Prognosis . . . Negative

***Post by Murls

I’m on the road a lot these days for work. I am also blessed/cursed with a bit of a low-rent appetite when it comes to lunch. This combination, in my opinion, qualifies me to analyze the nuances of our nation’s eateries, ad nauseum, no matter how little facts I may actually be working with. My wife would tell you that I can go on for days . . . for now, let’s pick one tiny category and get the ball rolling. How about “restaurants that are in a swirling death spiral down the turlet of inevitable failure”? Just 2 for now. Cool? Cool.

1. Burger King – sounds crazy to say it. Back in the 80’s it always seemed like Burger King was the formidable, albeit lesser, arch-rival of McDonald’s, the Pepsi to their Coke. Sure it was second fiddle, but the universe had to keep Burger King around just to ensure the proper balance of things. But somewhere between then and now, things went downhill, and this is before they pinned their hopes on a giant-sized KingCranium that is pretty funny but also kind of gross and in no way prompts me to sling processed meats down my gullet.

Really there’s just too much wrong with BK to list, but in a nutshell . . . their fries blow, their attempt at branding over the last decade has been a strange mix between non-existent, low-rent, and bizarre, and of course, 9 out of 10 BK Lounges are no cleaner than a set of motel sheets dipped in Hunt's ketchup and hepatitis.

Pop Quiz: Stare at this ad for two minutes and you’ll see: a) a sailboat, or b) Debbie Gibson preparing to fellate a 7 inch sandwich.

Burger King’s desperation can be seen in their constant churning out of gimmick foods – chicken fries, funnel cake sticks, seven-inch dong sandwiches, and most recently, ribs. Yes, ribs. But what will ultimately be their demise is the fact that they are hands-down the worst run of all the fast food chains. BK employees are long overdue for a Knute Rockne pep talk, or at the very least, some type of brochure that explains that they are actually working, at a job, where you’re supposed to . . . work. And not put boogers in people’s food.

OVER/UNDER of life on earth – 10 years. Papa bear has deep pockets and they can probably push their schtick on some 3rd world countries for a while.

2. Quizno’s – Hmmm, not sure what happened here. The first time I ever ate Quizno’s was in Cincinnati and it was definitely the first of its kind. Awesome. I think I ate there 3 times in the span of two days and then wrestled with fortnightly cravings upon returning home to the ATL. Soon enough, Quizno’s exploded into every town in America, billed as the nation’s fastest growing franchise. Then they pumped this little gem onto TV screens across America:

Holy bejeezus balls. I’m guessing their advertising firm was lined up, blindfolded, and systematically executed one by one after this sucker aired (although admittedly, the pepper bar line is pretty funny). But okay fine, mistake was made, and yet again one corporation learned the “disgusting rats don’t make people want to eat our food” lesson, the hard way.

I was able to power through this mishap, and I continued to hit the Q if it was in plain view. Yet even with my veteran status, I never quite understood how the frick to order at that place. Do I say what I want now, or do I wait until after my meat-laden bread plank comes out of that toaster? Oh, I order SOME of the stuff now? Okay, lettuce, tomatoes . . . what, those are after? Olives are now?! WTF!!!

Sounds nit-picky, but little things like that can often crystal-ball me the certain death of a franchise. Maybe after cracking the riddle of how to make their trays look like a “Q”, the big swingers up at headquarters were feeling a bit cocksure and got lazy. Understandable.

"Hundred bucks says you can't get it into the trash can."

Anyway, the novelty has certainly worn off for Americans, and other chains have popped up offering superior versions of toasted sandwiches (see Firehouse Subs), less commercials with rats, and less suicidal tendencies post-grub ("wait, that sub had pepperoni on it too?”). And so today I can hear the ringing of the death knell as Quizno’s scrambles to offer $4 torpedos, $3 bullets, and will soon roll out their $1 “throwing stars”, keeping consistent with the appetizing ammunition theme.

OVER/UNDER – 4 years. I take no pleasure in saying this, by the way. The poor franchisees jumped on it when it was hot, and my guess is that 90% of them never made any real money before the thing went sour. Now they’re just hanging on, hoping somehow the ship will turn around. It won’t.

Other Notables:

- Baskin Robbins: Yes I am heterosexual. I happen to appreciate a solid ice cream cone every once in a while . . . one man and his lickin' cone. Trust me on this call, Baskin Robbins is on borrowed time.

- Any mexican restaurant that charges for chips and salsa (you know who you are). Perhaps this is simply wishful thinking on my part.

