Prelude to an entry on Xbox repair...

“So what are you going to write next?” the wife asks, having taken a minor interest in this new endeavor of mine.

“Probably about fixing my Xbox,” I reply.

“Oh.” [Lingering pause] “That’s not funny.”

Having recently watched the second season of Last Comic Standing from front to back with my wife, pulling for the same hopefuls along the way, I knew we had similar tastes in humor. I wasn’t then too surprised to find myself in agreement with her assessment

“Yeah, no. Not really. Well, a little.”

The Xbox went out in a series of late night sparks and smoke, electronic antics that I’ve seen comedic hopes hung upon across many a sitcom through the years. Somewhere, sometime the Nielsens must have reported that smoldering appliances struck a responsive chord with the 18-49 crowd to get such play, so chances were good a few people might actually chuckle at the smoking Xbox entry. But would it be a laugh riot? Probably not.

“No.” She reaffirmed. “You should write something funny.”

I realized then that I had probably given my readership unrealistic expectations. I know, I know…what had I written? Two, maybe three posts? On an almost daily basis? You’d think it’d be a stretch for people to use that as a representative sample of what goes on at the Spin, but I guess that’s the reality in the fast paced world of the internet. No doubt hundreds of sites were born and died over the six day span since I started to Spin.

I had unfortunately, -at least as far as my wife is concerned- set a unrealistic standard:

Be Funny. Every Day.

Now for some guys, that’s probably possible. For me, not so much.

Now don’t get me wrong. I believe I may be somewhat blessed to live in a household that so freely and easily generates source material. In fact, the day I wrote about my blog picture, my wife managed to flood our new basement with the washing machine. Twice.

“Well,’ I said, “I guess I could write about the floods.”

“And about me again?” she asked.

“Well, sure.”

“Then people will think I’m some kind of a nut.”

In addition to sharing a sense of humor with the wife, I apparently also share the same comedic taste sensibilities as the majority of the American public. The guy I who I thought was the funniest Last Comic (Yay, John Heffron) did indeed win the title in a nationwide vote. That being the case, I couldn’t necessarily disagree with my wife’s spoken assumption. I stayed silent.

And that abruptly ended the ‘Next Blogging Topic’ conversation…

Friendly 'Jab's

This is pretty old news by now, but for those of you who have not yet seen it, the political cartoon/animated short ‘This Land’ at JibJab.com is pretty amusing. And pretty innocuous too, so you shouldn’t have much of a problem with it no matter what your political sensibilities. What’s that?!?! Political material online that avoids being mean-spirited? Well, yes! And that distinction alone makes it worth checking out.

Glazed & Confused

People, people, people.

You need to get OUT of my WAY when I’m going for my morning coffee at Dunkin Donuts. What is the deal, here? What used to be a casual two minute stop for one fricking cup of coffee (Medium Hazelnut, please, regular) is now an interminable odyssey of epic proportions.

I don’t blame the stores per se….well, not much, anyway. Sure, they should ALL institute the express ‘coffee-only’ line that some stores have for those, like me, who just want to fill-er-up and be on their way. I guess that they’re also responsible for introducing their new line of Dunka-Frappa-Mocha-Latta-Chinos and allowing them to be accessible to the public during the morning rush hour.

Don’t get me wrong, I like most of those concoctions, and I understand DD’s need to compete with Uber-beanery Starbucks, but these drinks need to be created and enjoyed in an environment that is anathema to those jonesing for a simple jolt of morning java. You know the trappings I’m talking about: smooth, ambient Jazz, angsty ‘coffee-nista’ employees, T.S. Elliot photos on the walls…that sort of thing. The scene where the bored goth employee stares blankly into your face as she rests her head on her shoulder and leans into the 'frothing-device' lever for what seems like hours while the entire store is treated to the splash and sonance of the reenactment of a house cat dealing with an especially reluctant hairball has no place at all in my morning commute.

But in general, my blame is more directed at the consumer than the coffee-house. It’s my fellow coffee-drinker that causes most of the delay. Heck, I’ll give Dunkin Donuts due credit: Most of their employees can retain your order if you give it to them two, perhaps three items at a time, instead of needing to be marched back and forth one item at a time as most of my coffee consumer compatriots seem to desire them to do. I’d blame this on sadism, if not for the fact that it’s obvious that these folks are often just suddenly deciding what they want to order right then and there.

I’m sorry, what were these folks doing with their two or so hours in line while the froth-machine was regurgitating its second hairball for the customer that mistakenly ordered a Dunka-Frappa-Latta-Mocha-Chino instead of the Frappa-Dunka-Mocha-Chino-Latte that they really meant to get? It’s not like Dunkin Donuts keeps their product concealed until you reach the front of the line, when they flip open a mysterious briefcase for a furtive glance at the goods. ‘Whoa! You mean there are donuts here???’ There’s a whole frickin vertical wall of fat displayed for you, visible from the parking lot! Can you take a moment or two to organize your thoughts before crunch time?

No, of course not. Instead we get these Annie Oakley showman-sharpshooter types like the one immediately in front of me today. After she overcomes the fear evident in her eyes as she realizes it is now her turn on the line, she draws her pointer up from her side, thumb cocked, and starts firing haphazardly at the 6 x 9 pastry grid. 'Black Raspberry!' (Grid Coordinate – E5) 'Uhhh…Boston Crème!' (A2) 'Hmmmm…what’s that?' (D8! You sunk my Cruller!) Meanwhile the poor donut runner (register certification pending) ricochets back and forth from bin to bin like the shooting gallery duck he has become.

Good god woman! Are you new to this country? We need re-education, here! Show the flickering filmstrip of Fred McMurray that we all saw back in grade school, where he patiently and sing-songedly goes over the Taxonomy of DD denizens:

“Now the Bagel Family resides up top, kids, with Donuts down below and Muffins to the right. See how within each Family, the Genus groups together?”

