Storchy's Swingin' Hullabalog

My Name is Canon Pixma, and I'm going to....

2011-01-15T21:06:00.017-05:00

My gentleman friend recently expressed the desire to buy a new laptop to replace his 7-year-old relic, but admitted that he had no idea where to start. Knowing almost nothing about computers myself, I of course volunteered to purchase a new computer and peripherals for him and set up a wireless network in his home.

This could easily have resulted in a melodrama that culminated in double suicide, and I was fully aware of that as I pulled the new Dell out of the box. Not wishing to alarm my gentleman friend, however, I put on my most convincing mask of self-confidence (which I suspect closely resembles my mask of blissful imbecility), wiped my sweaty palms on a dog, and started plugging things in and pushing buttons, mostly not at random.

I had the laptop up and running in minutes and even managed to successfully transfer all the files and bookmarks from his old computer to the new one. Next, it was time to set up the router. I was worried about this part, since I let the kid at Radio Shack talk me out of the $40 Netgear router and into the $80 Cisco one, which he said was far easier to install. I left the store feeling a little like this…

…and as I pulled out of the parking lot, I could have sworn I saw the kid high-fiving his coworker as they both collapsed on the floor, hysterically laughing the peach fuzz off their scrotums. This may well have been the case, even, but since setting up the router took all of about thirty seconds, I no longer care.

Now it was time to set up the printer—a Canon Pixma MG5220 wireless all-in-one. I had done a lot of research and felt confident that I had found the most badass printer/copier/scanner on the market for under $200. After carefully removing its protective packaging, I stepped back to admire the fly-hooptiest of wireless all-in-ones.

Damn, baby, it was shiny.

“My name is Canon Pixma, and I love you!”

Baadasssss hella-shiny! I wanted to lick it, but remembering that I was not alone, I settled for running my hand across the top of it instead.

“Oops! Dust! We can’t have that.” I fetched a soft cloth and wiped down all sides of the printer. This inexplicably created more dust. Not always the quickest to catch on, I wiped and I wiped and I wiped some more until my jowls were covered in flecks of foam. When my frenzy subsided, I discovered to my chagrin that the printer had attracted several rooms’ worth of dust, a balloon, most of my hair, and a striped tube sock from the seventies.

Ah, well. So the printer was now more fuzzy than shiny. No big deal. My next task was to make the printer, router, and computer talk to each other without the aid of wires, pulleys, or levers. Not being a leprechaun, I was pretty damn sure I was never going to make this happen. But…

“My name is Canon Pixma, and I love you!”

Hooray! My first test page! Man, I was going to print out so much crap that my carbon footprint would need a clown shoe. Best of all, I could now retire from tech support, crack open some wine, and cook dinner. I went to AllRecipes.com, found a tasty-looking recipe, and hit “Print”...

Nothing.

Checked the printer status. “Document pending”… “Printing” … “Error.”

“Huh.” I canceled the document and tried printing something from Word.

“Document pending”… “Printing” … “Error.”

“My name is Canon Pixma, and I’m not sure I like you.”

“Shit.” I restarted the computer and printed out another test page just fine. I tried printing a Word document…

Hooray! Then I tried printing something off the Internet…

“My name is Canon Pixma…and I think I hate you!”

“Mother...fucker.” I repeated various combinations of the above steps for an hour. At some point my gentleman friend, who doesn’t drink wine, opened a bottle and brought me a glass. I uninstalled the software, reinstalled it, and once again repeated various combinations of the steps above. My gentleman friend, who doesn’t cook, brought me a cheese omelette. It was fluffy, delicious, and worthy of a Cooks Illustrated cover photograph. “Mmph,” I said.

At some point I gave up for the night and drowned my frustrations in liquor and bad TV. The next day, I wasted several more hours of my precious pre-menopausal life trying to get the damn thing to print. On the third day, I got desperate. I called Canon’s tech support hotline and explained my problem.

Nice Lady: I see. I’m sorry that you’re having this problem, and I hope we can resolve it. Have you printed out a test page?

Me: Oh yes, several. They’re very nice. But the machine just hangs up when I try to print off the Internet.

Nice Lady: Have you downloaded the Easy Web Printing software?

Me: I didn’t at first, but I finally did when I got desperate.

Nice Lady: Okay, good. Let’s just double check to make sure that it’s in your system files.

Me: Do I actually need special software with this device in order to print off the Internet?

Nice Lady: Yes, that’s right.

Me: [silence] Oooookay….Yeah, it’s in there. You mean I can’t print off the Internet without this software?

Nice Lady: That’s correct. Okay, let’s try to print a page off the Web.

Me: Okay…hitting print.................nothing. “Error.”

Nice Lady: Hmm. Okay. What browser are you using?

Me: Firefox.

Nice Lady: Ah! It is recommended that this software be used with Internet Explorer. So, let’s try this again with Internet Explorer.

Me: Soooo.......in order to print off the Internet, I need special software and I can only use Internet Explorer?

Nice Lady: Yes, that’s right.

Me: You have got to be shi—…For real?!

Nice Lady: Yes, our software is specifically designed to work with Internet Explorer, and it may not be supported by other browsers.

Me: [exhibiting a nervous twitch] Heh! Heh-heh-heh-heh-heh! Okay, let’s give it a shot….

One hour later, I’m still on the phone with Nice Lady from Canon Tech Support, and we still can’t make the goddamn thing print off the Internet even with rotten, stinkin’ pukehole Internet Explorer. I thanked Nice Lady for all of her patience and help, and I hung up the phone.

I breathed in. I breathed out. Then I spun around and wrestled that shiny, evil, hunk-of-shit son-of-a-bitch Hell beast back into its little Hell box.

“My name is Canon Pixma…and I’m going to kill you!”

2009-02-13T22:27:00.002-05:00

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!!!

2008-10-26T23:15:00.003-05:00

Found this guy in my yard yesterday.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!!!

That is all.

Rollers Show

2008-01-03T12:30:00.004-05:00

“In the future there will be no wars. But there will be . . . ROLLERBALL.”

That’s the tagline from the 1975 sci-fi masterpiece, Rollerball. This film provides what I can only assume is a stunningly accurate glimpse into the distant future -- the year 2018! -- when corporations rule the world, individuality is discouraged, and grown men on roller skates chase a silver ball around in circles and beat the living snot out of each other with spiked leather gloves that appear to have been purchased at Rob Halford’s Fist-O-Rama.

This film was a real eye-opener, let me tell you. I learned many, many things about the future, which I will now attempt to impart as a personal service to you, my endearingly ignorant and culturally starved readers.

In the future . . . sci-fi movies will drag along at a crippled snail’s pace.

In the future . . . James Caan’s mother will carefully lay out his Garanimals for him every morning.

In the future . . . chairs will be much too small to sit in comfortably.

In the future . . . all homes and corporate buildings will look like they were built in the seventies.

In the future . . . an exhumed John Houseman will return to the silver screen and torture fellow cast members with tedious braggadocio about his award-winning role in The Paper Chase.

In the future . . . a nifty font will constantly remind everyone that they are living . . . in the future!

In the future . . . people will have several “Television Sets” in one house!

In the future . . . James Caan will look pretty damn good with his shirt off.

In the future . . . Quincy’s sidekick, Dr. Sam Fujiyama, will have abandoned the medical profession to pursue his lifelong dream of being an equipment strategist for the Houston Rollerball team.

In the future . . . professional athletes will need an equipment strategist to tell them how to use complex technological advancements such as “Shin Guards,” “Elbow Pads,” and “Football Helmets.”

In the future . . . James Caan will wear pants so tight that his crotch will look like a relief map of the Brazilian Highlands.

In the future . . . all grown men -- even James Caan -- will still look like total douche bags on roller skates.

Ah, but I don’t want to give away the whole film. I strongly encourage every one of you to watch this flaming turd on wheels so that you too can experience your own thrilling cinematic journey . . . into the future!

Dark Clothes Horse

2007-11-10T09:35:00.000-05:00

I'm about to do a load of darks, and the bottle of detergent I just bought tells me to pour its dark blue liquid up to the second line of this cup.

Idiots run the world.

Lebowski at Top of Stairs

2007-09-30T11:25:00.000-05:00

I've always kind of liked this one.

I guess there's probably some sort of art snob name for this exercise, but I just call it a-picture-of-my-dog-that-I-drew-without-looking-at-the-paper- or-lifting-my-pencil-off-the-page. Come to think of it, the art snob name might have been a bit more practical. In all honesty, I think I ended up lifting my pencil off the page once. I'm not Pablo friggin' Picasso, after all.

Somebody Wind Me Up

2007-09-30T10:49:00.000-05:00

I've got nothing to say.

I have drawn some rather nice chattering teeth, though. Enjoy.

I'm too Stupid to Use My Own Scanner

2007-08-15T16:31:00.001-05:00

I recently figured out how to scan my drawings in a way that doesn't make them look like they've been run through a defective matter transmitter. It only took me about three years to do this, and then it was only because my friend Susan, who knows about these things, told me how.

In my defense, the process is completely counterintuitive. When I fire up the old Canon, it asks me what type of material I want to scan. I'd always chosen the "black and white line art" option, because, 1.) my drawings are in black and white, and, 2.) they are mostly made up of lines. It seems that this little test is precisely how Canon separates the smart kids from the ass-backward stupid ones. When I explained to my friend how I'd been scanning my drawings in the past, she responded "Oh, no. Don't use that line art setting. Scan your drawings as color photos." Well, that was just about the dumbest thing I'd ever heard and I wondered vaguely whether Susan had taken to hitting the sauce in the afternoon. I was desperate enough to give it a shot, however, and I'll be darned if she wasn't right.

