-taking instead.

An endorsement of capitalism, sports

I went shopping at Old Navy today. I asked a nice, hip lady friend of mine where I should go shopping, since I'm tired of going to low-end thrift stores and wanted to buy something nice, but not too much. Such are the constraints of being a fashion bug like myself. Ahem. She said "you'd be surprised, but Old Navy isn't so bad." And I was, in fact, surprised, because all I knew of Old Navy involved Morgan Fairchild, some dog, and a weird old lady who may or may not be famous outside of Old Navy commercials. I had no clue it was just the cheap version of the Gap. Besides, could I really find happiness at yet another suburban outlet of uniformity? Apparently. I found an XXL orange sweater on sale. Guess I'll have to burn my Young Urban Hipster card now.

But the shopping ecstasy didn't end there. Oh no. Once I had drunk the milk of shopping paradise, I could not escape the suburban caves of ice. Or rather, I decided since I was already out in the suburbs, I would check out another of these stores I know so little about. And as luck (or the zoning commission) would have it, there was a Ross Dress for Less next door.

Anyhow, Ross is suburbia at its best (even though there's one downtown, too). Cheap, yet good, and yet not too well-known, it seems. Or as well-known as it should be. Much like my beloved Half-Price Books. I always feel like I stand out whenever I'm in a Ross, though. While I'm looking for something hip (or so-lame-it's-hip) and somewhat cheap (because I am myself cheap frugal), most of my fellow shoppers seem to be focusing on just finding clothes they can afford. Which makes me seem a bit of a jerk. But enough about me, let's talk about the jacket I found.

It's a Cleveland Browns jacket. Mostly brown, with a giant double-headed orange arrow running along the back and sleeves. Pure PVC, made to look something like leather. Even the zipper is plastic. On the front left breast is the Cleveland Browns helmet, and across the back, it says "BROWNS".

Never in my all my years of shopping would I have dreamed of finding such a jacket. And yet, there it was at Ross. Not surrounded by similar pleather jackets of other underperforming NFL franchises, no. Just by itself. Calling to me, saying it was glad I had finally found it, and that it was time for me to take it home.

Seriously, this was apparel fate. I have loved (in that sickly, ironic sense of the word) the Browns since I was a little kid. I remember seeing a poster of all the NFL helmets, and being struck by the Browns' stark, singularly orange helmet. Orange, not brown! What was a brown, anyways? Of course, these were the bratty musings of a child growing up in Dallas, whose team was known for greatness. To my knowledge, I'd never seen the Browns play a game on TV. And it's not like they were all that good.

In short, they were old school. Nothing about them was glitzy. They just played the game. It was a philosophy I could support in my fashion choices, even if I had invented it all by myself. So I had to buy the jacket. I mean, it was only $18!

And now I spend my days explaining my ironic choices in raiment to rabid sports fans and proud midwesterners. No, I'm not from Ohio. No, I didn't watch the game. Ah well, at least I have a cool jacket to wear when it's raining.

BYOE (bring your own Ensure)

I think I'm getting old. There were two parties last night. The first one was a raging "beach" party. Lights, DJ, girls in swimsuits, blacklights, crazy folks, alcohol, all that. Fun fun fun, it would seem, and yet I was ready to leave after a few minutes. Maybe it was that there didn't seem to be anybody to talk to, although there was no shortage of folks to boogie oogie woogie with. Maybe it was the creeping eeping feeling that I had stumbled upon a frat party.

Regardless, we left for a far more subdued event at which Ben from Kind of Like Spitting was present. Which is a total name-drop. And belies my enchantment with celebrity, no matter how local or oddly bemonikered. Well, they're not all that local, really, in that indie kids far and wide seem to like them. Which is I guess why it was so nice to just be at this party, talking to Ben about music, about the Dismemberment Plan and Whitesnake and the things in between.

Even more words in the way

Speaking of cleaning up, I need to make space on my bookshelf, as it has become too crowded. This is due mostly to my burgeoning library of O'Reilly books. I love O'Reilly books. They have a nice consistent spine color for all the web-related titles so that they emit a faint glow on their shelf. And they have nice engravings of animals on the front, with an little paragraph about that animal in the colophon. Oh, and something about knowledge and writing and design and stuff.