Eating Out Isn't What It Used to Be

I’ve always been under the impression that when you’re feeling a bit down, the best thing to do is to get out there- get out among your fellow man to have your spirits lifted. I must say that recent events lead me to believe otherwise. First, there was my less than stellar flight companion a couple of weeks ago. And now, on the heels of that brutal experience, I can add dinner last Thursday night.

After a long week, we decided to head out to grab a bite to eat. We ended up at Six Feet Under. It's a pleasant place with a solid menu, nice beer selection, and a rooftop deck. You know what you don't expect to see at such a place? An 11 year old girl doing what I assume must have been a cheerleading routine over and over again. She would typically start out doing just the hand motions while sitting in her chair and somewhat quietly chanting the cadence. Then, inevitably, the spirit of the routine would take over and out of her chair she would go. Now standing less than 10 feet from me (as I attempted in vain to focus my attention on my fried scallops), she would really get into it. This included hands behind the head, a karate chopping gesture, some louder counting, and a good bit of hip gyration that I would have expected to draw protests from the parents of the girls aiming to make this cheerleader squad. That didn't appear to be the case, though, because this whole session went down under the approving eye of the girl's mother. Sadly, the practice session came to an abrupt halt after she knocked the emergency exit door open (setting off an alarm) during one of the aforementioned gyrating portions of the act.

To cap it off the general indecency going down around us, my wife let out an exasperated gasp about halfway through dinner.

"Yeah, I know this girl is doing a cross between Mr. Miyagi and Beyonce. I'm trying to look elsewhere."

"No, not that, you have to check out this couple sitting behind you."

It turns out that as a means of showing affection, they were getting up in each other's grills and playfully rubbing their noses back and forth. How about a little decorum, folks? If you decide to dine in a public setting, keep your beak to yourself and keep your pre-teen child's cheerleading practice on hold until you get home. I don't think it's too much to ask.

Julia Roberts Rears Her Head Yet Again

It wasn't supposed to be this way. Damn you, Julia Roberts, I will not let you take over my blog! That said, I must revisit your wretchedness one last time. After the excellent guest post by Murls and my follow up, I thought we had left Julia Roberts in our collective rear view mirror. And then, unfortunately, my wife asked me last night if I had heard about her recent conversion to Hinduism. "Uhhh, no, and for God's sake can we keep it that way?" was my response. Unfortunately we could not, and soon enough I was reading an article discussing Julia's conversion.

The gist of it is this- Julia Roberts, while filming Eat, Pray, Love, converted to Hinduism. As a result, a priest renamed her three children Laxmi, Ganesh, and Krishna Balram. I'm no expert on Hinduism, and in all seriousness I understand that Krishna Balram is quite probably a highly respected name in that faith. But can I just say that a decade or so from now, when paparazzi cameras are following an adolescent Krishna Balram into crystal meth houses, and Julia and her godforsaken husband are trying to figure out where it all went wrong, this might be a good place to start? Were you to continue reading the discussion with Julia, which apparently is part of an upcoming story in Elle magazine, you would also learn that she also now believes in reincarnation. The oh-so-deep-thinker Julia says that after her hectic and stressful current celebrity life, she hopes to be reincarnated as "something quiet". I have no doubt that you will be, Julia. The Hindu gods have already blessed you with the mouth of a catfish in this life, and I can think of no quieter animal than that.

Someday in the future an innocent catfish will be paying for your sins of today, Julia.

The PGA Tour Is Doomed, Part II

As I briefly described in Part I, the PGA tour is hanging by a bit of a thread these days. No one has consistently stepped up and taken advantage of the vacancy left by the implosion of Tiger Woods. Still, I certainly understand that neither the PGA or the United States Golf Association (USGA) can be blamed for that. I have no doubt that they are praying either for Tiger to return to form or for someone else to elevate their game to the point where they can actually motivate viewers to return. But while I won't blame tour or USGA officials for the current state of play, I have a serious, serious gripe. I will try my best to lay it out more tactfully than the profanity-laced tirade I directed at my television on Sunday evening.

First, how about a little test to determine your legitimacy as a golf fan in the eyes of both the PGA and the USGA? In the picture below from a major golf tournament a few years ago, which person is the most important to the event?

If you went with the top ranked Tiger Woods or his highly touted opponent Padraig Harrington, you would be incorrect. If, for some reason, you chose the rules official on the right, you are correct (and I hate you). Golf has an absurd obsession with its rules and with letter-of-the-law enforcement, and both are extremely problematic.

