ThereÂ’s a phenomena in my neighborhood that I just donÂ’t understand. I see it every day driving in and out. People open their garage doors, set a lawn chair just inside the open door, and stare into the street. Are they on patrol? Whatever, I wish they would go inside and seal themselves in like I do. I donÂ’t like a lot of activity near my abode. Perhaps the cold weather will drive them in where they belong.

I get run off the road at least three times a week. When I finally chase the culprits down, without exception, they are all talking on a cell phone.

On a similar but different note, IÂ’m finding it more difficult every day to merge onto the freeway. It seems that people would just as soon run you into the concrete wall or off an embankment rather than let you just get on the road. IÂ’ve noticed that people speed up to 75 or 85 MPH just to make sure you donÂ’t get on in front of them. Because I donÂ’t relish dying in a burning car wreck, I am forced to speed up and get in anyway, only to find that they then back off to their usual 50 MPH after youÂ’ve safely managed to merge. They must be horribly disappointed.

I recently started watching Dog, The Bounty Hunter. IÂ’m absolutely fascinated by it. IÂ’ve always been interested in freak shows and it qualifies. There is so much wrong with this on so many levels.

Grilled cheese sandwiches rock.

My kid got walkie-talkies for Christmas and they have been commandeered by me and my wife. If one of us is upstairs and one is downstairs we usually have to scream to be heard. Even if sheÂ’s in the bedroom downstairs and IÂ’m in the living room it used to be a screaming match. Now itÂ’s a thing of beauty.

“Momma Bear, you got your ears on?”

Exasperated: “What now?”

“What’s the status of those cookies I’m waiting for?”

“Shut up, I’m bringing the damned things now.”

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 11:44 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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I had to go to the mall today to get my kid some new sneakers. So IÂ’m standing there in the sneaker store waiting to be helped when the screaming started.

I looked over and saw a guy, looked to be about forty years old, raising his voice to a young woman who worked there. I didnÂ’t think much of it at first, but got louder and louder and I walked over to see exactly what was going on. I have a nose for this kind of thingÂ…I generally know when violence is about to occur. And I could tell by the sound of this guyÂ’s voice that he was pretty close.

I walked up and saw that the guy was pointing his finger in the womanÂ’s face and screaming, in an absolute rage, about the return policy. I looked around and saw two other employees, both high school age, and both looked terrified. I looked back to the guy, who was screaming even louder at this point, and I didnÂ’t see any bulges, but he still could have had a gun. By now the woman was really scared. I have some experience in these things and I knew this guy was not in control of himself. It was a blind rage.

I have rules about getting involved in other people’s business. I generally don’t. This had nothing to do with me. If I got involved and things got physical there could be problems—like a lawsuit. But the overriding factor for me was the fact that this asshole was threatening a woman and she was scared shitless. I simply can’t tolerate that.

The woman walked behind the sales counter to put some distance between her and the nutcase and when the guy started following her around the counter and I knew what was coming next. I closed the gap instantly so I was right behind him. The woman looked at me pleadingly and I mimicked holding a telephone and mouthed, “Security.”

She went for the phone and the guy went for her. I was literally twelve inched behind him and he had no idea.

“That’s far enough, Chief.”

He turned and found me standing on his heels and went pale. He was off balance and I had several choices, although the most appealing was swinging my elbow across his jaw so it would have to be wired for six weeks or so. I had a second to decide to strike or not. I used restraint.

“The lady asked you to leave.”

He just stared at me.

“One way or another, you’re going out the door. Choose now.”

He left without saying a word. I realized at that point that there was zero tension in my body. I was completely relaxed, which isnÂ’t always the case in an adrenaline type situation. From experience I can tell you that in a relaxed state during a physical altercation you can do some amazing things. That guy will probably never know how close he came to the worst day of his life.

I really donÂ’t like violence. In fact I abhor violence, but if my kid wasnÂ’t there heÂ’d still be in the emergency room.

I havenÂ’t been in a situation like that in many years. I was taught that if all someone understands is violence, then give them violence. And beat them so severely that they never bother another peaceful living soul again.

And I thought about that, because just like on TV I flashed back to my teacher explaining that philosophy to me. It was twenty years ago, but in an instant I there again. The scene was so vivid I could smell the cup of tea he was always sipping from. And in another instant I was back standing there in the store with the asshole standing in front of me. It was like time travel.

