Random Thoughts On A Sunday:

Christmas Music III: Here's the best Canadian Christmas music that isn't Bob & Doug or Anne Murray.

Santa's Gonna Kick Your Ass – By the Arrogant Worms

Robot Parade – Not to be confused with the Robot Nine parade.

Now try to get THAT out of your head.

Random Act Of Kindness – For those of you who are wondering if there are any good people left in the world: A friend of mine and her boyfriend took a cab up to my place Saturday night, and she ended up leaving her wallet in the cab. Luckily, this is FAR from the first time she's done this, so her wallet contains the bare minimum: license, cash card, credit card, and some cash. Everything got canceled pretty easily, and the festivities resumed. @2:30 this afternoon, the cabbie called me (based on the change of address card she had in her wallet that she used to provide him my street address), and he's returning the wallet when he gets back on shift.

Christmas Music Part II

Part 1

Just a quick one today. Having some friends over tonight, and if I don't get off the internets soon and get working, I'm screwed. And not in a good way.

So here's a couple vidz for you who are slipping out of the Christmas spirit or into the Christmas "spirits".

Take 'er easy.

Ho Ho Fucking Ho



It's Christmas and I Wonder Where I Am

The Greatest Class Ever - Part II

So, in part one, I mentioned that we all had to do a project, I could go on and on about the estimated 100 hours I spent cranking this puppy out on my C64, etc. But I'm going to apply the lesson I learned 22 years ago, "Shut up and play the cartoon!"

Just A few points:
- Most of the jokes in the trailer fail now. Not like they killed then, either.
- Yes, I did steal that joke from Bambi Meets Godzilla. (Fear the Deer!)
- Last I knew, the C64 still worked. But it's been in storage for 10 years. Fired up maybe once in that time.

And now here's something we hope you really like…

Zippy the Zeppelin



I'm still waiting for the academy.

The Greatest Class Ever

...And from then on, that maneuver would forever be known as 'a Chronkee*'.

(The following story is the truth as I would testify to it in a court of law 20 some years later. *Names and in some cases genders have been slight altered to almost protect the guilty. Anyone choosing to quibble on details, STFU & GTFO! This is true to me, so help me God.)

It was January of 1987. I'd just turned 21 that December (a subtle hint that my birthday is rapidly approaching). And my college offers a 1 month intensive study term called "J-Term". And I took the greatest class ever offered on a college or university, ever.

The Miami Gator football team would be jealous.

1 month.
Pass/fail (except for "Timmy Durgan" who took it as an "Art History" class)
To pass, you had to attend 75% of the classes (I want to say they ran from 11 to 2 or noon to 3 or something) and "do a project".
That was your ONLY class that day. That month.

The class? (Cue that heavenly "LAAAA" effect and golden ray of sunshine) History of Animation!

That's right. After a brief lecture on style and influence, we watched cartoons. Yes, Dr. Zibbs, (NSFW!) Fritz the Kat was shown. It so didn't age well that I left half way thru that.

How hard were the projects? One "Alexis-Gale Vez" got up and talked about Mighty Mouse for 5 minutes off the top of her head. But some people did put some effort in. Whether true on not, Laugh is getting credit for doing one of those "flip book" things.

But, the legendary event was the History of Animation Party. Before the class where they were showing "The Sword in the Stone" a good number of us got together got together for some serious drinking. Others were doing strawberry schnapps and 7up. And I think there was a bottle of Mad Dog something floating around.

We all got very drunk, and staggered off to class. Someone who was crashing the class that day (the class was so cool, people in other classes crashed on Fridays, because there was no lecture, just cartoons) said that when we staggered in, the placed reeked of alcohol. I sat near the front of the maybe 30ish some class, but about 1/e way thru, I caught a strong whiff of strawberry, and a girl in a pink and terrycloth rain jacket (they were popular at the time) whizzed past me and out of the room. Never to return. Not like she died or something, she just didn't come back. I heard later that she didn't make it to the bathroom, and puked in her coat pocket instead.