That there's an exercise I did for a Drawing 1 class I took last fall. (Clicking on the picture will bring up a much larger version, by the way.) The assignment was to stuff a bunch of miscellaneous crap in a shoe box and draw it. There were slots in the sides of the box so some of the stuff was sticking out the side. The depth of the box is not readily apparent in this scan, since my scanner is smaller than the actual drawing and there were no 8-year-olds around to show me how to use Canon's foolproof "stitch assist" feature.

If Susan looks closely, she will notice a very poor rendering of a very nice piece of pottery that she made for me many years ago.

Wawa, You've Given Me a Wah-wah

2007-08-13T11:40:00.000-05:00

Take a good look at this picture. What do you see?

“A gas station,” you say? “A convenience store,” you say? Apparently, only the idiot offspring of Mr. Magoo are reading my blog today. Hell, anyone with one good eye and a metal plate in his head would recognize the above Wawa establishment as an oasis of gourmet specialty items for weary travelers with the most highly refined of palates.

Okay, I can tell that you need me to spell this out for you. The below advertisement is proof that my assessment of the above photo is entirely accurate.

Now do you believe me? For those of you not familiar with this gourmet taste treat, “ciabatta” is the Italian word for “slipper” and is used to describe a type of bread with a slightly wrinkled, crisp crust and delightfully airy center. While ciabatta loaves are largely shapeless, they often have a bit of a pointy end that resembles the toe of a lady’s slipper. Thus the name. Here is a ciabatta loaf that I baked recently.

As this was my first attempt at ciabatta, it resembles something more of a circus geek’s clubfoot than the shoe of a dainty Italian maiden, but you get the idea.

The observant reader may notice that Wawa’s ciabatta looks nothing like the traditional Italian loaf I’ve just described. For one thing, it is split down the center like a loaf of Sara Lee* split-top bread. For another, it has a distinct shape not unlike that of a weenie bun suffering from gastric bloat. In fact, it would seem that the ciabatta’s comparative pallor is the only quality that sets it apart from Wawa’s standard hoagie roll.

We should all congratulate the Wawa on its impressive display of inventive epicureanism. It takes a tanker truck full of balls to shatter a stale, centuries-old bread baking tradition in effort to create a ground-breaking new taste sensation that will satisfy no one and everyone simultaneously.

In its infinite wisdom, Wawa realized that not every one of its potential customers is a culinary expert. There were bound to be a few poor slobs stumbling into Wawa who wouldn't know a boulangerie from a pair of crotchless underpants. So, Wawa was kind enough to lend these folks a guiding hand by providing a beverage suggestion that would compliment the ciabatta’s flavor rather than overpower the complexity of its yeasty wang.

Thanks to Wawa, culinary rubes now know that a fountain beverage the size of an oil drum provides the best accompaniment to ciabatta, and that pairing ciabatta with an ICEE is nothing shy of gauche.

Since Wawa’s business practices had so deeply moved me, I decided to visit the company’s website so I could learn all there is to know about this Gourmet Good Citizen. I was thrilled to find that Wawa has posted its mission statement online for all to see. Among the many high standards that the company strives to uphold, I found these to be the most poignant and relevant to its obvious devotion to artisan bread baking:

Our Core Purpose. . .
To Simplify Our Customers’ Daily Lives

Our Core Values. . .
Delight People
Embrace Change

I, for one, am delighted by how much simpler my life has become due to Wawa’s commitment to embracing change. Gone are the days I once spent toiling in the kitchen, kneading bread by hand while a hot oven singed my sagging derriere. I’m off to the Wawa to git me some of that $3.99 ciabatta action. Hot-damn!

* Sara Lee Food and Beverage, incidentally, has just recalled several of its whole wheat bread products because they “might” contain metal fragments. While it’s true that nobody doesn’t like Sara Lee, apparently there is at least one Nitpicky Dick out there who doesn’t like metal shavings in his whole wheat.

Beach Baby

2007-08-12T19:21:00.000-05:00

I spent some time at the beach last week. It was a very nice beach, with lots of sand and water and colorful sailboats. It was very sunny and there were lots of pretty umbrellas to keep the sun from frying the crap out of all the nice people who were on the beach. Hundreds of people, there were. The place was crawling with them. Oh, how I looked forward to taking nice pictures of all the nice people and things I saw at the nice beach. So, what do I do instead?

Sigh.

Well, it's a good thing I took all those photos when I was in Manhattan last winter, or folks might begin to think I'm some sort of recluse with a mental problem.

http://extrastorchy.blogspot.com/2007/01/i-am-anti-weegee.html

What's that you say? There are no people in any of those photos either?

Crap.

Props to Me!

2007-06-07T12:57:00.000-05:00

Having come to fully appreciate the genius that is Storchy's Swingin' Hullaba-log, my friend Chuck (shown here in his natural habitat). . .

Chuck

. . . was inspired to write a poem about it. I shall post it here for all to enjoy.

Storchy Street
by Rod McKuen

Oh, Storchy Street is a magical place
where ravenous insects bite off your face
And Arbor Day lasts all the year 'round
And toast comes up thru' a hole in the ground.
It's just at the end of Daisy Dog Road
Come along with me, and thence shall we go!
We'll eat quail eggs from a can, with a spoon
'til our big blue bellies turn round as the moon!
Then we'll dance to the Bee Gees and shout "Holy
Balls!"
'Til Sweet Lizzie Borden puts an end to us all.

Ain't that a beaut? I weep every time I read it.

Would that I had the time to spend gushing about Chuck's many excellent qualities. In the interest of brevity, however, I will just point out that, 1.) Chuck and Rod McKuen are actually the same person (you heard it here first!), and, 2.) Chuck is a fan of Terry Anderson and the Olympic Ass-Kickin Team.

Those two things alone make Chuck cooler than Elvis. Hell . . . props to Chuck, too!

Mmph.

2007-06-06T10:15:00.000-05:00

Today I had to get up at 5:30 AM to make it to a 7:30 trigonometry test. Do you know what else is up at 5:30 in the morning? The fucking moon, that's what.

I'm going back to bed.

12 Things I Learned From An Evening of Watching "The Kids Are Alright" and Led Zep's "How the West Was Won" Back-To-Back

2007-06-03T22:17:00.000-05:00

1. Keith Moon was by far the coolest member of The Who.

2. Keith Moon and John Bonham were both crazy-phenomenal drummers. If I had to choose between them, though, I'd pick John Bonham. Keith Moon's constant reliance on cymbal crashing makes him a tad more busy than I like, though his style was an integral part of The Who's sound. There's a real art to Bonham's instinct to keep it simple. What he chooses not to play is just as important as what he plays.

3. Les Pauls are wonderful guitars that really shouldn't oughta be smashed.

4. Roger Daltrey and Robert Plant both shopped at at Vulgar Trouser World.

5. Roger Daltrey wore Garanimals shirts, but Robert Plant wore his mum's blouses.

6. Roger Daltrey and Robert Plant are both equally annoying, yet equally necessary.

7. At times, both Roger Daltrey and John Paul Jones wore outfits frightfully similar to 1970s ladies' office fashions that were inspired by "Little House on the Prairie".

8. Pete Townshend's guitar playing seems cute and amusing compared to that of Jimmy Page.

9. Led Zeppelin's lyrics are best ignored. The Who's lyrics, on the other hand, could be quite pithy on occasion.

10. Jimmy Page had fabulous taste in footwear.

11. The young Robert Plant was really just a big nerd who liked Tolkien way too much. If Led Zeppelin had formed in the '70s instead of the '60s, all of their songs would've been about Star Wars.

12. I'd like The Who a whole lot more if they had broken up in 1968.

Blow It Out Your Ass, Kid.

2007-06-02T12:26:00.000-05:00

Jeez, you’d think this poor bastard would’ve taken his aversion to play into consideration prior to choosing a career as a giant toy. A little vocational counseling would do him a world of good, as he's clearly not a hopeless case. For example, his passive-aggressive smile would be well suited to a career as a Bergdorf Goodman retail sales representative.

"I'm sorry, sir, but I'm afraid your credit card has been declined."

And his 5'5" height would make him a shoe-in as a jockey, although he'd have to work on his flexibility some. Of course, that cold, hard stare could set him up for a highly successful career in interrogation, or perhaps hypnotism.

"Resistance is futile!"

It pains me to see people wasting their lives in dead-end jobs. The world is your oyster, little man. Follow your dreams.

National Arbor Day Foundation Helps Planet by Distributing Recycled Paper Products Like There’s No Friggin’ Tomorrow

2007-05-31T20:30:00.004-05:00

Yesterday I received the following solicitation from the National Arbor Day Foundation:

Note the words “STATEMENT ENCLOSED” and the block of X-ray-specs-proof squiggles that make the envelope appear all official-like. Now, I am not a member of the National Arbor Day Foundation (nor have I ever been), but my knee-jerk reaction to the “STATEMENT ENCLOSED” label was to wonder whether some identity-thieving jackass was running up my charge account with membership dues for do-goodery organizations such as this one. Upon examining the STATEMENT that was indeed ENCLOSED, I noticed that I, Storchy, was listed as a “Member,” and that the organization wanted me (a lousy deadbeat member, apparently) to cough up my “Annual Membership Dues” of $10. Having dismissed my initial identity theft theory as asinine, I fretted that I might in fact have purchased a National Arbor Day Foundation membership the previous year, after getting shit-faced on Mad Dog at my annual Arbor Day cookout and tire-burning party. I get a little emotional at those things, especially when I’m hammered.