Anyhow, I need to get rid of some books to make room for all these new books. It's kind of silly that I have read very little of them, turning to them more for specific questions about a given topic. As such, I think I'll be getting rid of some of my more superfluous Tolkien books, most of which I also have not read. I bought them back in junior high, soon after completing The Lord of the Rings. Hey, it's a good book. And thinking that it could only get better, I bought up a whole lot of stuff: The Silmarillion, Unfinished Tales, The Book of Lost Tales, Volume I, The Book of Lost Tales, Volume II, many other books of lost tales, Tree and Leaf, Farmer Giles of Ham, the leatherbound Lord of the Rings single-volume edition, ... And then I actually sat down to read the Silmarillion. And it was more arduous a task than my short attention span was prepared for. But I did it. So I tried one of the books of lost tales. And in the process lost my love for Christopher Tolkien's, ahem, career made of transcribing his father's late-night scribbling on cocktail napkins (cf. "The Completely New Adventures of Tom Bombadil in the Valley of Gol-Siddur, or why it is that hobbits' doors are round").

I suppose I don't make as much time for reading as I wished I did, but it's likely because I spend so much time waiting for me to buy photo albums.

A million words impeding my life

I finally bought some photo albums so I could organize the last year's worth of photos. This has helped me get on with my life. See, having a thousand photographs sitting around my room really made the clutter even more annoying. Yet it was clear that I couldn't meaningfully clean my room until the photos were taken care of. And obviously, I couldn't get any real creative work done with all this clutter filling up my peripheral vision. So having all those photos sleeved (and my favorites tagged) will mean that I can really get down to brass tacks, hmm? Now if only I could scan in my favorites for putting up on this site...

The horror of research: a conversation

I called up Gerry. "I'm scared," I said.

"Tell me what happened," he said, trying to sound calm. He knew something was up.

"You know how agents working undercover will sometimes become such a part of the underworld they're trying to penetrate that they begin to forget they're a cop, in essence becoming that which they're studying?" I asked. It was clear I was upset. I knew I wasn't making sense.

"Yeah, I know," he said, "People get too involved in their work, it consumes them." And he did know. Gerry had been there before, more than once. That's why I'd called him. He was the only one I could turn to.

"Well, it's like that. I ... I know this sounds crazy, but, well, you know the Hostess project I've been working on?"

"The one I've been helping you with? Yeah, of course ..." Gerry's voice trailed off. He hadn't expected this, not this soon.

"Well, I ... um, I heard them today. They called me ..."

"Them? Todd, what ..."

"Not really called, they were singing to me. I heard them. Like a chorus of angels, they were. It sounded like it was coming from the next cube. But when I got up to go find them, they were in the cube beyond that. Their voices kept moving until they led me to the snack machine."

"Todd, you're scaring me!" Gerry was losing it.

But I continued on with my harrowing tale. "There they were. They had this heavenly glow about them. And they kept singing the most beautiful song over and over. It had just two words: 'eat us'. I ... I couldn't help myself. Before I knew what was happening, I had slipped in the dollar, popped open the door, and ripped off the cellophane wrapping. There was chocolate all over the place. And cremey filling smeared all over my face. Gerry, it was horrible!" I broke down crying.

There was silence for a second. Choked with sobs, I continued, "Gerry, I know I was supposed to just be studying them. It was a clinical interest I swear ... at first. But I was drawn in. I had to know their nature. I began hearing, seeing ... things I couldn't explain. My rational scientific brain was at a loss. I ... had crossed over, Gerry."

Gerry paused. "Crossed over?"

"Yes. I understand now. All of it. It ... it's wonderful."

"What's it like, Todd?"

"Oh, Gerry, I wish I could fully describe it."

A night with Gerry, part III: trading cards

What was more exciting to me was the discovery of Boy Crazy! trading cards. I can't express to you my joy at seeing this product, whose tagline is "Real boys. For real girls." Clearly pandering to the whole boy band crowd. I can't do the cards enough justice, so I will quote from the packaging:

"Boy Crazy! is a new trading card series designed just for girls [thankfully, the 7-11 clerk didn't card me at the counter, so we skirted this rule]. The set includes 363 randomly-assorted cards featuring photos and profiles of real boys from around the country. Get to know the boys as you collect, trade and play a simple matchmaking game with your friends! Vote for your favorite Boy Crazy! boys at boycrazy.com".

Wowee! Trading boys like a commodity is a real step forward for gender relations, I tell you what! And they're real boys, not those crummy makeup-wearing prancing goofball celebrities that you girls clearly lust after. Since when has reality been a selling point for teen lust? Oh well. I can't claim to understand the juvenile female mind. Come to think of it, any female mind is pretty much beyond my comprehension.