...And from then on, that maneuver would forever be known as 'a Chronkee'.

"But Scope," you ask, "what was your project?"

To be continue...

Homeless Chic: Part II

So I lied. This is really more of a 'Tangent' than a 'Part II'

(For a trip to one of the greatest websites, ever, hop in the 'WayBack Machine' and visit LPTrixie.)

The Lincoln Park Trixie ('LPT' or 'Trixie' for short) is basically described by both the Urban Dictionary and Wikipedia as (for those to lazy to do the "clicky" thing) as:

"20 or 30-something female found in Chicago, IL. Their migration patterns, though originating in Lincoln Park, include Bucktown/Wicker Park, Lincoln Park, Gold Coast, Wrigleyville, Lakeview, and, increasingly, the West Loop. They are easily identifiable by their fair skin, blond hair (or at least with highlights), good purse, manicured feet/hands, and Starbucks cup. They are born in the Midwest but have found Michigan or Ohio to be so passé so they moved to the big city. The preferred form of transportation is the VW Jetta or Honda Accord. They have typically graduated from large state universities with good football teams and mediocre academics. Trixies tend to live and work in Chicago but hate their job although they will tend to stick with it as it accommodates their "urban" lifestyle. Trixies have nice belongings (clothes, shoes, purse, car) but tend to be cash-poor as they must maintain their standard of living. Trixies are typically attracted to Midwestern, frat-boy types: 30-years old and still wearing baseball hats backwards and rugby shirts with horizontal stripes. They will stick with these douche bags as they are buying time until they can get married as the large engagement ring is a sign of rank in their social circles, much like chevrons & rockers in military insignia."

Until my recent move to Lincoln SQUARE, I lived in Lincoln PARK (the neighborhood, not the namesake park) right near Trixie Central. The shops on Armitage and Halsted. No, not those shops, that's further up Halstead in Boystown. But, "The Manhandler" bar (as the sign says, "Park In Rear", God, I wish I was making that up) IS located next to the ultimate Trixie watering hole, Tilllie's, so I can understand the confusion.

I lived one block down the street from Tillie's, and I ate there, once. In the first month I lived in the neighborhood. And never went back. Not once in the next 9 years. The food was good. The Trixies were just to thick in there I got hives walking by.

Imagine all the cheerleaders and English majors from high school who went to state schools, but failed to earn their "MRS" degree. They flock like moths to an O'Fame, in their pink "Michigan" shirts to that one intersection, and then spreading out. Good thing carbs became evil so they somewhat stayed out of the Pasta Palazzo.

At this point, I feel I must state that I never dated a Trixie, was rejected by a Trixie, or have had any serious Trixie run-ins. I get that I'm not a "Chad". I'm old. But not Sugar Daddy, "Viagra Triangle" old. But damn, if I want to sit in Oz on a summer Sunday "doing my crossword puzzle" (which is code for "doing my crossword puzzle") you don't have to toss down your blanket to sun bathe and then give me the "stink eye" like I'm some pervert*.

I was there first.
And you work in HR in my office.
We've work on the same floor for 2 years.
I smiled because I recognized you.
Bitch.

Take heart and do not be fooled. There are anti-Trixies out there.

They may drive an Accord.
They may enjoy a night out at trendy bars with cute friends.
They may even wear a pink Cubs hat.

But they go to Wrigley and can tell you the score, inning, and who's pitching.

Congratulations MelO**, you are the anti-Trixie.

* Or at least no more of a pervert than the next guy, especially if I'm standing between Zibbs and Moe.
** Of course Gwen, Candy, H, JJ, Ms. FLA X-Plant, Sass, LYDIA, et al you would also be anti-Trixies, if you lived in "Chicagoland."

Homeless Chic: Part I

[Attention: This whole story is a work of fiction. Except for the poncho.]