However, I forgot my worries once I explored the contents of the envelope.

Holy balls! There’s enough recycled paper in that pile to constipate a large goatherd. It seems the National Arbor Day Foundation wishes to show its gratitude for my nonexistent support by showering me with the following gifts:

1.) Two Give-a-Tree greeting cards, with envelopes
2.) An 11 x 17 Rainforest Rescue Wall Calendar
3.) A book about planting and caring for trees
4.) Return address labels
5.) A bimonthly newsletter

A recycled paper product, another recycled paper product, yet another recycled paper product, a sticky recycled paper product, and a bimonthly recycled paper product. But wait! There’s more!

6.) A dozen 10-ounce bags (recycled paper bags, presumably) of their Arbor Day Specialty Coffee “that matures slowly in the shade of tall rain forest trees . . . and is produced without burning the forest to grow sun-loving commercial coffee.”

A nice idea on the surface, granted. However, I suspect the description neglects to mention that Arbor Day Specialty Coffee trees are fertilized with the freshly squeezed blood of baby lemurs, and the coffee tastes like bonobo ass with a hint of powdery mildew.

As part of my member benefits, the swell folks of the National Arbor Day Foundation will plant two trees for me free of charge. They kind of have to, really. When the world runs out of recycled paper, the National Arbor Day Foundation will need to use those trees to make more paper products that will eventually be recycled and distributed across the globe in bulk mail.

Ah, but I kid the National Arbor Day Foundation. Truth is, I’m glad I received this solicitation from such a fine, fine organization. It has taught me a great deal about protecting our environment.

Props to Donald Trump!

2007-05-30T11:13:00.000-05:00

Donald Trump is a big, important business tycoon. He is very busy. I am not a big, important business tycoon. I am not as busy as Donald Trump.

The View is a show on television. It is on during the day when most people work. It is a show for ladies. I am a lady. Donald Trump is not a lady. He is a man. A very, very busy man, who runs casinos and stars in his own TV show and has affairs and builds shiny, pink marble skyscrapers that blot out the sun. So busy.

I have only watched The View once for about ten minutes. It was because Little Richard was on. He played a song and then he showed us everything that was in his makeup bag. Oh, Little Richard, you loveable freak show. There were many ladies on the program, but I could not tell you who they were except for Barbara Walters, who has been on television since the days when TVs only had one channel and were powered by raw potatoes.

Today, Donald Trump was on CNN. He was talking about The View. He knew the names of all the ladies on The View. He knew about each lady’s personality foibles. He knew that one of the ladies had been in a relationship for twenty-five years. He knew details about a disagreement that two of the ladies had recently.

I can only name two of the ladies who are currently on The View. One of them is Barbara Walters. The other is Rosie O’Donnell. I only know that Rosie O'Donnell is on The View because Donald Trump said so on the TV a few weeks ago. Plus, you can hear her yelling even when the TV is off and your head is in a bucket of wet sand. I do not know anything about any of the ladies’ private lives. There are many, many things that I do not know about The View.

But Donald Trump knows everything about The View even though he is very busy and is not a lady. It is nice that he can still find the time to watch a television program he enjoys. If I were a big, important business tycoon and I had a favorite TV show, I would also want to tell the world about it on CNN. MSNBC and Fox, too.

Thank you, Donald Trump, for keeping me abreast of what’s happening on a TV show that I can’t seem to find time to watch. You go, girl!

Excess Body Fat is Pissing on My Good Time

2007-05-29T11:22:00.000-05:00

No, that isn’t Mars. The above is a satellite photo of my gut. A team of NASA scientists has gleefully classified my gut as the newest dwarf planet in our solar system. Not just another one of those puny, half-assed Category-3 “small solar-system bodies,” Storchygut (as NASA has dubbed the new dwarf planet) is in orbit around the sun and has enough self-gravity to maintain its nearly round shape. The new dwarf planet even has its own moon, which was mercifully omitted from the above photo.

In light of my gut’s new dwarf planet status, I can no longer ignore the fact that I’ve gained several hundred pounds over the winter. As I sit here, the seams of last year’s summer clothes are stretched so tightly around my torso that my own mother would readily mistake me for the Michelin Man. Over the past few months, part of me (the part of me that likes to eat, which is most of me)has been tickled by a sort of morbid curiosity every time I step on the scale and find that I’ve gained another couple of pounds. We have little conversations, that part of me and I:

ME: [steps on scale] HO-ly CRAP!
THE PART OF ME THAT LIKES TO EAT: Wowee! Heh-heh!
ME: [steps off the scale and back on again, peering over her gut] Shit! . . . . Shit! Shit! Shit!
TPOMTLTE: HOO-doggie! Now, ain’t that somethin’?
ME: But . . . I . . . how?
TPOMTLTE: Eh. What difference does it make? Hey, do you want a bacon sandwich?
ME: Hell, yeah.

So, after a months-long hiatus, I got back on the exercise wagon. Since I do not wish to become the target of my neighbors' ridicule, I generally do all of my exercising after dark. I load up my iPod and walk/run (mostly walk) until I get tired, which on a good day is usually around the 5-mile mark. However, because I’m in the worst shape of my whole life, I don’t have good days just yet. In fact, I currently have all the aerobic stamina of septuagenarian coal miner (which might actually be a slight overestimation of my abilities).

This past Saturday, on my maiden voyage, I strapped on the wrist weights and walked a little over two and a half miles before I started getting shin splints and a knot in my shoulder. I’d forgotten the part about muscles and the stretching of them, you see. I woke up on Sunday feeling like I’d been bludgeoned repeatedly with a sack full of grapefruits, but that did not deter me from taking another walk that evening. Apparently, once I finally manage to peel my dusty old carcass off the couch, I’m practically bionic. So, Sunday night I was feeling great. It was a beautiful night, I had walked half a mile, and a particularly good NRBQ song (“Green Lights”) that popped up on the iPod had spurred me into a sprint. Whee! But, then . . .bzZZzzzzZZT! THWACK! Something flew straight into the corner of my eye and stuck there. I couldn’t exactly see what it was, the thing being in my eye and all, but the telltale buzzing and rapid-fire stinging that occurred during my desperate attempts to swat it away have lead me to positively identify the perpetrator:

What a stroke of luck it was that the offender’s mug shot was on file due to his previous criminal record. The result of this dipteran brute’s handiwork is shown below.

Note the painful, debilitating swelling and redness just below the tear duct area. Tragic.

Your average person would probably come away from such a traumatic experience having learned rudimentary lessons like these:

1.) There are a lot of bugs out at night.
2.) When there are a lot of bugs out, it’s maybe not the best time to run.
3.) If nighttime running is necessary, maybe some kind of eye protection would be nice.

While the validity of these conclusions is arguable, I feel they are frightfully shortsighted. Having completed nearly two years of part-time study at Durham Technical Community College, my insight into such matters is far more fine-tuned and forward-thinking than that of Joe Q. Schlub’s. Therefore, it is my duty to share the valuable life lessons that I, Storchy, have gleaned from this experience so that others may benefit from them as well. These lessons are as follows (ahem):

1.) Giant insects are after me (and perhaps all of us).
2.) Giant insects want to eat your head, and they will, too, unless their god calls them away suddenly, in which case they will just leave a big sting-y mark under your eye that seems really conspicuous to you even though nobody else probably notices it.
3.) Giant insects do not want me (and perhaps all of us) to exercise.
4.) Exercise must be avoided at all costs or giant insects will eat your head, and what’s the point of having a washboard stomach and buttcheeks like two ripe cantaloupes if you don’t have a head? (Hint: No point. No point at all.)

Be safe out there, people.

Mountains Rock

2007-05-22T14:24:00.000-05:00

Just spent a long weekend in the mountains of western North Carolina. I can't write worth a damn these days, but my shutter button finger still works. Apparently, its muscles are the rare few in my body that have not entirely atrophied due to lack of physical activity. It's amazing, really, that I am still able to hold my head upright. Ah, but I digress. Behold . . . the mountains.

Kind of purty, ain't they?

A Note to Those of You With Mothers

2007-05-12T15:48:00.000-05:00

Lizzie Borden took an axe
And gave her mother forty whacks.
And when she saw what she had done,
She gave her father forty-one.

For those of you who feel a bit challenged when it comes to gift giving, I'd just like to point out to that "forty whacks" is never an appropriate Mother's Day gift. No, not even for the mother who has everything. Consider instead a nice pair of Isotoner slippers, or a coffee mug with your photo on it, or some leather chaps, or an economy-sized container of Metamucil, or a set of metric socket wrenches. Any one of these things would be a far better gift for Mom than forty whacks. Trust me on this one.

Stay tuned for my installment on Father's Day gift giving.

She's Still in School . . . .

2007-03-04T11:51:00.000-05:00

Ah, yes. . . . a glimpse back at the days when Storchy had nothing better to do than to take photos of her feet next to random household objects. But those days are gone, now, as I find myself sloshing about in the cesspool that is midterm season. I’m not sure what I was thinking when I decided two years ago enroll in the university transfer program at the local community college, but I now know better than to make decisions like that when I’m drunk.

Since I don’t have a lot of time to fool around today, I’ll just update you on a couple of things:

1.) Trigonometry blows. I don’t know what Poindexter at UNC decided to make trig a requirement for all liberal arts majors, but it was obviously someone who strangles bunnies and slaps the elderly just for shits and giggles. I’m majoring in history, not science. The only time I’ll ever use information about sine waves again is during the opening credits of Outer Limits reruns.