Let's start with the rules. Good God, the rules. It is perhaps easiest just to lay out an example. Are you aware that according to the USGA rulebook, rabbits, moles, groundhogs, gophers, and salamanders are deemed burrowing animals? You might wonder why the rules of golf address the status of salamanders. It is because you are only entitled to move your golf ball out of a hole in the ground if it is made by a "burrowing" animal. So if it is deemed that the hole was created by a dog, which is a non-burrowing animal (this is an actual example on the USGA website), you are not allowed to move your ball. Brilliant. The USGA rulebook is literally full of gems such as this.

So I hope we can agree that many of the hair-splitting rules of golf are completely absurd. That in and of itself, though, wouldn't be an insurmountable problem. No, the deal breaker is the method in which these rules are enforced in tournament play. You see golf leaves the keeping of score up to the players themselves, and that is what causes the absolute injustices that occur far too frequently. The first thing to keep in mind about this unnecessary and archaic way of doing things is that both the PGA and the USGA are EXTREMELY proud of this setup. They claim that relying on players to keep their own score is what makes golf more honorable and noble than other sports. But here's the problem- tour officials are lurking and waiting to catch players on inadvertent mistakes and technicalities. And in golf, they don't just correct your score or the situation, they hit you with penalties. Quite often, the penalty is complete disqualification from the tournament. True story- in 2007, Sergio Garcia was disqualified from a PGA event because his playing partner accidentally wrote down the wrong score on a hole for Sergio. That's right, because the guy he was playing with made an error writing down his score (one player keeps the official score for the other playing partner), Garcia was DQ'd. Absolutely unreal.

It would be the equivalent of the home plate umpire in baseball not announcing balls and strikes but penalizing the batter if he guesses wrong and heads down to first base thinking he drew a walk. And the scorecard travesty is just one example at the end of the round. Players are subject to this lunacy throughout the round. What drives me crazy is that there are now rules officials out walking with every group. It would seem quite logical to me that if questionable circumstances arise, it would be on the rules official to preemptively issue a ruling so that the player knows what they are facing. But no, they revel in lurking in the shadows and allowing players to walk into traps for which the officials can then gleefully destroy their round and tournament.

"Hey, rules official here, what's the best way to screw this guy? Keep it down, he's right beside me."

All this brings us to the asinine end to Sunday's PGA Championship. Dustin Johnson came to the 18th tee leading by one and proceeded to honk his drive into the area where the crowd had gathered. He headed over, cleared out a bit of space, and hit his second shot following his normal shot routine. That involved his club head touching the ground, and that would come back to haunt him. After finishing up with a bogey, he thought he was to be part of a three-man playoff. He was quickly informed otherwise by a rules official, who met him on the 18th green with a sad and somber look that I would have taken as genuine if I didn't know how those guys revel in these situations. Let's do one more test. What do you notice about this picture of Dustin Johnson hitting out of a "bunker" that is rather uncommon?



If you went with the fact that about 1,000 people are standing in the supposed bunker (including tournament marshals), you win! What an absolute joke and disgrace. As mad as I was watching it go down, what truly put me over the top was the predictable turn that Jim Nantz, chief announcer cheeseball and tour suck up, made as the situation progressed. There was about a 10 minute stretch from the time Johnson was first confronted on the 18th green until the official announcement of a two stroke penalty was made. During this time, Nantz slowly shifted from the initial stance of all the broadcast team, which was that there was no way that could be deemed a bunker, to the stance that it was a tough break but that technically is the rule so that's how it has to be.

And what was the net result? Dustin Johnson, an up and coming golfer that just might fit the bill of much needed rising superstar, sitting in the clubhouse while yet another also ran (Martin Kaymer) hoisted the trophy at a major championship. Rather than talking about the great shots of the week and whose game was on the rise, we're talking about the specifics of rules and the "integrity" of the game. It's just the way the PGA and USGA like it. Unfortunately for them, they're the only ones.

Things to Keep to Yourself

I don't normally post article links on here, but this one was too classic. While getting caught up on the world of figure skating (what?), I ran across the following headline:

Ex-skate champ Bobek gets probation on meth count

I was intrigued, so I clicked on the article. Apparently Nicole Bobek was once a successful skater but ended up involved in a crystal meth ring. She was sentenced to five years probation and, I think, now wants to get her life back on track. I'm not 100% certain, though, based on her quote about the whole situation...

"Nothing but positive things can come out of this," Bobek said outside the Jersey City courtroom where she was sentenced Monday. "It's been a long 1 1/2 years. I'm looking to get back onto that ice."

Hey hon, just a quick word of advice. If you're really "looking to get back onto that ice", you might want to keep that to yourself. That is, after all, what got you in trouble in the first place.