A few years back, I was at the North/Clybourn train station, it was off hours, and there was this disheveled young woman sitting on the bench, ranting to herself, and waving a cup at me. Feeling a bit charitable, I flipped 50¢ into her cup. Turns out, I just drop two quarters into an L.P.T.'s (Lincoln Park Trixie) double skinny latte.

Among the lessons learned:
- Bluetooth earpieces are getting smaller all the time.
- You don't have to be homeless to wear an afghan out in public.

I know what you're thinking: anybody wearing an afghan in public HAS to be homeless. Au contraire, mon fraire! It took a fully loaded Kate Spade bag upside my head to figure out that the crocheted, fringed square with a hole in the center was a "poncho", not an "afghan" or a "fishing net remnant".

But to tell the truth, if it's 4 foot on a side, and crocheted with yarn in a clam shell stitch, sister, you're wearing an afghan.

What's the next bit of homeless chic?

15 plastic shopping bags wrapped around your feet instead of stilettos?

To be continued ...

[MelO - Thanks for the idea about doing the to be continued post, even if I'm not doing it right.]

Go To Hill, Part II*

Sorry for the links.

Yesterday was about me trying to reach Poobomber's level of Photoshop skills (Exhibit A) (Exhibit B), not really about Hillary. Everyone is entitled to their opinions, and I'm cool with that. ("Disagree without being disagreeable") I have a general feel for my audience, and wasn't surprised by any reactions.

But, just so I don't get labeled as a "hater" let me explain why I'm not a fan of Hillary's, and then I can move on to posts about flying monkeys and Lincoln Park Trixies. (Not to be confused with Giggle Pixie)

- She's a horrible liar. And by that, I mean she does it badly, and over stupid stuff. Like this, and this, and this. At least Ted lied about the big one, and kept to the lie. Gotta admire the chops.

- If Vince Foster would have had a gun, he might be alive today. Normally I'm not a conspiracy theorist, but mmmm…

- The whole 2-for-1 and health care thing. (Too lazy to find a link/ Google it your own damn self :-) )

- As a resident of Cook County, in the great corrupt state of Illinois, people getting political offices (not jobs of Streets and Sanitation, "ELECTED" offices) just because they are related to someone bugs me to know end. (And it sort of bugs me about W., but at least he was a governor first.)

To recap the current second generation that I can think of OFF THE TOP OF MY HEAD:

Daley – Richard M., Mayor of Chicago, son of Richard J., Mayor of Chicago. Richie actually took some time between the transfer, around 13 years. It's his job for life. He knows it. He acts like it.

Madigan – Lisa, Attorney General of the State of Illinois, daughter of Michael, Speaker of the Illinois House of Representatives.

Blagojevich – Rod, Governor of Illinois, son in law of Chicago Alderman Richard Mell. (He's so going to jail eventually.)

Jackson – Jessie, Jr., US House of Representatives, son of Rev. Jesse Jackson. Jr's wife Sandi is on the Chicago City Counsel (a seat that William Beavers had given to his daughter, Darcel, but she lost it to Sandi in the next election.), and don't forget how Jesse got his other son's a beer distributorship.

Stroger – Todd given dad's place in general election after father John suffered a stroke 1 week before the primaries, but was elected anyway.

Steele – Robert (son) was given mother Bobbie's seat as a county commissioner AFTER his mother won the general election and then retired.

Sorry for this rant. I really wanted to bitch about economist wrongly predicting Black Friday, but then, stating with authority that it's not an indicator of the whole shopping season. Well, you know damn well if they would have been RIGHT it would have been a sign. You were wrong. You are not an expert. Shut up and go away. Stop terrorizing people into a recession, just so you can say with glee that you were right. You know who should lose their jobs in this economy? Economic experts who claim to predict the future, but are worse then the weather people!

And another thing…

[Deep breath. Try to relax..]




[*Sorry, MelO, but this is not a planned "Part II" so it doesn't count. :-) ]

America's Going To HILL

I'm just trying to get ahead of the news. This is the worst kept "secret" of all time. You're gonna guess that I'm not exactly a fan. If the people of New York want to make her a Senator because her husband got a hummer from an intern, fine. (And at least he LIKES them.) But when do we have to stop giving this person jobs? She has a law degree and can find one herself.