But the cards are a hoot, if only in that subtle "I'm hopped up on sugar from 7-11 treats" way. They have the usual mundanities such as astrological sign, date of birth, eye color, and height. No weight, though. And since you only get head shots, I find that odd. You also get a list of each boy's four favorite somethings - drink, sport, place, music, food, song, book, color, actor, animal, etc. I never thought of it until I saw the answers, but favorite animal is a weird question to ask. The responses from my set of nine boys included cheetah (twice), monkey, and a pig. I'd dare say those last two responses aren't really the kind of thing to turn a girl on. A pig? I mean, it seems obvious that you should answer with some cool animal, like a cheetah, wolf, bear, lion, or somesuch. Barring that, you could go the cute route, such as a pet animal, or something that labels you as sensitive like a koala. But a monkey? I started thinking about other animals, and it just occurred to me that there are far too many wrong answers to this question. Gerry mentioned the mudskipper and sheep as two possible wrong answers. I don't know, maybe I just don't have strong enough feelings about animals to understand the complexities of these boys' psyches. Maybe these cards are stupid.

In support of the latter, I present the following Boy Crazy! quotes and my analysis thereof:

From Peter (England): "His favorite actor is Al Pacino who he says is the best in the world." Would Al be his favorite for any other reason? Maybe he simply thinks Al is as cute as a bug, and acting is just another reason to love him, but that doesn't seem to be the kind of thing that would make Peter "cool, inside and out" as we are promised he is. "Buckle up for an evening with this guy - he wants to rent a chopper and take his date to the top of the Empire State Building." Buckle up, indeed, as Mr. Flashy attempts to land his chopper on an antenna, since the Empire State Building has no helipad! Can't he just take the elevator like everyone else? Does he really have that much money to pay for all of this? Maybe that's why all the girls love him, even if he is full of it.

From Adam (Georgia): "Adam likes to tell it like it is, except when it comes to meeting girls. He says he prefers to listen to them do all the talking." Now, admittedly, I'm not one to be giving advice on women, but while it seems to me most women want a man who will listen to them, I think Adam has gone too far. He'll put you in your place and tell you to clean the kitchen, except when he's initially courting you, when he will maintain an eerie silence, preferring to stuff his face with food rather than acknowledge your presence. And he's still available, ladies!

From Billy (Texas): Billy is a personal fave of mine, 21 years old and wearing his ever-so-sexy Ratty Frat Boy Baseball Cap. "Billy has big plans for a perfect date: first, he'd buy his date a dress and pay for her to get her hair and nails done. Then he'd have a limo waiting to take them to dinner and a drive around town. Plus, it looks like Billy will actually be able to follow through on his dream date some day because he plans to become a doctor!" Sadly, ladies, the rest of the gents in this deck are all doomed to be clerks at 7-11, ironically pushing newer decks of BoyCrazy! cards on unsuspecting young ladies, and wistfully thinking of their dashed plans for a dream date. But what is this guy thinking, really? Does he expect his dream girl to show up in ratty clothes, hair all unkempt and nails all chipped? Did he not think she might get a wee bit gussied up beforehand? No no no: "hey babe, let's get you out of those rags you call an evening gown and get you a real dress. Maybe something strapless, heh heh." Charming. That's love.

From Trevor (Utah): Another white Friends-watching frat boy in a baseball cap who wants to be a doctor. Oh, but this one's a live wire girls - he has a piercing! "This college student claims he is shy and modest [always a good thing to boast about], but his idea of a dream date is bold and exotic - he would like to take his date to Italy to sample his favorite good - pizza." Oh my. Trevor may be in for disappointment here. "Hey, where's the tomato sauce? Where's the 'eye-talian' sausage? What do you mean you don't have pepperoni? Look, it took us twelve hours to fly here, and I've got to get us back on the plane by...crap, we just missed the flight back to Detroit! Your dad's gonna kill me!"

Matt from Washingon chimes in to let us know he likes to go "antiquing". All questionable neologisms aside, I find that an odd pastime for a teenage boy. Also, "a fun date with Matt would include a moonlit dinner on the beach". I know it incorporates several romantic elements, but I picture this not going as well as one would hope. "Matt, there's sand in my pinot noir, and a sand crab in my evening gown."