2.) I recently wrote this sentence for a midterm paper in my American lit class:

“By repeatedly using realism to shatter romantic notions in The Awakening, Kate Chopin parallels the manner in which realistic literature thrust aside romanticism in the late 19th century.”

When I say things like this, I don’t really mean them. I pulled every word of that sentence out of my ass. I will continue to write wretched drivel like this as long as my instructor rewards me for doing so. This, I feel, is teaching me the wrong lesson.

3.) I love nuts. Especially pecans and cashews.

4.) I love the Bee Gees. Especially the late-'60s albums.

5.) Lately, when I'm not working or studying, I am usually listening to the Bee Gees with my mouth full of nuts.

Oi! Check Out Me Bloomin' Orchid!

2007-02-12T12:40:00.000-05:00

Darn thing looks like a stick with flippers 9 months out of the year, but then it goes and does this . . . .

Miracle on Storchy Street

2007-02-10T13:54:00.000-05:00

I have some very good news. I, Storchy, have found the answer to the world’s hunger problem. “How?” you may ask.

Go on . . . . ask.

Excellent question. Well, it’s like this, see? Me and my two dogs, Daisy and Lebowski (shown below), take regular constitutionals up and down Storchy Street.

Lebowski is the indignant-looking one, and Daisy is the pretty one who looks a little D-U-M.

So, I’m out with Daisy last Tuesday afternoon when she trots onto my neighbor’s lawn, sticks her nose deep into some hole, and drags a mystery item out of it. I am well familiar with such occurrences, so I ready myself for the worst. Is it a cat turd? Is it a dead vole? Is it one of those tiny, crunchy gray lobster-looking things that are sometimes for eating and sometimes for rolling in? Panic ensues as I envision myself having to fish a mouse carcass out of Daisy’s clenched teeth with my bare hands. “Drop! Drop!” I yell. As do this, I notice with dismay that I really do sound like a chihuahua when I shout, just like my good friend Jeff pointed out about fifteen years ago at the Los Lobos show, the bastard.

“Drop!” I yell again, while knocking on the top of Daisy’s bowling-pin-shaped head. Something rattles between her eyes, like a BB in a tin can. Having at last processed the command, her ears flatten grudgingly. Her jaw goes slack, and out falls . . .

toast.

It's a perfectly good piece of toast, too -- lightly golden brown with nary a hint of char. Why, I almost want to pick it up and eat it myself. But, since consistency is the key to dog training, I stand my ground and pull Daisy down the block while trying to ignore the “But. . . but . . .” look in her eyes and the growl of my own stomach.

A day passes and this time I’m out walking Lebowski. I’ve got some Randy Newman going on the iPod and I’m singing along, “We’re reeeeed-necks, we’re reeeeeed-necks . . . don’t know our ass from a hole in the ground . . . .” I suddenly remember that Storchy Street is located well below the Mason-Dixon Line, and make a mental note to avoid singing that song aloud anymore, at least not where anyone can hear me. Just then I turn around and see that Lebowski, with his back to me, is sticking his head into a hole in my neighbor’s lawn. Crap. Having forgotten about the toast incident, I truly think that he has found actual crap and I yell, “Drop! Drop!”

Lebowski never drops, though. He never chews, either; he swallows everything whole like a bulimic hyena, so I have to be quick. As I run up behind him his head swings around and I expect to see the dangling legs of a dead frog slapping him in the face. What I see instead, however, is toast -- a golden wheat-bread slice that has been uniformly browned to perfection.

“What the fuck?” I say, abandoning Southern etiquette entirely. I yank the toast out of Lebowski’s mouth and fling it far into the woods. Or at least I attempt to. Apparently there’s a good reason why the outer hulls of aeroplanes and rocketships are not fashioned of toast.

The rest of our walk is uneventful, but for the fact that I’ve begun to sing Todd Rundgren’s song “Slut,” replacing the word “slut” with “toast.”

“T-O-A-S-T! You may be some toast, but you look good to me . . . .”

Not a perfect fit, but it worked well in a pinch with a forced syllable squeezed in here and there. I defy you to get that song out of your head now.

Well, I surely thought I’d seen the end of the Lawn Toast at that point, but later that day Daisy pulled some more of the stuff out of that same damn hole. At this point, it became obvious that the Lawn Toast Hole was a modern day miracle -- a small rift in the space-time continuum that produced an endless supply of delightfully crispy, golden-brown toast.

After all, it certainly wasn’t the first time a miracle had presented itself in toasted form.

The more I think of it, the more obvious it seems that the Miraculous Lawn Toast Hole is Version 2.0 of the Miracle of the Virgin Mary Cheese Sandwich.

It’s just like that old saying: “If you give a man a Virgin Mary Cheese Sandwich, you'll feed him for a day. But if you guide a man to the Miraculous Lawn Toast Hole, you'll feed him for life.”

Quail Eggs

2007-01-30T13:36:00.000-05:00

One does not want to eat quail eggs straight out of a can.

I'm not sure when or how one does want to eat quail eggs. But straight out of a can ain't it.

That is all . . . .

Area Woman Declares Durham Fire and Rescue Worker a Fire Hazard

2007-01-18T13:18:00.000-05:00

An area woman had planned to make a quick stop at the North Pointe Kroger grocery store for a few winter storm necessities on Wednesday, when she encountered an unexpected obstacle. The woman, who would only give the name “Storchy,” claimed that a Durham fire and rescue worker of unknown identity insisted on getting in her way everywhere she went.

“At first I thought he was deliberately harassing me,” said Storchy. “But then I realized that he just had his head up his ass.”

Storchy, 36, first encountered the fire and rescue worker in the soup aisle. “He was just standing there in the middle of the aisle, staring at the top shelf with his mouth hanging open. Then he calls out to his buddy, he says, ‘Hey, where’s the chicken noodle at?’” said Storchy.

“If he’d been any closer to that chicken noodle it would have poked him in the eye,” Storchy added.

Storchy attempted to walk past the fire and rescue worker, but could not. “He just kept wandering from one side of the aisle to the other, and he was swinging his arms all over the place,” Storchy said. “I was like, what is with this guy?”

Storchy said that she gave up trying to walk around the fire and rescue worker, and instead walked back down the aisle the way she had come.

“It took longer to get to the pickles that way, but I figured it was faster than waiting for the guy to realize that he wasn’t the only person in the store.”

Storchy had a near miss with the fire and rescue worker in the baking/spice aisle. “I’d just started walking down there when I saw the guy wandering around in circles near the cupcake sprinkles,” Storchy said. “I decided I didn’t need popcorn salt that bad and I high-tailed it on out of there.”

Storchy later collided with the fire and rescue worker when she turned down the cereal aisle. “You know how the aisles sort of have those traffic flow lanes like when you’re driving? Except in the grocery store you can’t see them but you know they’re there, right? Well, he was coming down the up side when I came around the corner and we just smacked right into each other,” Storchy said. “There was no way I could have avoided him.”

Several witnesses at the scene of the collision confirmed that the fire and rescue worker was entirely at fault.

Storchy later encountered the fire and rescue worker in the bread aisle. “I just wanted to grab some hot dog buns and go home. But there the guy was in the bread aisle,” Storchy said. “I thought about leaving the store right then, but I really needed those buns.”

Storchy tried to predict where the fire and rescue worker might walk next, but said it was impossible. “He just kept picking up random loaves of bread and squeezing them,” Storchy said. “He’d put a loaf of wheat bread in his basket, and then a few seconds later he’d put it back and grab rye instead.”

Storchy added, “He sniffed one of them. I don’t know what in the hell that was all about.”

At this point, Storchy decided she’d had enough. “I just remember saying, ‘Christ, this guy’s a fire hazard,’” Storchy said. “It was out of my mouth before I knew it.”

When asked whether she had the authority to declare someone a fire hazard, Storchy admitted that she did not.

“I felt so powerless. I guess I just panicked,” Storchy said. “I just wanted to get my hot dog buns and go home, you know? Something had to be done.”

“Anyhow, I don’t think anyone heard me,” Storchy added.

The Durham fire and rescue worker could not be located for comment.

I Am the Anti-Weegee

2007-01-05T20:53:00.001-05:00

After spending a week knocking around Manhattan during the holidays, I came home to discover that almost none of the photos I took have any people in them. How in the hell does that happen? And what does that say about me? On second thought, never mind. I don’t want to know.

My relationship with NYC has always been a complicated one. If I’d taken up photography during the two and a half years that I’d lived in the city, I suspect that most of my photos would’ve featured hobos, crack whores, and suckers like this . . .

But if the latest batch of photos is any measure of my nostalgia level for my former home, it seems that a few years of living in the comparatively reasonable setting of Durham, NC have made me go all warm and fuzzy on New York City in retrospect. Heck, if anyone had told me eight years ago that I’d ever get all misty about NYC, I’d have told them that they were flat-out weasel-nuts.

Moving from my hometown of Milwaukee to NYC was a transition that was tantamount to whiplash. To me, life in New York seemed completely ass-backwards. Roaches were enormous, lived right in your house, and many folks acted as if they had a perfect right to be there. People insisted on calling them “water bugs” as if they were fat, chortling babies in bumble bee suits awaiting a Kodak moment in a wading pool. In contrast to the giant roaches were the shoebox-sized grocery stores, which were dirty and stank of armpits and rotten potatoes. Occasionally fresh produce from one of these stores would reveal unexpected bonuses, like the praying mantis that once rose up from a package of cilantro and began prancing about my cutting board like a Fosse dancer. Its tiny head was cocked coyly to one side and became even more so when I bashed it in with a meat hammer. This was an action that I immediately regretted, and one that was indicative of how big city life affected me. I’m not the type of person who kills tiny creatures just for shits and giggles. Since I’ve lived in North Carolina, I’ve cupped many a moth in my bare hands and shuttled it outside, away from the evil eye of my living room lamp. But, as Jackie Wilson once sang, “There’s no pity in the Naked City” and some poor bastards just have to learn that lesson the hard way.