The rest of the day was uneventful.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 07:21 PM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
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The Monty Hall Problem

This problem originated when it was sent in to Parade Magazine and was published in the column of Marilyn vos Savant on September 9, 1990.

Savant was touted as the person with the highest I.Q. in Guinness Book of World Records, and while the actual value of her I.Q. is in dispute (as are all I.Q. values), I think we can stipulate that this broadÂ’s pretty goddamned smart.

The question is based on the old game show, LetÂ’s Make A Deal, whose host was named Monty Hall. It goes like this:

Suppose you're on a game show, and you're given the choice of three doors: Behind one door is a car; behind the others, goats. You pick a door, say No. 1, and the host, who knows what's behind the doors, opens another door, say No. 3, which has a goat. He then says to you, "Do you want to pick door No. 2?" Is it to your advantage to switch your choice?

So basically, youÂ’re given a choice between three doors. Two goats and one car. The host opens a door you did not pick and shows you a goat. There are two doors left, the one you picked and the one you didnÂ’t. One has a goat behind it, the other has a car. The host then asks if you want to change your pick. What do you think?

ItÂ’s a 50%-50% chance right?

Actually, it’s not. If you change your pick you actually improve your odds of winning from ½ to 2/3.

Savant got a shitload of letters from professors all over the place claiming she was an idiot. Of course, in the end, she was right.

You cannot ignore the past here like you can with a coin flip. You originally had a 1/3 chance of winning, but by switching your choice you improve to 2/3 chance to win.

The contestant should choose to switch to the remaining door. The chance of winning the car is doubled when the player switches to another door rather than sticking with the original choice. The reason for this is that to win the car by sticking with the original choice, the player must choose the door with the car first, and the probability of initially choosing the car is one in three. Whereas, to win the car by switching, the player must originally choose a door with a goat first, and the probability of choosing a goat door first is two in three.

If youÂ’re still confused, and it took a while for it to sink in for me, the solutions and aids to understanding can be found here.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 05:29 PM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
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I was nine, maybe ten years old at the time. A family member living in SE Asia was moving to another location and was forced to part with their dog. We got a long letter about the dog and finally the thing was shipped around the world in a small cage and my parents picked it up at Kennedy airport while I was at school one day.

My excitement level was high. I really wanted a dog and now I was finally getting one. When I got home from school there was no evidence of a dog. I ran through the house looking everywhere and there was simply no sign of the thing. My father was out back watering the lawn. I noticed a bandage on his hand.

“Where’s the dog?”

“Somewhere in the house,” he said.

“Look,” he continued,” I need to tell you how it is. This animal was trapped in a cage for a long time as it flew around the world. It’s afraid. Who knows what the hell happened to it on those planes, but you need to stay away from him for a while. He’s on edge. Just leave him alone for a few days.”

“Okay. I understand. What happened to your hand?”

“Sammy bit me.” Sammy was the dog’s name.

I went back in the house to look for the dog. I at least had to look at the thing. I didn’t even know what kind of dog it was. A room to room search produced no results and soon I was reduced to looking closets and whatnot. Finally, I found the dog lying far underneath a sofa hiding. I still couldn’t see what the hell it looked like. It seemed to be a large, hairy ball. I stuck my head under there as close as I could. He started growling. I spoke to him in a soothing voice and reached my hand in. I was sure that if I could just pet him he would understand that he had a friend. Just as my hand reached him he lunged for it. It was like a fucking crocodile. I snatched my hand away just in time—I mean it was close. I backed off.

I was disillusioned. My new friend turned out to be a goddamned vicious beast. A goddamned ocelot. I still didnÂ’t even know what I was looking at. It was just a big hairy monster.

I left the thing alone for a few days. I didnÂ’t even see it around the house. It was about a week later when I came home from school and saw it in the yard that realized it might be a normal dog after all. I opened the gate and it didnÂ’t run away so I picked up a stick and threw it and Sammy brought it back. He let me pet him. He seemed to pretty happy. And that night he jumped up on my bed and slept with me.