I made these for the primaries this spring, and then reworked one for a PhotoShop contest over here.

But since she'll be in the news today, and I was too busy decorating yesterday to really craft something…

My apologies to any Milla Jovovich fans who will now no longer be able to enjoy 'The 5th Element'. (Actually, I take that back. If you enjoyed that crapfest of a movie, you deserve it.)

Fun and Game Hens

In honor the iNDefatigable mjenks' much funnier post on poultry cooking fiascos, I have a confession to make.

Back when we were roommates, T-Bone decided (notice how it's always his ideas that lead to trouble?) it would be nice for us to cook for our girlfriends. The menu was Cornish game hens stuffed with wild rice. All the shopping and prep work went fine, this time, the oven was set to pre-heat. All was right with the world and we just had to wait for the girls to call and say were on their way (both were notoriously late) before starting the game hens.

When the calls arrived and out dates were in transit, we opened the oven to put in the 4 birds … ICE COLD!!! Son of a biscuit eater this isn't good. It wasn't the pilot, there was no gas going to the over. Range top? Yes. Oven? SHIIIIIIIIT! Out door grill? Don't have one!

In a panic, we shoved 2 birds at a time into my small, underpowered microwave, and blasted the hell out of them for 20 minutes a set. All the while, the BIG STALL was going on. One of us was out charming the girls, plying them with wine, keeping them out of the kitchen.

Then, oh Lord, we declared the chickens, "done enough", crossed out fingers, and said a quick prayer to Hestia, (but it should have been Tykhe) and served the, let me repeat this, the "done enough" chickens.

No one died. No one got sick. No one got lucky.

The women were gracious. They did not mock us. But, I'm pretty sure that they actually didn't consume any of the "done enough" chickens" either.

And that was our only double date.

[UPDATE - 2008-12-01 - Facts in dispute - T-Bone's ex disputes the fact that she is "always late." To be fair, she's right. My ex was ALWAYS late. Near the end, I started lying to her about what time things were scheduled in a futile attempt to be there only a half an hour late. For movies and dinner reservations, it matters, okay!?!?]

SCOPE-TECH Presents: S.P.A.M.I.S.H.

It'll drive ya BUGGY!
For when you're hungry enough to eat a horse.
How can you say, "Nay"?
It'll trip your TRIGGER!
S.P.A.M.I.S.H. Select - in the SILVER can
Who said, "There's no sense EATING a dead horse"?
We bet it won't sit around FURLONG, and your family will beg for a DAILY DOUBLE helping.
S.P.A.M.I.S.H.: It's PERFECTA
S.P.A.M.I.S.H.: Specially Processed Amish Meat - Its Spammed Horse
Horse meat. It's not just for dog food anymore.
It's CHEVAL the French will eat.

* This product has no relationship to that Hormel product made of Squirrels, Possums, and Mice.
** Makers of S.P.A.M.I.S.H. apologize for all Amish folks reading this blog.

The Sabbatical

All right, you've fooled around long enough. I've mentioned it. I've danced around the edges. I've stuck a toe in it, so let's just get it over with.

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times."

The first 14 years of my career were spent doing multi-currency financial reporting and budgeting systems for Arthur Andersen. It was fun. I loved my job. I liked the people I worked with. I was challenged. Then some folks in Dallas don’t practice proper document retention policies* and the government scapegoats 88,000 people for the Enron thing. While the accountants and consultants landed on their feet, we back office people weren't so lucky.

But, I got to stay on for a while with full pay, sorting backup tapes until the end of September, 2002.

And 'the Sabbatical' began. I did get 14 weeks of severance and insurance lasting into the new year. Plus unemployment benefits. Plus I had a condo down payment saved up. Money wasn't really an issue. (No wife / kids / pets either. I do have A (1) plant, but it's not too demanding.)