Nicole Bobek loves being on "ice"

The PGA Tour Is Doomed, Part I

I should have known better, I really should have. It's a significant statement about the appeal of the PGA tour as things currently stand that I only realized the PGA Championship, golf's fourth and final major of the year, started on Thursday while randomly checking Yahoo! Sports at work. I'm not a completely over-the-top follower of the PGA, but that I wouldn't even realize a major was going on would have been completely impossible prior to the past few months. Even worse, the realization that such a big tournament was getting underway didn't inspire me to get caught up and ready to get dialed in for some golf. No, it made me decide that this was the right time to completely skip out on the whole thing.

My rapidly disintegrating interest in professional golf is obviously tied in large part to the Tiger meltdown that started last Thanksgiving with him wrapping his SUV around a tree after firing off one too many texts to his collection of unseemly broads. I make no apology for the fact that I watched tour events largely to soak in the majesty of Tiger in top form. I had no problem with the networks' decision to continue covering Tiger even when he was 10 shots off the lead, as he was still more likely than anyone else to produce an insane shot, not to mention actually inject some life into the otherwise stodgy galleries.

Nonetheless, I stand ready and willing to watch some entertaining golf, even if Tiger's not going to be the one to produce it. Give me some sweet shot-making, a power swing, and (please don't forget this part, aspiring golf "super stars") a non-robotic course demeanor, and I'm in. Instead, major after major is being won by also rans who can be reliably counted on to fade back into the mediocrity that their game demands.

Louis Oosthuizen, winner of the 2010 British Open, and apparently less interesting that whatever is on the television

So knowing all of this, I steered clear of this past weekend's PGA Championship entirely. Until, that is, I returned home Sunday afternoon just in time to catch the final hole. How I wish I hadn't done that, for the mere 20 minutes I watched still has me infuriated a full 24 hours later.

More to come tomorrow in Part II...

Flying the Friendly Skies

So air travel's a blast, huh? I know this is news to no one, but it was driven home to me in painful fashion last week. I traveled to Minneapolis for a few days for work and was reminded of just how horrible the whole experience has become. The return flight was delayed, resulting in our landing at 11:30pm. As I still felt entitled to dinner, the end result was my sitting in the dark at home wiping the mayo off of a Wendy's spicy chicken sandwich at 12:45am on a Thursday night. Good times.

As annoyed as I was by that debacle, you can't get too upset about a flight delay of an hour and a half. The flight out on Tuesday was another matter, though. I'm not mad at the airline about this. I can't say I was actually mad at anyone, just very, very annoyed.

It started with me running a bit late (typical) as I rolled into the Atlanta airport. I pulled all the way up to the parking deck entrance before realizing that the only area with any open spaces was hourly. Faced with a time crunch, I hit the hourly zone hoping my employer would see fit to reimburse me. I then endured the misery that is security at Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport. You all know the drill- long lines, fellow travelers who missed the notice that you can't carry 48 ounce bottles of hair product through security since A DECADE AGO, stripping down to your boxers, redressing while your belongings continue moving down the conveyor belt.

So I was already in a state of semi-disarray as I stepped on board and headed for my seat in row 45. I was unaware that the engineers at Delta had even found a way to wedge that many rows in. As I finally arrived at row 45, I noticed a kid about 10 years of age already seated in the aisle seat. I was to endure this flight seated between him and a guy in the window seat halfway through a Domino's pizza he brought on board. The kid wasn't all that pleased with me at first. You see, he had already lowered his tray and set up a battle scene among eight or nine action figures he brought with him for the flight. And though he most assuredly enjoyed his enactment of some sort of battle for world domination among these action figures, complete with his replicating the sounds of flying and gunfire, I soon learned that there was something that he enjoyed even more- talking. Among the things I learned from my fellow traveler prior to his mom finally yelling at him to stop talking to me about three hours into the experience: there is some special feature to the chest plate in Iron Man's armor; he doesn't want to be a pilot because planes have too many buttons and he wishes they were like cars; he really likes Iron Man (this was proven when he put on a giant arm/wrist pseudo-weapon toy which he held up to the left of my face for a couple of minutes until I looked over; he would really like to meet Stan Lee, the creator of Marvel comics; he will never smoke but he might chew on cigars because that's not bad. I'm leaving out many, many things that I've managed to block from my memory. Did I mention that this flight was delayed as well and had no air conditioning in my part of the plane for the first hour I was on board?

I have more to say about airline travel in general, but I will save my complaints about people who recline their seats all the way back and the bag of eight microscopic pretzels they now serve you for another day.