The worst part about living in the city was that everything just seemed so damned complicated. There were no quick errands. If I wanted to shop for dinner, I had to walk 20 minutes to Astoria’s shopping district and spend two hours muscling my way through several different establishments (grocer, butcher, bakery, produce market, maybe another produce market if the first one didn’t have what I needed). Then there was another 20-minute walk back home with fifteen pounds of groceries. And laundry? Don’t get me started. Since the laundromat closest to my apartment consistently dirtied my clothes rather than cleaned them, I had to drag them to the laundromat eight blocks away and waste half a day sitting there, plugging quarters into machines that would either tie my delicates into sailor’s knots or incinerate them.

To the city’s credit, I found New York residents surprisingly friendly and helpful unless they were getting paid to be so. I had more than my share of pleasant conversations with folks on the subway platform or in grocery lines. All bets are off when New Yorkers are on the move, though. I was walking down Madison Avenue at rush hour once when someone bumped into me pretty hard from behind. I stumbled forward and accidentally caught the back of some woman’s shoe with my foot. The woman was in her late sixties, and obviously well-to-do. I apologized profusely to which she responded, “Why don’t you watch where you’re going, you idiot.” The Milwaukee Me probably would’ve slunk off into a dark alley and burst into tears, but new-improved New York Me replied, “Well, f*ck it -- I’m not sorry, you crazy old bat.” It’s a good thing there wasn’t a meat hammer handy, or I might’ve bashed her on the head with it.

But I spent this past week bopping around New York with the sugary optimism of a teenage girl who goes to see Christian rock bands for fun. When I walked down a block that smelled of urine and rotting trash, I grinned and said, “Ah, yes! That’s the New York I remember.” I turned on the shower to find that there was no hot water for the second morning in a row. “Ha! Good ol’ New York livin’,” I said, as I splashed ice-cold water from the sink onto my shivering torso. I made eye contact with homeless people. I accepted fliers from giant hot dogs on street corners. I sat right next to the stinky man on the train and didn’t budge.

New York City, I discovered, is quite a wonderful place when you know you don’t have to stay there. It’s kind of pretty, even.

Too Much Fancy Book-Larnin'

2006-12-11T07:08:00.000-05:00

Just a heads up that I'll have nothing to say until I take my final exams on Wednesday. Here's a picture of Morey Amsterdam to keep you occupied until then.

And Brains.

Picture book / Pictures of yourself / Taken by yourself / A short time ago . . .

2006-11-25T16:40:00.000-05:00

I have to do this self-portrait project for an art class I'm taking. I'm supposed to take a bunch of photos of myself, make a collage out of 'em, then draw the whole damn thing. After fooling around with the camera all day, I'm beginning to suspect that I'll be wearing Depends before I finish this project.

Ever tried taking a picture of yourself? Well, don't, because it's damn near impossible and you'll waste half your damn day.

Besides that, you'll wind up looking like a sociopath.

A Very Cold War Thanksgiving

2006-11-23T11:39:00.000-05:00

This Thanksgiving Day message has been heartily approved by the current administration. Enjoy.

View the 12-minute short film short here:

Day of Thanksgiving (1951) 256 KB stream

If the 256 kb stream doesn't work, you can be thankful for the page below, which provides you with many other viewing options:

A Day of Thanksgiving (1951) download options

Note that the oldest boy, Dick Johnson, does not mention that he is thankful for being teased mercilessly every day of his life.

Have a safe and happy holiday, all. And to those of you who are not celebrating Thanksgiving today . . . well . . . just carry on.

Another One Bites the Dust

2006-11-15T21:11:00.000-05:00

One day you turn around and it's summer
Next day you turn around and it's fall
And the springs and the winters of a lifetime
Whatever happened to them all?

-- from “September of My Years” by Frank Sinatra

*****************************************

There’s this blue sundress I’ve had for over ten years now. I think I was around 24 when I bought it. I’d say it’s the oldest article of clothing I own, were it not for the fact that there’s probably a ratty pair of underpants in the back of a drawer somewhere that’s been waiting around for twenty years just to prove me wrong. Ratty underpants have nothing better to do, after all, and if there’s one lesson I’ve learned over the past 36 years, it’s that one should never allow underpants to gain the upper hand in life.

So anyway, at the risk of sounding all girly and crap, I really dig this sundress. But as I turn another year older today, I can’t help but suspect that sometime during the upcoming year (or maybe the next), I’ll put on this dress and discover to my horror that it makes me look like this . . .

Guess I’ll have to keep you posted.

*****************************************

The man in the looking glass, who can he be?
The man in the looking glass, can he possibly be me?
Where's our young Romeo, the lad who used to sigh?
Who's the middle-aged lothario with a twinkle in his eye?
He seems so much wiser now, less lonely but then
Could be he's only pretending again
Man in the looking glass, smiling away, how's your sacroiliac today?

--from “The Man in the Looking Glass” by Frank Sinatra

Public Notice to All Dogs in My House

2006-11-09T12:46:00.000-05:00

It is unacceptable to wake the Master at 6 AM by snorting and chuffing in a vexatious manner.

When snorting and chuffing fail to wake the Master, it is equally unacceptable to attempt to raise the Master by licking the floor covering until gagging ensues. The Master knows that you are just being a devious little bastard and are not really choking on carpet fuzz.

When the Little Dog’s snorting, chuffing and gagging fail to wake the Master, it is unacceptable for the Big Dog to dance around the bed whimpering and pounding her tail on the box spring like a Taiko drummer on Bennies.

Upon raising the Master with your desperate snorting, chuffing, gagging and drumming, it is unnecessary to follow the Master into the bathroom and sit two inches away while wearing the hard stare of a prison warden. The Master has never forgotten to take you outside or feed you. The Master has no logical motivation to climb out a second-story window in effort to avoid taking you outside or feeding you. Furthermore, the Master is a little pee-shy.

Upon leading the Master outside into the freezing cold, it is unacceptable to ignore the business at hand in favor of staring intently down the street as if anticipating an Apache ambush. This is not a John Ford film. It is a time when you are robbing the Master of precious sleep with your Rin Tin Tin tomfoolery. To expedite matters, I suggest that dogs imagine themselves in a John Waters film. By performing bodily functions on cue, dogs will earn top billing and a breakfast befitting of such artistes.

After breakfast, it is unnecessary to express your appreciation by jumping up on the bed and sneezing kibble bits onto the Master’s face.

While preparing to settle in with the Master for another few hours’ sleep, frantic digging on the Master’s belly should be avoided. The Master’s abdomen is not made of such materials as can be burrowed into or shifted about.

Upon settling in with the Master, it is undesirable for dogs to compete to see who can get the largest square footage of dog-on-human body contact on either side of the Master. This makes it impossible for the Master to move or breathe. The Master is not a cocktail sausage and does not wish to be tied up in the bedclothes like a Pig in a Blanket.

W. Daniel Furst, DDS

2006-11-03T14:01:00.000-05:00

Some of you may recall a blog installment I posted a month ago in which I described my first root canal appointment. In that installment I introduced the fortuitously-named Dr. Furst, who is the first dentist I’ve liked since I’ve been living in North Carolina. This is no small matter to me, as I have harbored the big daddy of dentistry phobias since I was a wee Storchy and had several of my baby teeth pulled in one visit without being as anesthetized as I might have liked.

Three weeks ago, I had to go back in for another 2-hour appointment during which Dr. Furst did the build-up for my crown. Having survived my first appointment under the good doctor’s care, I was considerably more relaxed. While I may have been tense and trembling a tad, I at least wasn’t making the floor vibrate this time around. During the two hours of my second appointment, more unpleasant drilling, grinding, and scraping occurred. This time, however, I felt fully confident that Dr. Furst was giving the matter his full attention, and that he would not allow the drill to slip off the tooth and pierce my cerebellum. Best of all, there was more humming. This time it was the Beach Boys’ song, All Summer Long, which solidified my opinion that Dr. Furst was, in fact, a true genius of dentistry.

So yesterday was the final phase of the process. No drilling or scraping this time. All Dr. Furst had to do was to pop in the crown and send me on my way. As this would be the first time I’d seen him without my face full of Novocaine and slobber running down my neck, I looked forward to interacting with him like a normal human being instead of like a patient at a state mental institution. I’d planned to thank him for getting me through the experience in one piece. Of course, there’d be some fond reminiscing as well. “Remember that one time when I was all scared of the needles and drills? HA! Good times . . .” I’d say. Then we would laugh and laugh.

But what really happened was this. I arrived at the office and was ushered to the chair by Thelma, my favorite dental assistant. Just before she pulled my temporary crown off, she said, “You heard about Dr. Furst, right?”

Well, I hadn’t heard about Dr. Furst. Did he get in a fender bender? Did he win the lottery? Was he conked on the dome by an errant golf ball?

“No, what happened?” I said.

“He died.”

Ah, shit.

That’s right. Dr. Furst, genius of dentistry, died in his home at the age of 60, apparently of heart failure. I’d only met him a few times, but after having his hands in my mouth for four hours I’d grown pretty attached to the guy.

But what did I truly know about Dr. Furst? Well, not a whole hell of a lot, but let’s see what I can piece together.