Then there's Danny from Virginia. Poor Danny. His favorite subject is math. His favorite book, Oliver Twist. And he's been trained in tap, jazz, and ballet, aspiring to be a professional performer. But wait, there's more: "he talks on the phone - a lot!" Danny is clearly included in this deck for some sense of diversity, not only being black but possessing talent and a brain, but he's just not made to be a chick magnet. Doomed to living a fulfilling life completely devoid of shallow relationships and meaningless sex, he'll likely commit suicide by age 25.

And for those wondering what they can do to draw in the boys, the following are the responses to "ideal traits in a girl":

• Attractiveness of some sort (9) (pretty face (2), nice smile (3), beauty (2), good looks, nice physique)
• Sense of Humor (4)
• Intelligence (4)
• Style (2)
• Playfulness (2)
• Confidence (1)
• Independence (1)
• Kindness (1)
• Energetic (1)
• Fun Personality (1)
• Self Confidence (1)

Of course, most of these are just lies to get the girl in bed, as long as she's attractive. But as long as she doesn't have self confidence (as poor poor Danny wished for), then this is okay.

A night with Gerry, part II: snack cakes

Afterwards, Gerry had a craving for Hostess products because of this project Gerry and I have been working on. Talking to Gerry is a great source of inspiration for many of the stupid things I do. And he often lends his expertise, such as his impressive laminated poster of "A Correlated History of the Earth". If I ever finish that project, that will be a useful thing to have, and this will all make sense.

Anyhow it was decided we'd go to 7-11, a place I am always eager to visit, as it embodies so many nice American principles. The food they sell there always amazes and intrigues me, even if it simultaneously repulses me. Gerry bought some Sno Balls, which he'd never had. I was fortunate enough to find some Golden Cupcakes, one of the few Hostess treats I hadn't yet consumed, although they don't seem to be different than normal cupcakes. Unfortunately, I also discovered that Snickers had come out with yet another variation, called the Snickers Cruncher. What a lame name. If the Snickers name weren't attached to it, it wouldn't sell. And the name is the only thing about it that's related to a Snickers bar. Other than that, it's just a competitor for the Whatchamacallit, which is obviously superior in name and concept.

A night with Gerry, part I: fried fish

Gerry and I were trying to think of where to eat, and had decided on "something Asian" somewhere on Sandy, in honor of Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. We weren't really particular, and it helped us narrow down the choices in the dinner game to the mere twenty or thirty Asian restaurants on that street.

And then it suddenly occurred to me that where we really should go was Skipper's, the apparent Northwest equivalent of Long John Silver's. I'd never been there, and there are precious few people I know that would eat fast food fried fish with me, so I figured I'd seize the moment. Well, it turned out to be a pretty dismal experience, really. I was disappointed with their lack of ComboTek(tm), in which LJS clearly excels. LJS has all manner of fried things you can consume in varying arrangements - fries, hushpuppies, "fry" (the fried batter they use to soak up grease), shrimp, clams, fish, and chicken - the latter two of which are often indistinguishable. Skipper's only had one mega combo that approached this level of diversity. But they did have windows that looked like portholes. No buoys or ship steering wheels or anything like that, though. In fact, it was so stark and gray on the inside that it actually reminded one of a Navy ship, not that I find that to be pleasurable in any way. I also complained that they clearly didn't abide by the admittedly voluntary rules set by the Advisory Committee on Maritime Eateries which state, in part, that bathrooms "shall be labelled as 'Buoys' (for men) and 'Gulls' (for women)". They did, however, have two video games there - Asteroids Deluxe and Pole Position II, apparently the sequels to two very popular games, although the sequels were quite old by this time. This to me says something about Skipper's.

You only wish you got such invitations

I got the following e-mail titled "The Greatest Story Ever Told" from Doug today. It concerns an upcoming movie night. I'm so excited!!

You FOOL! Did you think I was talking about a Bible movie? Or an actual work of greatness? Then you have fallen victim to a Psychlo mind-trick, stupid man-animal! I mean the Greatest SCIENTOLOGIST Story Ever Told:

Battlefield: Earth! (bwah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!!!)

So those of you who don't appreciate the greatness of the truly awful might want to delete this and move on to your next e-mail, but the rest of you are invited for a showing of a movie that fought hard against such garbage as Supernova, Dungeons and Dragons, and Dude, Where's My Car? to triumph as the worst movie of 2000. (If you don't believe me, check out the reviews)

To quote just one encouraging review: "Every so often a movie comes along that is so overwrought, overacted and overwhelmingly inept that it must be seen to be believed." And seen it will be, in the comfort of our living room!