A small portion of the scene to my left on last week's flight

Justin Bieber

One of the things I pride myself on is that I don’t, in the normal course of my daily affairs, punch 16-year old kids in the face. It’s just one of those rules I like to live by. I think perhaps I learned it in church. Regardless, I am pondering a one-time exception to my otherwise firm principle in the case of Justin Bieber.

My feelings took a turn from general annoyance to the just discussed rage after reading that Bieber, at the age of 16, is releasing his "memoir". I love the cover that they have been so kind as to release ahead of time, though. There's nothing that annoys me more than a memoir that is only 80%-90% official. Rest easy Bieber Nation, this one is 100% official!

We love u 2, Justin

But here’s the real question- what in the hell are people in their twenties (and older) doing listening to this stuff? While out this past weekend, I actually witnessed people theoretically old enough to be receiving paychecks from corporate America voluntarily dancing to one of his tunes. After a bit of follow up research, I believe the song in question was "Baby". I do have to admit that the lyrics are quite impressive for a lad of 16...

And I'm like
Baby, baby, baby ohh
Like
Baby, baby, baby noo
Like
Baby, baby, baby ohh
Thought you'd always be mine (mine)

I suppose it's just that kind of insight into the human condition that has fans on edge awaiting the October release of the book chronicling Justin's life journey thus far. I have no doubt that the prose will be on par with the great stories of Ernest Hemingway. We can only hope that, in similar fashion, the story ends with the main character getting gored by a bull or angry marlin.

Julia Roberts Follow Up

Murls, God bless you for addressing the absurdity of Julia Roberts' “iconic” status. It baffles me to no end, and I very nearly threw something at the screen the first time I had to endure the Julia Roberts playing Julia Roberts scene in Ocean’s 12.

I was a bit troubled that when you went searching the recesses of your mind for an ideal masseuse, the wheel stopped on Brigitte Nielsen. Even at her peak, as she stood by watching Ivan Drago get pumped full of ungodly substances prior to felling the great Apollo Creed in Rocky IV, she seemed a bit rough to me. And having been forced to sit through her season of Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew Pinsky, I can tell you it has gone downhill from there.

I believe there's been a mistake, I requested a female masseuse.

Otherwise, you were spot on. I'm not sure why you left out some of her other travesties, such as Stepmom, but perhaps you were just displaying a bit of mercy. I will say that for whatever reason, she annoyed me in Sleeping with the Enemy perhaps more than in any other film (excluding the previously discussed Ocean's 12 scene). Watching her and Kevin Anderson duel it out for cheeseball of the year made it hard not to find yourself rooting for the angry and unstable husband. The only thing I could never figure out is why in God's name the guy wanted her back badly enough to drive to Iowa to retrieve her in the first place.

Julia Roberts (and the annoying Kevin Anderson) from her most appealing angle in Sleeping with the Enemy

None of the Above

***Post by Murls

During a recent 'situation' in which I was kidnapped, bound and gagged, and forced to read People Magazine's 'Sexiest People' issue, I stumbled across the following poll:

This little example of hard-hitting journalism pretty much frames my long-running confusion with the altar upon which the world places Julia Roberts. She has been revered as the world's queen of actresses for at least a decade, and of all the most bankable actresses in Hollywood, she seems to hover above the rest of them in stature. In fact, if you were fortunate enough to endure the epic saga that is Oceans 12 you will remember that she even partook in a parody of herself; a parody in which she was so worshiped that she was given special access to some lame jewel-encrusted egg (which was eventually thought to be grinched by some dude in a tracksuit performing impossibly-lamer dance moves through lasers).

"My agent is so fired."

So we all agree that Julia Roberts is staggeringly famous and adored, right? The thing is, I don't think she's been in all that many good movies.

Nicholson, Duvall, Deniro, Pacino, even Leo . . . they are considered great and each have a handful of ridiculous movies in their quiver (gross). Lest you think I'm being sexist, we can say the same for Meryl Streep, Diane Keaton, etc. But here we have the hallowed Julia Roberts, and the list from which I should choose her best movie reads like a form of punishment for shoplifting in at least 9 states. Let's review:

Pretty Woman: Blockbuster, damn successful film, this cannot be denied. But what absolutely perplexes me is, why in the crapdom is this movie so iconic and considered a benchmark for romance? I believe I speak for every man on the planet here - she was a hooker!!! What in the pots and pans is romantic about a chick that has anything to do with being a hooker?! I realize that kissing a frog and having it turn into Prince Charming is a bit outdated, but no way little girls across America are now daydreaming of turning a few tricks with some fat bald men en-route to meeting Mr. Right. Maybe throw in a crack pipe and some track marks just so you can say you had the full experience?