I traveled to Arizona to visit T-Bone and Mrs. IVy.
I saw the Grand Canyon.
I went for a run most every day.
I applied to the same 15 jobs every day.
I won a radio contest.
I had, then lost a girlfriend (actually a rarity for me).
I started the website that was the precursor to this blog. And wrote this, and this, and this, and this on it. (What did you think the tag 'Archive' meant?)
I turned running into training for a marathon when I realized that 7 mile runs were now "short runs". (I have since quite running. Knee issues.)
I applied to the same 15 jobs every day.
I had 1 interview in May, with Wa-Mu.
I got one snail-mail rejection letter and was so happy to know that not all my applications were just sent down into a black hole that I actually cried tears of happiness over a REJECTION LETTER.

As the summer of 2003 wound down, I was seriously starting to think about getting that "stop the bleeding" job in retail. That's when I got a call from my old manager, 'Magill' called and asked if I would be up for a temp job at a new company she was at. I had to apply and everything, and it was supposed to last only 6 months, but she needed someone she could trust to work this second shift position. I knew nothing about the application I would be working on, or the tools I would be using, but I applied and accepted the job.

On October 12, 2003, I ran the Chicago Marathon in 4:21:48. So dead on 10 minutes miles, and it felt great.

On October 13, 2003, the Sabbatical ended as I started my new job, and the next phase in my life. (*part of my job is the enforcement of proper document retention policies. Oh the irony.)

I have since changed jobs, but still report to Magill. I still keep in touch with a lot of the Andersen folks. I have / do work with some. Bought a condo from one. Have a Pictionary** party planned with another in December. We're a bit like war buddies. We get it. We understand.

I learned a lot about myself that year. I know what retirement is like. I learned that while history repeats itself, the History Channel repeats itself like every 3 hours.

"Some of it's magic. Some of it's tragic. But I had a good life all the way." Love the quote. HATE the song.


**Once in college, they had a Pictionary contest in the dining hall. I had to draw the clue 'pussy footing around'. After T-Bone shouting "cat foot" "kick the cat" I was force to "go blue." Didn't work, but was amusing when the phrase was read aloud.

T-Day

I know I mentioned my love for this episode of WKRP in Cincinnati back here, but I love it so much, I had to feature it rather than just make it a throw away side joke, like that Jell-O with the shredded carrots. (Seriously, what's up with THAT?) This brought me to tears in my youth, and when I watched it the other day, it was just as good. Maybe like Thanksgiving leftovers, it was even a little bit better than when it was new.

So, if the parades are over and the football games haven't start, and seriously, like you're going to watch the Lions, hop over to Hulu for the Full Episode. You won't regret it.

WKRP in Cincinnati: Thanksgiving Turkey Bomb!

And here's another little ditty for you.

Now, off to watch the Lions. What, it's that or talk to my family.

Christmas Music

* Warning all links with a '*' will play music. If you don't want sound where you are, don't do the "clicky" thing.

You know, I like Christmas. I get jazzed for it. I'm a 40+ bachelor, and there are 80 people on my Christmas card list. And I take it seriously. Each box of cards has a number. A person is assigned a number. The Excel spreadsheet is then sorted to make sure members of close families don't get the same card, if possible. That also assists in the filling out process, so you can do one type of card at a time, and not have to flip between boxes. (Of course I sort the envelopes by zip code before taking them to the post office. I'm not some kind of heathen.)

And you folks thought Candy had OCD looking for this.

Each of the 80 will get a card.

With a hand written note.

Envelope? All filled out by hand.

Not even return address labels.

But I can't bring myself to do one of those 'Christmas newsletters' things. Even a parody one.

And I love Christmas music. Not enough to "Turn On The Light*" yet, mind you. But enough to wait for that one new song to catch me for the season.

Last year, it was Kevin Maney's "Reindeer Song*".

A few year's back, it was The Christmas Jug Band's "Santa Lost A Ho*" (Sorry, could only find a clip.)