Sammy and I became inseparable. He would wait by the fence every day for me to get home from school. When he saw me coming he would go berserk. Sammy turned out to be a great dog. I kept trying to find out what kind of a dog it was but I didnÂ’t have much luck. None of my friends had ever seen anything like it either. Sammy didnÂ’t mind my friends as long as they didnÂ’t get too close. Any threatening gesture and Sammy would lunge at them. He was very protective. In fact, if my parents so much as raised their voice to me Sammy started growling at them. And that big bastard could be scary.

One afternoon I came home from school and Sammy wasnÂ’t there. I was worried and ran into the house looking for my old man.

“Where’s Sammy?”

“Your mother took him to the vet or something. They’ll be back.”

I was lying on my bed when I heard the car door slam. I heard Sammy running down the hall towards my room and I opened the door and got the shock of my life. Sammy had been shaved down. All the fur was gone and he was about half the size he was before. And worse than that—he was a poodle. He had been shaped into one of those French poodles that you see on TV. I didn’t know what to say or what to do. He was going crazy, excited to see me and everything and I reached down and started to pet him but it was all too much. All too much.

I got over the fact that Sammy was a poodle. It came down to the fact that he was the same dog as before, but with a fucked up haircut. But when people asked me what kind of dog I had I never really answered. I just mumbled something. And when I was out walking the dog I felt like ass. But in the end Sammy was my friend. I guess it was no fault of his. Last night I had a dream that Sammy was still alive. And I woke up and felt a weight against me in bed I reached down to pet him, but it was my wife lying against me, not Sammy. It was a cruel way to wake up. But now the story is told and I feel somewhat better about the whole thing. Poodle or not, he was a goddamned vicious beast.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 11:22 AM | Comments (5) | Add Comment
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I was watching the football game.

"Daddy, what are tampons?"

"I have no idea, sweetie. Ask your Mom when she gets home."

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 06:01 PM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
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1 Good pass.

Posted by: Tuning Spork at October 22, 2006 11:20 PM (0vCok)

2 Teabags for vampires

Posted by: Ted at October 23, 2006 06:50 PM (+OVgL)

3 LMAO @ teabags.... I like that one, may I use it??

Posted by: Moodie at October 28, 2006 11:50 AM (mev7n)

4 of course

Posted by: Ted at October 29, 2006 09:51 AM (+OVgL)

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It appears as if collecting African babies is all the rage in Hollywood.

Famous people with too much money have been doing wacky shit from the outset and no one seems to have learned any lessons yet. Most of you are probably too young to remember the Beatles and the Maharishi. The Maharishi was the leader of a money grubbing cult of sorts. His schtick was transcendental meditation. It was all the rage with the hip crowd.

The Beatles, along with a group of Hollywood idiots were lured to India to study transcendental meditation from the great master, after of course, coming up with certified checks. It lasted about a week before they got bored and the Maharishi was caught trying to fondle Mia Farrow. Some people never see it coming.

Since then many an Hollywood idiot has jumped aboard any bandwagon that was in range of them. One of the latest rages has been the kabbalah. If you donÂ’t know what that is youÂ’re not alone. Neither do half the people learning it. Some tout it as Jewish mysticism, some as fortune telling and others as an ancient secret to life. Aleister Crowley based his whole black magic thing around it. Regardless, Hollywood is now filled with teachers of whatever it is and the rich and famous are running their lives around it. At least until they get bored, which is already happening. Then it will be on to something else. Like collecting African children.

Famous idiots with too much money are now flying to Africa and picking what they like from a flesh and blood line up of children. I donÂ’t want to suggest thatÂ’s like a slave auction or anything, but itÂ’s like a fucking slave auction. If one more Hollywood idiot does this I predict it will become a national craze. And I predict that right now Paris Hilton is thinking about it. After all, it would be so cute, just like the tiny little dog she carries around in her purse. Until these people start getting bored, like they did with meditation, kabbalah, etcetera. Then these kids will be regulated to the guest house and the nanny until their old enough to start robbing liquor stores.

Meanwhile, this thing is still on the upswing. African baby acquisition has at least another year before the charm wears off. Pretty soon when you lease a new car it will come with satellite radio and a one year old African kid (with approved credit).

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 10:36 AM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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Last week I sat on a plane for five hours contemplating suicide. The only food available was tiny bags of pretzels. There was a baby in front of me crying non-stop. The armrest fight with my neighbor, a phlegmy cougher, was goddamned brutal. Delays kept us sitting on the tarmac for an hour before takeoff and when we arrived there was no gate for us so we sat there like idiots for another thirty minutes. I got to thinking how this could be improved upon and I think some of these ideas have potential:

The first thing they need to do is rip out some of the seats and install a craps table. Maybe a couple of black jack tables as well. Nothing takes the sting out of boredom like casino gambling.