1.) He loved to play golf, but probably would never have qualified for the Senior Tour.

2.) He liked a lot of elbow room when he worked, and preferred a workspace that was uncluttered by patients’ spectacles.

3.) He was liberal with the Novacaine, but was a real hard-ass about Percocet. I don’t know what procedures would warrant a Perc prescription, but a root canal, in Dr. Furst’s opinion, was not one of them. (To his credit, I didn’t actually need them. Not even a little bit.)

4.) He liked to wear a sombrero on occasion, as shown in a photograph behind the reception desk.

5.) He had a nice little hum. Over the course of my visits, I heard a wide range of Dr. Furst’s tuneless avant-garde humming, along with his chipper renditions of Speak Softly Love (The Theme from the Godfather), and the aforementioned Beach Boys song, All Summer Long. Oh, and let’s not forget this one . . . .

Oh when the saints go marching in
When the saints go marching in
Oh lord I want to be in that number
When the saints go marching in

And when the sun refuse to shine
And when the sun refuse to shine
Oh lord I want to be in that number
When the saints go marching in . . . .

Oh when the trumpet sounds the call
Oh when the trumpet sounds the call
Oh lord I want to be in that number
When the saints go marching in

Hmm hmm hmm hmmmm, Hmm hmm hmm hmmmm,
Hmm hmm hmm hmmm, Hmm hmm hmm hmmm,
Hmm-hmm hmm hmmmm hmm hmm hmm-hmm hmm hmm
Hmm hmm hmm hmmmm hmm hmm hmm hmm. . . .

Thanks for the root canal, Doc. I hope you’re up there kicking Sam Snead’s ass.

What the Hell?!

2006-11-02T00:24:00.000-05:00

Behold the first loaf of bread that Storchy has ever baked . . .

Clearly I have been replaced by some evil Alternate Universe Storchy. I don't bake bread. I don't bake, period. Not much for cooking in general, although I did successfully prepare a meal of Spaghetti-O's the other day that I was rather proud of -- not too chemically, with just a hint of aluminum.

I may be hooked on this bread thing. It was kind of fun, and I'm a sucker for good bread, which is somewhat scarce here in North Carolina. From what I can tell, many southerners have a mysterious aversion to any bread with a crunchy crust. This is just one more reason why I keep my door locked at night.

This particular bread recipe hooked me with phrases like "knead the prosciutto into the dough," "brush the crust with bacon fat before baking," and "brush the crust with bacon fat and allow to cool." I strongly believe that if all food were prepared like this, the world would be a much happier place.

Incidentally, if any of you other folks feel similarly overcome with the urge to bake bread all sudden-like, I highly recommend The Bread Bible by Rose Levy Berenbaum. It is extremely rube-friendly.

While you're at it, check out Breadbasketcase, a highly entertaining blog in which Marie Wolf describes her experiences as she attempts to bake all 82 bread recipes in The Bread Bible in one year. Go, Marie, go!

SAVE THESE INSTRUCTIONS

2006-10-26T22:37:00.000-05:00

Due to a drawing project snafu I needed to buy a small light box today. I arrived home with my new purchase and tore open the box. I nearly tossed the instructions right into the trash but stopped short, remembering that my last failure to read instructions involved the melting of a large piece of aluminum foil to the bottom of my electric oven. Did you know that aluminum foil could melt? Neither did I, but page 17 of the oven manual sure did, and in great big letters, too.

Anyway, let us take a walk through my new Artograph Lightracer’s instructions together, shall we?

IMPORTANT SAFEGUARDS

1.) Read and understand all instructions before operating.

You’d think that if the Artograph Company was truly concerned about this, it would have stamped this instruction all over the product itself. Instead, it was printed in 10-point Times New Roman, and positioned one-quarter of a page down on the very document that the Artograph Company suspected I wouldn’t read in the first place.

2.) Supervision is necessary when used by or near children. Do not leave unattended while in use.

If I’m using my Artograph Lightracer near children, does that mean that I need to be supervised? And, man, if I were a pot smoker, “Do not leave unattended while in use” would’ve messed with my head for hours. Don’t bogart that instruction manual, m’friend.

3.) Do not operate this equipment with a damaged cord, or if it has been dropped or otherwise damaged, until it has been examined by a qualified electrician.

So, after the qualified electrician has examined it and confirmed that it is indeed damaged, I can go ahead and operate it, right? Fair enough.

4.) If an extension cord is necessary, be sure it has a suitable current rating. Cords rated for less amperage than this equipment may overheat. Be careful to arrange the cord so that it will not be tripped over or pulled.

A sticker on the bottom of the light box warns that there’s a whole .2 Amps
surging through my Artograph Lightracer. What kind of extension cord wouldn’t be able to handle that? Perhaps a wee extension cord replica that was snagged from the parlor of a Victorian dollhouse.

5.) Always unplug from the electrical outlet when not in use. Disconnect by grasping and pulling the plug from the outlet; never yank the cord to disconnect the plug.

Sound advice, this. The wiring inside those cords is fragile. To be extra cautious, I will avoid touching the cord altogether and instead use a butter knife to pry the plug from the socket. Now, that’s using the old melon!

6.) Do not immerse in water. If the unit receives water damage, do not use until inspected by a qualified electrician.

Again with the qualified electrician. I’m beginning to suspect that these instructions were written by a qualified electrician with a weakness for the dog track.

Here’s another warning that you’d think would’ve been plastered all over the place. I mean, if the Artograph Company made a point to include this bit of common sense in its list of IMPORTANT SAFEGUARDS, the company must have fielded complaints related to it at some point. You’ve got to figure that at least one Poindexter thought it wise to run his Artograph Lightracer through the rinse cycle before using it for the first time in order to get rid of the scratchiness. You know -- like sheets. Otherwise, why include it at all?

And for that matter, why not include other common sense warnings like these just to make it an even 10?

7.) Avoid contact with bandsaw. Contact with bandsaw may cause the equipment to become cloven in two or more parts, which may affect the usefulness of the tracing surface.

8.) Do not spread with hummus and attempt to ingest. This equipment is not tasty or edible.

9.) This equipment is not a suitable substitute for a parachute or other aviation safety device.

10.) Do not affix to forehead with glue gun. Doing so may impair vision and make passing through low doorways difficult or impossible.

I Don't Have a Single Original Thought In My Head

2006-10-21T16:05:00.000-05:00

It's true. All work and no play makes Storchy a complete lump of crap as a blogger. I did manage to avoid work long enough today to snap this photo of Number One Dog, Lebowski. (Number Two Dog, Daisy, declined to be photographed.)

I'm no Evenstar, but I do know a handsome beast when I see one. As a photo editor I stink out loud, but I did at least manage to clone out some stray fuzz and dog goobers.

Believe it or not, digital fuzz removal was one of my great triumphs today, the other being the devisement and execution of a plan (Plan A) to remove my sweatpants and put on proper trousers. Now, three hours later, I am in the midst of devising a second plan (Plan A Sub-1)that will reverse the outcome of my previous plan, Plan A. Plan A Sub-1 is far more complicated than Plan A, however, as it includes the addition of a shower and change of underpants. In fact, it is becoming clearer to me by the second that the success of Plan A Sub-1 hinges on the creation of a detailed diagram, drawn to scale.

I'd best get on it.

Ann Taylor Joins Dark Forces, Commands Minions to Spread Evil

2006-10-04T00:12:00.000-05:00

Among the pile of crap that disguised itself as e-mail today, I found a message from Ann Taylor, designer of affordable and practical ladies’ fashions. While I can’t say I’m much of a dress horse, I admit to having a weakness for Ann Taylor’s tantalizingly roomy size sixes (which, if I understand my UK sizing correctly, is the equivalent of 23 shaftments and a King’s knuckle).

I was just about to open Ann Taylor’s e-mail, when I noticed its subject heading:

Support Breast Cancer and Reward Yourself

To say that I was shocked by this endorsement of nefarious hedonism would be an understatement. Needless to say, I trashed the message without viewing its full contents, as I did not wish to be tainted by its Mephistophelian funk.

Hear me, Ann Taylor, you wicked Betty Crocker of the fashion world . . . . I will not join your evil campaign to support breast cancer for my own personal fun and profit. It is not right, and I will not stand for it.

Good day, madam.

There is Nothing Funny About a Root Canal

2006-09-27T11:33:00.000-05:00

Guess who had a root canal today. Go on, guess.

Already, I am tired of this game. It was I, Storchy, who had a root canal today. Probably lots of other folks had root canals today, too, but I don’t care about any of those bozos. This installment is about me and my root canal, and if any of you chuckleheads out there want to cry like whiny little sissy-babies about your root canals, you can go and get your own goddamn blog. Now, get outta here. Go on, beat it.

Due to my keenly developed ability to maintain my composure under even the most trying of circumstances, you probably haven’t noticed that today’s ordeal has made me a bit peevish. Though my time in the chair today was not the reenactment of Marathon Man's dental torture scene that I imagined it would be, neither was it the equivalent of an herbal facial. Unless herbal facials involve needles, and drills, and unpleasant grinding noises. Which they well might. As I have never had an herbal facial, I probably wouldn’t know one if it poked me in the eye. Eye-poking, come to think of it, might well be an integral part of the herbal facial and I wouldn’t know it. Really, the whole herbal facial thing was a just crappy analogy, and I wish you’d all just stop harping on it. I have never claimed to be an expert in flowery wordsmithery, nor am I a clown for your amusement.