Nobody finds love on an empty stomach.

Oh, and also, SHE WAS A HOOKER!

My Best Friend's Wedding: Sorry, I'm finding it difficult to type with this pencil in my eye. Once this film ends I will remove it. We'll talk soon.

Charlie Wilson's War: Pardon me? That was a movie? It had Tom Hanks in it too?! Soooooo . . . it's a nice piece of revisionist history involving the least interesting characters to ever be allegedly linked to the most obscure aspect of the Cold War in the 1980's, AND it's a politics play. You know what, cancel my 4 o'clock massage with Brigitte Nielsen, I'm in.

Wait. Shoot. I can't decide.

Erin Brockovich: Good movie, good acting, good actress. Bravo, Julia, seriously.

Runaway Bride: Spoiler alert!

"That's a wrap!"

No, I Don't Watch That Show!!!

I feel like at least once a week, I have a conversation that goes a little something like this:

Friend/Acquaintance: "Hey, do you watch (insert name of trendy cable show)?"
Craig: "Oh yeah, uh, yeah, well no, well I've seen it a couple of times but I can never remember to watch it on a regular basis. Yeah, but it seems really sweet."
Friend/Acquaintance: "You should watch it", with a look of scorn and disapproval.

I'm sorry! I can't keep up! Earlier tonight I started thinking about taking the $13 per month gut punch and resubscribing to HBO and then broke into a sweat when I remembered that some of the hip shows are now on Showtime. Maybe HBO isn't cool anymore; maybe Curb Your Enthusiasm and Entourage are yesterday's news. Showtime has shows about serial killers, lesbians, and pot. Seems trendy to me, but then I won't have time for the shows about vampires!

As I have mentioned, some of the TV viewing time in my house is burned on shows that have no place in a respectable society. Still, there's seriously no way to keep up. I pondered trying to climb on board the Mad Men bandwagon this summer, but we missed the season premiere and I don't know if I have it in me to try to catch up.

It just seems like it was a better setup back in the heyday of network TV, when there were three legitimate channels and everybody watched whatever made it into the prime time slots. I guess I should embrace the progress and the fact that programming options are so abundant. My glorified view of 1980's television overlooks the fact that people were so short on options that they actually kept Hotel and Falcon Crest on the air for five and nine seasons, respectively.

Why, yes, our show did suck, but at least people knew where to find it.

It's really just part of the larger narrative of my falling behind the times in general. I think the government is in initial discussions to have my house listed on the National Register of Historic Places due to the fact that you can find both a home telephone and actual CDs inside.

Stuff About Stuff and Having Too Much of It

Whoa, say what? While in Nantucket last week, I ventured into a local bookstore in search of tales of the sea or perhaps a nautical map that appeared to hail from centuries ago. Though sadly much of the store turned out to be run of the mill bookstore fare, I did find a couple of books and a magazine worthy of purchase. As I stood in line, I noticed the guy in front of me head toward the exit with a book about "stuff". I thought nothing of it and made my way to the counter, unaware that I was headed for some serious irony.

As I stepped up, the lady behind the counter informed me that they were giving away a free book and tote bag to everyone making a purchase. Okay, I guess I'm all for some free stuff I thought. Perhaps it's something with a bit of local Nantucket flair or something tied to the island's whaling past? Nope...



That's right, it's a book about how we all have too much stuff and how that fact is destroying our lives and the planet. And how best to promote such a minimalist philosophy? Why, by handing out unsolicited copies of your book and a similarly themed tote bag to people who have expressed no discernible interest in them of course. Unreal. Alanis Morissette, in the unlikely event that you Google yourself and find yourself reading this blog, that's ironic.

Why yes Alanis, it is ironic.

Power Outages, Vacation, and the Philly Connection

A power outage here at the house tonight almost prevented my posting for another day, but thankfully I am back up and running. There is nothing more instantly debilitating than losing power at your house. When I arrived home from work to a powerless house, my thought process went something like this.

6:30 (Pulling into driveway) "Hey, the garage door opener isn't working."
6:32 (Walking into house and noticing all lights and appliances off) "Ahh, it looks like a power outage is to blame."
6:33-6:40 (Walking around outside with dogs) "Hmmm, I guess the computer and television will be unavailable."
6:41 "Wait, I can't heat up or in any other manner prepare food."
6:41:30 "Wait, it's too dark to read in here."
6:42 (While standing in the closet with a candle looking for a t-shirt) "Uhhh..."