Not only that, our screening will be projector-enabled (at least, that's the plan)! And on DVD (if we can rent it, what with all the popular demand), which contains many special and hidden features.

[...details omitted...]

(You may want to BYOB as well - I think a LOT of alcohol will be required to enjoy this to the fullest.)

Prepare to go PSYCHLO!,
Doug, Hermann, Beeman and Mike (and the ghost of L. Ron Hubbard)

P.S. I know that others have proposed Texácos (the tacos served by Texaco in SE on Grand/MLK) as an appropriate food-stuff for this film. I suspect, however, that my stomach will be sufficiently challenged by the "special effects" and bad makeup and bad dialogue. However, if somebody else wants to coordinate the Texácos order, have at it.

P.P.S. I swear I'll start showing decent movies soon. Maybe.

Fair use, please don't sue

And now it's time again for more answers from Mr. Music Question Guy...

Q: What's this "you too" band I keep hearing about?
A: No, no, It's just the letter "U" and the numeral "2". That's all. Nothing to get litigiously excited about, I mean.

Q: Oh, sorry. Are they touring?
A: Yes.

Q: Um, how much do tickets cost?
A: Well, how much do you have? I mean, it takes a lot of moolah (by which I mean "cash") for them to "sell-out", if you know what I mean. Gone are the simple days of their Popmart tour - of course, that was back when they were still underground and all.

This time, with all that "Beautiful Day" stuff, well, it's just too mainstream, you know? Not at all like their first album, Joshua, which totally rocked. But that was back when they were an American band, before they moved to Europa and became an electronic band.

Hope that helps!

How could rock have misled me so?

"She drives me crazy"... up until now, it seems that this was always a good thing when mentioned in pop songs. Her beauty, the way she talked or walked - those things drove some artist crazy. They made some guy want her, and he was driven mad to be without her.

After last night's phone conversation, though, I am opened to a new interpretation, which is that she simply makes me insane in a way that is not to be desired.

I won't go into the details. Suffice to say that there were different expectations and miscommunications and all sorts of polysyllabic words ending in "ation".

Huff.

Doing it for the children

You know, in attempting to find links for this entry, I perused the official Hostess site for quite a bit, and I have to say I'm rather distressed at what I found there. It's all very nice and flash-y, sure, but it has this creepy undercurrent to it. I can't quite put my finger on it.

But then, many kids' pages are weird or downright insulting.

And why does Hostess' site completely lack for information on Sno Balls? Is it the dearth of bizarrely anthropomorphic spokescakes to champion the cause of this, the unsung gem of the Hostess snack cake line? Or is the Sno Ball really Hostess' secret shame? (Don't believe it - Hostess has no shame.)

Thots on snak kakes

Hostess Sno Balls are kind of disturbing. Sure, this may be obvious to most people just from observation, but I am a scientist and had to truly experience their disturbitude.

It's not that the cakes sound so bad in theory - "coconut and marshmallow covered chocolate cake with creamy filling" - but their execution is, hm... ...See, I'm not sure why the marshmallow has to be outside of the moist, delicious cake. Clearly, the coconut is placed on the outermost layer to keep my fingers from becoming a sticky mess. But when you pick up a Sno Ball off of its cardboard tray, it "gives" in a most disturbing way, all because of the marshmallow. It's not unlike picking up a piece of silicone, really. And, given the hemispherical nature of these cakes, that's not something I really want to think about. I also question the efficacy of the creamy filling in the middle. After biting down through coconut, a quarter-inch of marshmallow and one inch of chocolate cake, am I really going to notice a half-inch of this so-called cream? In fact, I didn't. But then, I don't suppose "why" is a question that the people at Hostess ask themselves very often. For example, Sno Balls, according to the ingredients list, come in the following colors (although all I can ever find is white): blue, green, orange, pink, purple and yellow.

Thoughts on degaussing

Did you know you can degauss your monitor? Many monitors have a button or menu option for doing so. When you press the button, the picture on the screen shakes and makes nice vibrating colors and then calms down after a while. It is often accompanied by The Degaussing Noise. It is, for some odd reason, fun. Like cleaning your fingernails is fun. "There, I've done that now!" or something.

I don't know exactly what degaussing does, but remembering only the slightest amount of basic physics, I'd venture that it has to do with removing accumulated magnetic charge somehow built up in the monitor. This is not surprising, given the number of electrons flying around inside that thing. As you may remember, electrons are non-trivially related to the concept of electric charge, which is non-trivially related to the concept of magnetic charge; oh isn't it all so fun?