While the peevishness dissipates even as I type, I feel that today’s root canal experience has permanently and drastically altered my worldview in countless ways, not the least of which include the following:

1. I would NOT rather get a root canal than sit through the Broadway musical, Cats.

2. I would NOT rather get a root canal than listen to a Joan Baez record.

3. I would NOT rather get a root canal than watch an episode of Third Rock.

4. A root canal is NOT more pleasant than a poison ivy rash on my ass.

5. A root canal is NOT more fun or interesting than Statistics 151.

My shifts of position on some other matters were not as extreme. For instance, I used to think that having a root canal would be far more pleasant than listening to small children singing or playing wind instruments. Now feel that it’s six of one, and a half-dozen of the other.

Much to my surprise, there was relatively little pain involved in the root canal process. They shoot you up full of Novacaine so all you feel is a fat numbness in your face that makes you wonder idly whether you’d have a chance at being cast as Joseph Merrick in The Elephant Man.

What gets you is the noise.

ZZZZzzzzZZZZZTTT! SQWEEEEEEEEEEEE! SCRONCH! SCRT! SCRT! SCRT! VVVVZZZZZRRRrrrREET!

The dentistry noises suck ass. I tried all manner of tricks to block them out. Initially I attempted to focus on Dr. Furst’s humming. He has a nice little hum. He started by humming When the Saints Go Marching In. That was swell. Then he began humming Speak Softly Love (the Theme From The Godfather). This, I found disturbing. Later, as he got more into his work, he started combining the two songs into one, which was both disturbing and confusing and left me focusing on the familiar drill noise for comfort. This would not do.

So, as the drilling progressed, I retreated into my head. I searched for a comfort song. Unfortunately, the first one I thought of was The House of Love, a song by Squeeze, which features an electric carving knife sound effect between verses. You’d be surprised by how much an electric carving knife can sound like a dentist drill under the right circumstances.

After considering and rejecting several songs by the rocque-and-rolle noblemen, The Upper Crust, I settled on Herb Alpert’s Tijuana Taxi. It’s an innocuous song just pleasant enough to be distracting, while allowing the dental tool noises to work with it, rather than against it, in the background. Once I’d settled into Tijuana Taxi, my toes were a-tappin’ while my fists were a-clenchin’.

Still, I feel strongly that the dental tool noise issue is one in serious need of attention. I know that all sorts of dentists out there are putting headphones on their patients in effort to drown out the drill noises with music. I actually tried this once, and found it quite stressful. I fretted that the dentist would say something like, “Whatever you do, don’t swallow right now,” but then I wouldn’t hear him because I was getting down to Loose Booty by Funkadelic, and I’d end up with one of those bendy mirrors and a latex glove in my gullet.

If it were up to me (which it seldom is for reasons that I cannot fathom), I’d change the noises that the tools themselves make. And I’m not talking about wimpy little tweaks, such as making their foul noises quieter. What I have in mind is something more along the lines of a Total Noise Overhaul.

I came up with the concept of the Total Noise Overhaul right after I’d realized that I could calculate the square footage of the root canal room by counting the 2-foot ceiling tiles and doing a little multiplication. The size of the room is neither here nor there, but I was just proud that I’d found an unexpected practical application for math.

After I’d determined that the root canal room measured 110 square feet, I thought of an idea that would revolutionize modern dentistry. I mean, what if root canals could be funny?

I started trying to think of things that make me laugh. You know what makes me laugh? People getting hit on the head with a plank. That’s a friggin’ laugh-riot. But I dismissed this idea once I realized that a few folks might associate pain with getting hit on the head, and associate that pain with dentistry, which would be bad. I am not a sadistic monster, after all.

Back to the drawing board. After a bit more ruminating, I said to myself, “Self? You know what else is funny? Farts are funny.”

It’s true. Farts are like the comedy Esperanto of bodily functions. I’ve seen enough foreign films to know that everyone in the whole world thinks that farts are HI-larious. In fact, it would not surprise me if Mel Gibson were to switch it up with a comedy next time that was done all in Fart, with subtitles.

So, that would be one option. Instead of the dental drill going, “ZZZZzzzzZZZZZTTT! SQWEEEEEEEEEEEE! SCRONCH! SCRT! SCRT! SCRT! VVVVZZZZZRRRrrrREET!” it could instead make rude fart noises. This would help patients to keep their mouths open wide, what with the laughing and all. It would also discourage them from swallowing at inappropriate times, thereby preventing the ingestion of bendy mirrors and latex gloves. That idea is a keeper.

Not to toot my own horn or anything, but I have another idea that I think is absolutely brilliant. Instead of trying to mask the foul drill noise with music played through headphones, why not design a drill that makes a pleasing musical sound as it’s working? After much consideration, I’ve decided that the instrumental intro to Georgy Girl, by The Seekers, would be ideal for this purpose. I mean, who could possibly be annoyed by the sound of those first few, perky measures being played over and over and over again as their teeth were getting bored out? No one that I can think of. Certainly not I.

Well, there you have it. I, Storchy, went to the dentist and took one for the team. But I did not sit passively in the chair while a complete stranger drilled holes in my head. Instead, I made the most of my time, devising a plan that will make the world a better place for Everyman. I encourage all of you potential root canal candidates out there to do the same, because nobody likes a whiny little sissy-baby.

The Eight Wonders of the Ancient World

2006-09-16T15:22:00.000-05:00

Thousands of years from now, I believe the "Seven Wonders of the Ancient World" list will have been revised thusly:

The Eight Wonders of the Ancient World

1. The Great Pyramid of Giza
2. The Hanging Gardens of Babylon
3. The Statue of Zeus at Olympia
4. The Temple of Artemis at Ephesus
5. The Mausoleum at Halicarnassus
6. The Colossus of Rhodes
7. The Lighthouse of Alexandria
8. The Abandoned-Refrigerator-With-the-Door-Off of Butner

Somewhere in Butner, there’s a refrigerator lying on the side of the road. Some dumbasses needed to unload the thing and were too lazy to take it to the dump, so they just said “This-here’s a good spot” and they flung it into the ditch for the deer to bang their shins on, and to fake out any possums looking for large metal objects to flatten themselves with.

Now, this in itself is unremarkable. Dumbasses do stupid crap like this all the time. The “wondrous” part of this particular choice in dumbass ditch design is that these dumbasses had the presence of mind to take the door off, so that little tow-headed Billy-Jimbo, skipping along the highway in his knee-breeches, wouldn’t climb into it, shut the door, and smother to death while dreaming of sugarplums and fatback biscuits.

The abandoned-fridge-with-the-door-off phenomenon presents something of a conundrum, as it displays equal parts imbecility and intelligence on the part of the Goobers what left it in the ditch. If it never occurred to them that there might possibly be something wrong with flinging an appliance into a ditch and leaving it there, what made them go all publicly-aware and do-goodery on the fridge door issue?

I have a theory, and that theory is . . . television. Think about it. Where do dumbasses learn literary quotes such as “git-r-done” and philosophical puzzlers like “Where’s the beef?” Why, television, of course. Television.

Remember Bert the Duck-and-Cover Turtle? I don’t, but I can sing the whole damned “Duck and Cover” song for you.

There was a turtle by the name of Bert
And Bert the turtle was very alert
When danger threatened him he never got hurt
He knew just what to do!

He’d duck. . . *Fwooshhhht!* . . . and cover!
Duck . . . *Fwooshhhht!* . . . and cover!

He did what we all must learn to do
You and you and you and you

Duck . . . *Fwooshhhht!* . . . and cover!

That there’s an effective ad campaign for you. Why, I’d like to crawl under a desk right now. So, here’s what I figure. Somewhere in the deep recesses of Goober A and Goober B’s collective brain, lay the residual teachings of an old TV public service campaign reminding folks to remove fridge doors before abandoning them on the side of the road. I believe it went something like this:

If you’ve got a fridge to ditch
and you like kids
and you don’t want them to smother

Then pay some attention to this good advice
and you’ll help out someone’s mother!

Before-you-take-off . . . *Vvvvvvrrroooom!* . . . take the door off!
Before-you-take-off. . . *Vvvvvvrrroooom!* . . . take the door off!

A Norge can look like a lot of fun
To a tyke who’s too young to own a gun

Before-you-take-off . . . *Vvvvvvrrroooom!* . . . take the door off!

Alas, “Take-The-Door-Off”’s follow-up campaign, “Don’t-Leave-Your-Crap-On-the-Side-of-the-Road”, didn’t generate the financial backing it needed, and therefore ended up with an inferior jingle that did not win the hearts and minds of all the Goober Q. Smiths out there.

Don’t leave your crap on the side of the road
on the side of the road-ode-ode!

Don’t leave your crap on the side of the road
on the side of the road-ode-ode!

Don’t leave your crap on the side of the road
on the side of the road-ode-ode!

What a flaming turd of a campaign that was. It actually prompted folks to leave junk on the side of the road just to spite the irreparably jaded writers.

Now that I’ve worked out this little mystery, it’s my duty to perform a public service of my own. In the distant future, a team of archaeologists tramping through the forests of Butner will trip over an abandoned fridge with the door off. They, as I once did, will scratch their heads in befuddlement until they find a printed copy of this blog installment taped inside the left-hand drawer of the vegetable crisper. After unanimously agreeing to revise the Seven Wonders of the World list, they will likely feel overcome with the urge to crawl under a desk. They might even feel compelled to leave some crap on the side of the road. But they will never, ever abandon a fridge in a ditch without first removing the door.