And that, my friends, is how you find yourself sitting solo with a magazine and an oversized sandwich at a Philly Connection 15 minutes from your house at 7pm on a rainy Monday night. It's not a good place to be mentally. Actually, it's just literally not a good place to be. Luckily, I called home and the answering machine picked up, confirming that power had been restored. It was just in the nick of time as well, for my next move was to go watch the movie Salt by myself had the power still been out.

A far cry from last week, which we spent in Boston and Nantucket. We had a fantastic time in both places. In Boston, we walked around and saw a number of the historical sites in addition to taking in a Red Sox game at Fenway. Let me offer this piece of advice. If you find yourself in Boston looking for Fenway, do not operate under the otherwise reasonable assumption that people wearing Red Sox shirts and jerseys must certainly be headed to the same place you are. I pity Paul Pierce or Tom Brady mulling about that town searching in vain for someone sporting Celtics or Patriots gear. Over the course of three days I saw zero Bruins clothing items, one Patriots t-shirt, and two Celtics items (one shirt and one hat, I believe). Red Sox gear, meanwhile, is everywhere. It is unreal.



After Boston, it was on to Nantucket, which is just a flat out different world. Anytime in the course of a day you can notice a ring for sale for $121,000, a woven basket for sale for $2,500, and then sit next to a guy at a bar who starts off a conversation- "well the thing about snow in Vermont is...", you know you have ventured onto foreign turf. It was a beautiful place, though, and we had a great time. While walking around the island, I came upon this gravestone. If you have to go, and I suppose we all do, this seems like about as good a writeup as you can have...

He was a seaman on board the ship Northumberland 84 guns under the command of Sir Geo. Cockburn that conveyed Napoleon Bonaparte to St. Helena in 1815 and received marked notice from the Great Emperor. He was also a seaman in the Albion 74 in the attack on the city of Washington in 1814. In 1820 he was shipwrecked on the island of Nantucket where he resided the remainder of his life. He was well known as a successful master rigger for 50 years. Honored for his integrity, respected for his uniform courtesy and beloved for his kindness and generosity.

I'm Back!

Well, after a fantastic week in Boston and Nantucket, I am back home and back on the blog. Permit me this Sunday evening to hole up and recover, and then I'll be back with more. I was going to try to post something more substantial, but I started off by going to Google image search. I see that even something that ran as smoothly as Google Images can't be left unchanged these days for too long. Thanks Google, it wasn't nearly challenging enough before when you could just type in what you were looking for and have returned to you pages with a manageable number of pictures and a brief description that made it clear why this picture might be relevant to your search. Far better, apparently, to barrage my screen with hundreds of pictures requiring me to scroll over them to understand what marginal similarity they might bear to my search. Things I don't enjoy- Sunday nights, change, and Google images.

My next post will have a brief trip recap and will be of a much sunnier disposition. I was going to close with some relevant- yet still humorous- picture but, ah you get the idea...

Brace Yourselves

Can I ask you to take a seat please? Are you sitting down? Okay, I need to let you know something. I am headed out on vacation tomorrow morning, and as such there is likely to be only a single post next week. I know, I know, its going to be a struggle for you. We are headed to Boston and Nantucket for a little R&R. I plan on posting something mid-week. Until then, I'm out!

A Note to All You IT Guys

If you are in the network engineering field or in IT more generally, please read this. I had a conference call with a couple of network engineers at my company yesterday. Without getting into specifics, their team rolled out a project a couple of months ago that triggered some unintended consequences for me and some vendors with which I work. They are now about to roll out phase two, and so they did me the courtesy of placing a call to discuss the status of their corrections for the first set of issues. Fantastic! Thanks for the kind gesture...or so I thought.

I have one thing I would like people in IT to realize- the rest of us don't know what in the hell you are talking about! After some brief introductions, they launched into the details of what had happened and what was in store for me when they rolled out phase two (which they were very excited about). I pulled my Post-It Note pad close and tried to capture the essence of the call. This is what I honestly ended up with...

"Great, thanks for the call, I think I've got it."

Farewell, My Friend

Last night as I was about to hop in bed, I grabbed a wadded up shirt to don for the night. Then it hit me that this shirt, now serving as a last line of defense for our bedding against the inevitable Monday night sweats, was once a proud member of my wardrobe. In happier times this shirt spent its days on a hanger amongst other clothing items that might be selected at any time to be worn in public settings. Now, like a great pitcher five years past his prime, it was being called on for mop-up duty.

The downward spiral of a great t-shirt is a lengthy, and ultimately depressing, path. Unlike when you notice a glaring rip in your boxers and start the six month wind down process (six months is about right, no?), the t-shirt is capable of hanging on for years past the time when decency should have demanded its retirement. And hang onto it you will, for it is indeed rare to find the shirt that hits the mark on every possible attribute- overall length, fit, sleeve length, neck size, neckband width, material weight, and style.