Anyhow, I became enamored of degaussing at Fondren library. I'd be sitting there, writing some program, and I'd press the degauss button. It was a good thing to do when pondering some error, or while completely spacing out. I felt like I'd at the very least degaussed my monitor. It gave me the strength to go on.

But you can't degauss too often as the charge doesn't have enough time to build up again to make an appreciable Degaussing Noise. It quickly became apparent that I was not making any forward progress in my computer-aided studying when I found myself pressing the degauss button to receive the hoped-for Degaussing Noise, but instead received nothing. When I pressed the button more often than allowed for a significant amount of charge to build up, I was sunk. I needed to go home.

And that's how the West was won. Or whatever the point of this story was.

Edited for your protection

Upon editorial review, the journal entry I originally had for today has been removed. Not for any offensive content (and certainly not for any banal content, as that would destroy these pages' raison d'être). No, I just decided that the ideas I had written about would be better off posted on another web project of mine, one that does not exist (just like Michael Knight).

Which, for now, is the same as saying I deleted the file and scrubbed the hard disk with a Brillo® pad, since my creative projects are many, and my time for them limited. So forget I even mentioned it, and instead I will entertain you with my thoughts on the degauss function on my computer monitor(s).

My domino falling already

Speaking of women, I have begun to fall for one in the Bay Area. As if this wasn't a familiar tale. I know, I know, I could stand to fall for a girl who lived, say, in the same state as I do. By which I do not refer to the state of self-infatuation or delusion ha ha. But this one does have the curious property of sharing my faith, an attribute that has thus far eluded me in my relationships. And yet, unlike most women I've met who share my faith, she is in some ways like me, as well as being charming, smart, clever, attractive, and, well, all that. She's a Rice girl, too, which only plays into my whole sordid destiny-addled plans of playing into the whole "most Rice people marry Rice people" cliche. Always one to play to the crowds.

But then, it's always women women women.

The domino theory cometh

A friend of mine that I have known since kindergarten is getting married. We have decidedly been closer in our 20 years of communication, but then she used to live 100 feet from my house, and now is in the Navy on the other coast of our great nation, so it is perhaps understandable. Still, this may be the first marriage I consider that of a peer. The first one I feel I should go to, and not just because it'll be fun (but it should be). It boggles my mind, really, the girl who was born five days before me, who suffered rejection with me while attending gifted and talented classes, and who I briefly attempted having feelings for in seventh grade is getting married. Can I be far behind? Well, at the current rate, yes, but it still puts me on guard.

My hair is so bright, I gotta wear shades

I'm still thinking on this whole happy new year, decade, century, etc. topic. And as it's likely only this new year that I'll be able to think of all of those happy time units in parallel, I feel justified. It's somewhat sad that the week and month are considered too small to celebrate in their newness. That would certainly make for a more fun time, if perhaps far too much champagne consumption and noisemaker usage than any nation should endure.

For the new year, I decided I should have new hair. I call it my "hair of the future". I'm not sure that it really is so futuristic, being as I bought the hair dye last year and all. And I'm fairly certain bubble gum pink hair has a history that may be as old as I am. Ah, but why should that stop me? I still think silver round things are futuristic, much as did the people of the 1960's. And besides, only a small part of my hair is pink.

Real science, weird genius

If and when we get a real space station up there someday - and I don't mean this pansy construction that holds a few people and a toilet that passes for our bold vision of mankind's future in space - I hope the first thing they get done in it is some science. I mean real science, not just creating a more tangy Tang.

What I want to see resolved is the question of who would win in a fair fight between an elephant and a narwhal? Because it wouldn't be good science to try that here on earth. Either the narwhal would flop about on dry ground and be trampled, or the elephant would swim but be unable to defend itself against its more agile aquatic adversary. And any sort of compromise involving shallow pools of water doesn't help answer the question any clearer. No, what we need is the great equalizer that is zero gravity. At least, that's what I'd like to see science tackle in this new century. But then, I've got my cell phone and computer. I guess I'll be happy until then.

Short report from the new millenium

I'm tired. My feet and legs are tired from dancing. Even my middle finger is tired from all that snapping - that's how much I danced last night. Egads! As such, I'm feeling rather slothful today. But I suppose that's an okay way to start the new year - recharging myself, storing up energy. It is the future, after all.

So a happy new year (and other larger units of time) to all. I'm taking a nap.