Rock and Roll is Sometimes Quite Possibly Noise Pollution

2006-09-12T19:05:00.000-05:00

So, the other day I'm driving to school and listening to this great '60s pop compilation that my friend Jeff Hart (Hi, Jeff!) let me borrow. First I'm breezing along to the "Theme from 'The Avengers'". Then the Kingsmen's raw, garage-y version of "Little Latin Lupe Lu" comes on and I'm digging that, too. So, when "Ridin' on the L & N" kicks in, I'm feeling giddy as all get-out. I'd never heard this one before. It's a gritty, rockin' little blues shuffle, sung by a guy who's doing a spot-on imitation of Mick Jagger. Think "Let It Bleed", but peppier and not as polished. When I get to the next stoplight, I check the track listing to be sure that I'm not listening to some great lost Stones' track.

"Bintangs?" says I. "Never heard of 'em."

At this point I'm about a third of the way through the song and realize I haven't been giving it my full attention. I bounce back to the beginning so I can wallow in the muddy rockin'ness without distraction.

It starts off strong with a couple of quick snare-and-cymbal crashes and some harmonica blasts over the top of it. Oh yeahhhh. In my mind's eye, my new Toyota Matrix has just morphed into a 1967 Pontiac GTO convertible. I slouch back in the driver's seat with one hand draped casually across the 12 o'clock position on the steering wheel. Then Pseudo Mick Jagger Guy starts a-snarlin':

Round the bend came the L & N
Loaded down with a lotta men . . .

Then there's a couple of lines that are more or less unintelligible except for the phrase "throw the switch", and now it's time for the chorus. . .

Ridin' . . . ridin' on the L & N
Hitchhikin' . . . I'll be ridin' on the L & N . . .

Aaaah! It's a tribute to the grand old hobo tradition of train-hopping. This song just keeps getting better and better. I'd been feeling a little uneasy about those lyrics I couldn't make out, but I can now assume that they related to highly technical aspects of the freight train's inner cogs that I'd never have been able to wrap my tiny pea brain around anyhow. I am relieved, and resume grooving to the rock and roll music with an unclouded brain. It is good.

Just then, someone cuts me off without signaling. "Ha-HA! Bully for you and your devil-may-care approach to driving!" I cry. "Carry on, my good fellow, and Godspeed!" This is how much the rock and roll music affects me.

I've missed a few lines, which (I will learn later) introduce Quinn, the train's engineer, whose ability to stretch his forename into a rhyme with "L & N" and "bend" obviously made him a shoe-in for the job. With that bit of exposition out of the way, it's back to the chorus. . .

Ridin' . . . ridin' on the L & N
Hitchhikin' . . . I'll be ridin' on the L & N . . .

We've reached the part of the song that's a natural breaking point for a solo. I have a two-handed white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel while the harp player pipes in for a couple of measures. He is no doubt warming up for what is about to be a crankin', testosterone-drenched, nut-busting, ass-shakin', balls-out thrill-ride of a --

flute solo? Christ on Acme springs.

My tires catch the outer edge of the asphalt. I drop into the shoulder and kick up gravel for about 30 feet, until I get a grip and yank the car (a Toyota Matrix once again) back onto the road.

Meanwhile, Flute Guy is still blowing on his friggin' pipe. You can hear the spit flying everywhere. He's gasping and wheezing like an asthmatic Trekkie after an extended swirlie. Through the smoky haze of my brain, I can just make out Flute Guy's band-mates behind him, jamming and chin-jutting to the blues groove. A hairy fellow with sweat rings under his man-boobs shoots them a confident thumbs-up through the sound-proof window of a mixing booth. Everyone is feeling all warm and fuzzy inside, thinking that the rock-and-roll flute solo is a pretty swell idea. Yeah. All riiight.

But it wasn't a good idea. It is never a good idea. You know that Ian Anderson guy from the Jethro Tull band? It wasn't a good idea when he did it either. It was a terrible idea, with the flute, and the tall boots, and the Pan stance, and those wretched plum smugglers. A terrible, terrible, awful idea.

Well, after the flute solo, the rest of the song is kind of a blur. There's some guy who's sleeping on a pile of clothes, and a doctor, and some more words that rhyme and blah-blah-blah. Whatever. I am numb. I sleepwalk through my classes. On the way home I turn to the right side of the FM radio dial for comfort. I sing along. "I've got a peacefuuuuul, easy feeeeelin'. . . ."

But that is a lie. I am tormented by the rock-and-roll flute solo. I feel compelled to learn more about The Bintangs, these men who lifted my spirits to staggering heights only to dump them onto a concrete slab and send a 500-lb. safe screaming down after.

I do a quick Internet search when I get home. The All-Music Guide is a dead end. I search Google and hit pay-dirt:

"The Bintangs Website. . . Bintangs, the leading Rhythm and blues band of the Netherlands."

I click on the link and prepare to learn all there is to know about The Bintangs, these men whose rock-and-roll flute stylings nearly ran me off the road. The next thing I see is this:

"Welkom op de Bintangs website

Ontdek de wereld van de Bintangs

Hartelijk welkom bij de Bintangs, we hebben meer dan 85 pagina's met informatie uit heden en verleden voor u samengesteld over Frank Kraaijeveld, Jan Wijte, Maarten Ibelings, Gerben Ibelings en Dagomar Jansen. En natuurlijk ook info over oud Bintangs. . . ."

Darned if these rock-and-roll flautists aren't crafty little buggers. It's in code! But in the bottom left-hand corner of the page is a photo of a fellow with his lips puckered over a flute. It appears as if he might once have been a young guy in the '60s. Oh, I'm on the right track all right.

So, I find a Bintangs page that is written in English. I learn that The Bintangs were very popular in the Netherlands in the '60s. The band had a revolving door of guitarists, drummers and keyboardists, all of whom were no doubt driven mad by the adjacent revolving door of rock-and-roll flautists. They recorded songs by Muddy Waters, Brownie McGhee, Willie Dixon, Howlin' Wolf, John Lee Hooker, and Bo Diddley.

Frankly, that's a lot more than I ever expected to learn about the Bintangs, but there's still one nagging question to be answered. Just how in the hell high do you have to be to take a classic blues song, stick a flute solo in it, and decide that it sounds pretty damn good to you?

As I ponder this question, I put in another disc of that '60s collection. It starts with a poppy little Kaleidoscope song. . .

Jenny Artichoke lived in a boat
Down by the sea with a baby
And she didn't know much about anything
But she was oh so nice to me . . .

Now that's a song. I'm feeling better already. . . .

Jenny Artichoke lived in a boat dressed like a queen
You should have seen
And she didn't care much about anyone
But she was oh so nice to me. . .

You know . . . maybe the Bintangs aren't such bad guys after all. Maybe the rock-and-roll flute is just a cultural thing I'll never understand, like mint sauce or ladies' armpit hair.

Jenny! Climbing up her flagpole!
Jenny! Looking through her porthole!

Yeah, that's probably it. I mean, who am I to get down on folks who are just trying to express their culture and originality through song? Man, I'm kind of an asshole. So, bully for you, Bintangs, and your devil-may-care approach to blues music! Carry on, my good fellows, and Godspeed!

Jenny! With her hair on fire!
How could anyone ever pass by her?

2006-09-07T20:06:00.000-05:00

My New Cyber-Buddies

I am a creature of habit. Every morning I peel myself out of bed around 10 or so, shuffle downstairs to get coffee, and drag my tired ass back upstairs to check my email. As I am resistant to any change that upsets my morning routine, it is always a relief to find that my inbox contains messages from yet another batch of folks who are eager to make my acquaintance. I love making new friends. So much so, in fact, that I have made a list to honor the nice new cyber-buddies I've made over the past few weeks:

Constable L. Kitchen
Designation S. Hooker
Dinette B. Compress
Foxhounds E. Convention
Godly E. Constipating
Hellenistic U. Scarabs
Pelvis L. Porter
Remington R. Dysfunctions
Roommate H. Lighters

I apologize if I've left anyone out. I have been quite touched by the outpouring of support and advice these kind people have given me.

For example, my friend Dinette B. Compress has just explained how I can increase my sperm volume by 500%. While it is certainly nice to have this option open to me, it is one that I have chosen not to pursue. I am not particularly coordinated or athletic, and I doubt that I could handle such an unwieldy load without putting innocent bystanders at risk. My life is complicated enough without having a bunch of one-eyed victims of my ineptitude weighing heavily on my conscience. But thanks just the same to Dinette (is that a family name?), whose unshakable faith in my abilities never fails to bring a joyful tear to my eye.

One of my other new friends, Remington R. Dysfunctions, has slipped me an insider tip about a "Sen'sationall revoolution in m'edic'ine" that would enable me to "E'n'l'a'r'g'e [my] p"enis up to 10 cm or up to 4 in'ches!" It took me a little while to get used to Remington's thick, Eastern European accent, but once I'd absorbed the gist of his message I was quite excited by the news. I'd previously thought that an appendage enlargement this dramatic could only occur as the result of a poisonous reptile bite or scorpion sting. I'm pretty happy with the plumbing I have now, but if I ever acquire a penis that I'd like enlarged another 4 inches or so, it'll be nice to know that I can do this without the intervention of Poison Control. Thanks, Remy!

Looking back at my list of new friends, I've just noticed how fashionable the middle initial has become. It also appears that there exists a whole generation of parents who took a rather unconventional approach to baby naming. Assuming that my new cyber-buddies are chips-off-the-old-block, it seems likely that their elders had insider access to some cutting-edge research about baby names and their effect on the psychological development of individuals. Well, bully for good ol' Mom and Dad, I say! If my future son, Shoehorn K. Hairclog, turns out to be half the man that Godly E. Constipating is, I will be one damn proud parent indeed.