And now, here's something that takes one of my all-time favorites, craps on it, bitch slaps it, and then swabs it under the toilet rim of a Thai whorehouse.

If you EVER want to enjoy "Carol of the Bells" again, do not watch this:




And a SPECIAL one for Zibbs.

[FYI - Yes, I know Candy wrote same thing here. But this was already in the can and scheduled, and I'm not about to throw it away.]

Gonna Buy Me A Condo

I know I have mentioned briefly here and there, but this June, I became a new condo owner. I rented for 7,300 days between when I moved into my first apartment, and my condo closing.

The long story, told short. Or not.

I'd been saving up a down payment for a while. Old school, 20%. And in the spring of 2002, I was seriously planning it. Talked to my real estate agent Kathie, and was really serious. But my company was sorta in the whole "Enron thing" so I decided to sit pat, and see what was going to happen. Good thing I did, because by that fall, I was partaking in my 53 week forced 'sabbatical' others would call 'unemployment'. That's a story for another time. Needless to say, the down payment took a bit of a hit while I was living off it that year. But thank the gods that I had it, eh?

Then, with my 20th anniversary of living on my own approaching, I had to do something. I'd been in my current place since the summer of '99, and while it was a nice, modern, one bedroom apt. in a really nice section of Lincoln Park that is kinda Old Town-ish, it was time. I had a full 20% down, and with the other stuff reminding me that I'm not a kid anymore, it was just time to do something nice for myself.

And, as my real estate agent Kathie (same one) told me, I was in a great position. I was a first time buyer (no contingency) with 20% to put down and great credit. (Kathie facts: Both she and her husband are former co-workers of mine, both of whom I've known for like, 10 – 15 years; She was EXTREMELY pregnant at the time of the search (was due 1 week after my closing date); and she's afraid of birds.) We went out looking a few times, and I saw some nice stuff, but never had that "you'll know" moment people talk about. I though it was a load of carp. "When you see it, you'll know." Yeah right.

I saw it. And I knew.

Totally pissed me off.

But it was the last place we'd seen on a day when we saw maybe 20 units across 12 properties. So we went out one more time, and then I narrowed it down to the final three. I took another friend with me to serve as the objective critical eye on the 'Night of the Second Showings'. And she told me that I'd be a complete IDIOT not to buy my place. (But probably didn't sugar coat it that much.) And I knew it, too. Of course it's at the very top of my price range, but it's new construction 2 BR, 2 BA with den, garage parking, blah, blah, blah.

You got a little glimpse in the chili posting, but why don't I just show you.



Yeah. Sick and I love it. The only upgrade in the place? The ceiling fan in the "dining room." There was a hanging light there, but since I knew that I was going to be putting my computer there, and I knew that I'm 6'5", that light had to go.

Oh, and the door mat you can't read is THIS one.

That Time Of The Year

Time to bring in the brass monkeys.

I consider myself fairly cold tolerant. I haven't put the liner in the leather jacket I use as a winter coat. Ever. I'm the guy you see in the grocery store in January wearing a sweatshirt, shorts, and Crocs.

But there comes a time when you cannot deny that 'tis the season to roll up the garden hose (don't have one), empty the bird baths (nope, none of those, either), and bring the brass monkeys (oh yeah), lest you have to spend all winter welding their bollocks back on. (And if you look real close, one still does have the old "twig and berries" attached.)

A few brass monkey thoughts:

- The origin that you think you know about the phrase is actually wrong.
- Yup, that monkey is holding this photo.
- No, that is not the limit of my monkey collection. But like Candy and her skulls, I am discerning on what is allowed in.
- Yes, I know they all aren't brass.
- Yes, in the early 90's I was in Mons, Belgium, and was photographed, "buffing the monkey." (Note, I am using the correct, left hand.)


But enough monkey business for one day.


Okay, maybe one more.

[EJC - 7:22 - Post updated so top picture would show in this frak'n narrow space.]