In its infancy, a top notch t-shirt can find itself being called on as a fashion statement in social settings. Once a bit of visible wear-and-tear sets in, a downgrade to errand running and milling about the house duty is in store. Finally, the former alpha shirt finds itself resembling Swiss cheese, partially see through, sporting an armpit hole large enough to fit your arm through it, and being called on for a yard mowing session or a night of sleep when the forecast calls for heavy sweat.

The great champion, in its final days

Over The Hill

As I type this, I am embarrassed to note that Lionel Richie is playing in the background on iTunes. That embarrassment will be short lived, though, my friends. Not because the song will come to its end momentarily. No, it is because when I awaken tomorrow I will officially be an old man, and old men may freely jam out to Lionel without a care in the world. I may no longer be able to navigate my way to that song if I accidentally accept the download of the latest version of iTunes, which will assuredly be a technological bridge too far for me. Should I encounter Say You, Say Me or Penny Lover, though, my 36 full years on this earth will entitle me to sweet enjoyment. Yes, my birthday is tomorrow. I shall bid farewell to year number 35 and begrudgingly usher in the back half of the thirties.

Today while waiting dutifully in line to purchase the 20 oz. Diet Mountain Dew required to power me through the afternoon, I was forced to listen to the abomination that is Lady Gaga on the radio behind the register. For just a moment I worried that my desire to shove my fist through the radio was a sign of my old man instincts kicking in, that I was officially out of touch with pop culture. But then it hit me- there's nothing wrong with being appalled by an "artist" for whom these are the suggested search results...


So I will look to moments of enlightenment such as that to offset the sinking feeling I get the next time I can't figure out how to operate an iPad.

Craig D'Arcy, age progressed to tomorrow morning.

God Bless You, King James

I had begun to lose hope. It's been a long, long time since I've been passionate about the NBA. Certainly I've tuned in to watch the Hawks get mauled in the postseason, but for the most part I had reached the point of indifference. But perhaps just in the nick of time LeBron James has come to my rescue. I realized tonight, while suffering through ESPN's stomach turning special in which he announced his decision to join the Miami Heat, that I believe I now hate LeBron James enough to pique my interest in the NBA.

It was hard to say whether the whole disgusting production left me angrier with James or ESPN. From Stuart Scott continually referring to James as The King to the perfectly placed Vitamin Water reach-in cooler behind James in the gym from which he crushed the collective heart of Cleveland, it was appalling. The very fact that LeBron and his entourage went to ESPN and engineered airing the whole thing on a special entitled The Decision is beyond disgusting. It's what 17 year old high school kids do to announce what college they're attending, not what 25 year old "men" do when hopping on the first train out of a town that worshiped them. Not to mention the fact that I view his decision as a cop out. Unlike Jordan, Kobe, Magic, and Bird, he couldn't get it done on his own. So he's taking his ball, his ego, and his sycophant posse to South Beach. Perhaps the most annoying part of his announcement was the fact that I think he's lying about when he actually made his decision. I don't believe for a second that he made his final decision this morning. I think he's known it for at least a week and probably for longer than that. Otherwise, I don't think Chris Bosh would have already committed to the Heat. For LeBron to actively play a role in building the whole situation up just so he could maximize the shock value of his decision strikes me as petty and obnoxious.

It works out great for me, though. LeBron has taken a huge step towards joining two former stars for whom my hatred ran deep- Michael Jordan and Isiah Thomas. That might just be enough to get me back into the NBA again (at least until the inevitable strike next summer). If I can get the image of Linda Cohn and the voice of Stuart Scott out of my head before my nightly dreams kick in, the hour I spent forcing myself to watch The Decision may have been well worth it.

LeBron says goodbye to Cleveland, and I say hello to my new least favorite player.

Correction

Since I strive for accuracy here on the blog, I felt the need to make a correction. While walking down the hall at work today, it dawned on me that I slightly misstated the reason I started my personal boycott of Atlanta Bread Company in a recent post (yes, these are the things that bounce around my brain while at work). I wasn't mad specifically about the limited amount of turkey I received. What angered me was the fact that I didn't want any of the standard sandwich fillers- lettuce, tomato, etc. I did however request a slice of Swiss cheese. When I realized that I was charged an extra $0.75 for the cheese, even though my sandwich was approximately 1/3 as large as everyone else rolling through the line, the boycott commenced. Just needed to set the record straight.

It was the cheese!