Sings:

“Look at Family Donuts, this is what I mean!
Jellies here!
Glazed there!
Powdered In Between!”

Order by Genus at least, Annie! Save precious seconds and steps!

I won’t even get started on those ordering ‘breakfast sandwiches.’ Those poor folks will have to deal with the consequences of that for the rest of their lives.

So, about the pic…

‘Why not?’ I figured.

I had chosen a basic Blogger site template and I knew I wasn’t going to be messing around with the HTML too much. That being the case, a pic of yours truly would be the only thing that distinguished the Spin from countless other look-alike blogs out there. I must have something appropriate floating around on my hard drive, right?

Well, wrong, kind of. That proved harder than I had thought it would be. See, when you have an 18 month old and a digital camera, you tend to accumulate pics on your pc. Lots of pics. Lots and lots of pics. Unfortunately, (and unfortunate only for this particular case), they all tend to be of the same diminutive subject. And no way was he getting credit for this too…he’s talked about enough around here.

Undaunted, I opened up a folder my wife had downloaded, figuring there’d be a better chance of me in a picture if I wasn’t the one taking it. (Clever man, I.) There, wedged between gads of shoe and boot pics destined for ebay display, was the beaut you now see at the top-right corner of the Spin.

It wasn’t the first time I had seen that pic pop up on my monitor, but it was the first time that I had pulled it up. One night, several weeks earlier, I happened to catch my wife messing with it on the screen as she pounded away at the keyboard.

“What the heck are you doing with that?!?” I asked, peering over her shoulder. I recalled when she had taken the shot, popping in and snapping it as I exercised on my bike one evening.

“I like it.” She said. “I think it’s sexy.”

Clever reply. My brain almost bought in to the misdirecting ego feed when I realized that that answer wasn’t good enough. My wife never just sat at the computer to look at pictures. Surf the net? Ha! When she sits down at the keyboard, there is always a mission: store hours for Ikea, Directions to the nearest outlets, middle of the night transfers to paypal. (paypal? How presumptuous! You’re not my pal, buddy.)

Anyway, I tuned down the Right Said Fred playing in my head and continued the questioning.

“Thanks, but, uh, what are you doing with it?”

Turns out, the picture had some accompanying text: an application for Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. I’m guessing she had planned on telling me once the cameramen were on the way? It gets better.

Apparently -and rightly so- the application is supposed to be completed by the prospective ‘make-over-ee.’ (Make-Overy. That sounds emasculatory right there!) Anyway, so not only is she trying to get me on this show without asking me, but also going about it by skirting the rules and regulations devised by the show to prevent, I’m guessing, situations exactly like the example we have here! (Though I do admit to curiosity regarding the penalties assessed if a faux candidate is discovered after he makes the show. Do the ‘Queer Cops’ storm the set, muss your hair and whiz on the Tunisian Baked Lamb?)

Anyway, I argued the shady morality of the attempt with her for a while, knowing that logically it was a far more defensible approach than disproving I actually needed any assistance from the Queer Folk. I think she finally agreed, because that’s the last I heard of it. Of course, she could have sent it anyway and I may have just been rejected, which in and of itself would have been a good thing. So I had made my peace with the deal, until the picture surfaced again for the blog.

So, what was I talking about? Oh yeah, the pic! I used it for the blog because it shows me in action in two of my most prominent hobbies, exercise and video games. (yes, I’m playing a game in that pic, while riding an exercise bike. You won’t see me making that face doing anything else outside of the bathroom.) Family, thoughts, hobbies… that’s what I’m here to talk about, right?

Of course, there could be another reason for using that pic.

See what you’re missing, boys?

Marquis de Scotts

One of the very few drawbacks in our recent move from condo to house is the whole yard deal. Don’t get me wrong, a yard is exactly what we wanted…fun for the son, fun for the dog, summer meals outside for the wife…that sort of thing.

Unfortunately, coming from a condo meant we had nothing in the way of proper lawn care equipment. And, due to the fact we purchased a vacant property in the middle of a hot summer, we inherited the Worst Lawn on the Block™. I didn’t mind at first, but as dog-walking neighbors turned their noses up at my son and me as we frolicked in the crabgrass between the patches of dirt and fungi, well, I knew something had to be done.

Having missed the contest and not seeing any concerts scheduled at the local hardware store, I figured the best bet would be to drain the bank account and head to Home Depot and start the Scotts treatment, or whatever. Having shared my plans with co-workers and a friendly back-yard neighbor, though, they both convinced me that my first step should be to find and use an aerator.

Having never heard of such a thing, but being impressed by its breezy and lofty sounding name, I agreed wholeheartedly that it sounded exactly like the thing that would bring life back to my yard, a breath of fresh air!

Then I saw what these things look like. Holy crap! And I think I’m in trouble because my son chases my dog around with a plastic lawnmower. I see perforated dachshund in my future. Anyway, I now understand the best way to get results from a reluctant lawn is to torture it into compliance. I plan on taking part in the aerator-rental block festival scheduled for later on this month, where we pass around the hideous device in a sadistic attempt to force the lawn into looking like something approximating the front nine in Augusta.

I have allergies, though, so most of these lawn activities require me to wear a mask. Inspired by this helpful advice, I found a new one.

Knee-Jerk, or maybe just a jerk

This blog is birthed out of nothing more than frustration, as more and more of my favorite internet communities are simply fading, fading away, with two more falling by the wayside just this week. I enjoy writing about my family, my thoughts, and my hobbies...and if keeping this up means I'll have to do it myself, then by God...

...Well, *maybe* it'll happen.

Watch this space.