A roast beef carving station.

A bar. Sitting there waiting for a drink while they stop at every seat on the way to pass out tiny cups of soda is more than inconvenient. ItÂ’s torture. How about a bar where I can walk up and order a cocktail or knock back a couple of boilermakers?

An adults only section.

All of the above are not only good solutions to the problems that travelers face on a daily basis, but theyÂ’re also alternate revenue streams. How hard could it be to make this happen?

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 05:19 AM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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So there's much ado about what someone's beer says about them. Don't believe me? Just look at the advertising dollars thrown at creating a brand image for any beer bottle out there. Well, regardless of what millions of dollars in advertising will tell you; there's only one thing a beer says about you. Thank God for me, because not only do I know the truth about beer, but I'm going to share it with you. Free of charge. Well, not exactly free; you'll have to hit the tip jar.*

1. PBR - As much crap as PBR gets, if it's good enough for guys who ride bulls for a living; goddamnit it's good enough for you. I don't know anyone who doesn't respect a person who drinks PBR, and it's been my experience that nothing gets you laid better and quicker than being seen with a PBR in your hand and a smile on your face.

2. Bud Light - "This mixer is ten times better than it was last semester. The pledges suck worse though. Fags. Oh, has anyone seen my pink polo shirt? The Chi-Psi girls are coming over soon and I look best in a popped collar." Seriously people. Don't drink Bud Light outside your homes. I was in a bar in Dublin once, and I saw a guy get his ass handed to him for ordering one. And they didn't even serve it there.

3. Milwaukee's Best - "I never drink less than 18 beers at a time. Hey, does your mom have an older sister?"

4. Blue Moon - "Oh my God, I got the greatest deal on a pair of boots at Structure today. You wouldn't believe it. And the salesboy? To die for!"

5. Miller High Life - High Life is the patron beer of the homeless. It's the dollar draft in more bars than any other, which makes it the obvious choice to quench the thirst that can only come from spending an entire day begging for change. And I'm not being cynical either. There are guys that spend their entire day begging for change right outside our bar, and without fail they show up at sundown with pocketfuls of freshly begged George Washingtons.

6. New Castle - "Dude, that last Widespread show was soooo dank." New Castle has become the beer for indiscriminant drinkers everywhere who want people to think they're discriminant. It's a shame, because New Castle reall is a good beer. But half the time I see someone drinking it, they simply order it by default; making the practice no more different than ordering any other mainstream American ale.

7. Heiniken - "I enjoy the taste of ice cold, imported piss. Won't you let me buy you a drink?"

8. Fruit Flavored Beers - Apricot Ales, blueberry, cherry, and raspberry rails; even the cherished pumpkin brew. These beers are strictly for females. Hot females, but females nonetheless. Be familiar with them, but it's not something you want to bring to the next poker game.

9. Here you'll find a list of beers that are in no specific order. They're good beers (in my highly prejudiced, oft scrutinized opinion) for a varying number of resons, which means if you're drinking them you're probably going to have to open your yapper before I publicly declare you an insufferable boor. Killian's Irish Red, Stella Artois, Anchor Steam, Yeungling, Pacifico, and depending on what you've had for dinner; Guiness or Harp. more...

Posted by: shank at 06:41 PM | Comments (8) | Add Comment
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I recently revived what was a pretty good practical joke on my wife.

I taught the kid to say a couple a phrases:

“My mommy’s still on the sauce.”

“My mommy drinks too much gin.”

I had the kid primed to spit these phrases out at the grocery store, play dates and such and trust me, it was effective. Right up until the retaliation came.

I was picking the kid up from practice and I was the only guy there and this whole sewing circle of mommies had me cornered and I was being a real swell guy until the kid walked up and shouted, “My Daddy’s medicine is called whiskey!”

I was appalled, but it could have been worse. My wife’s fairly devious and it could have been something like, “My daddy’s got the crabs again!”

I donÂ’t know whether to escalate this or surrender.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 10:07 AM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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No matter how bad my mood is, I always say, “Good morning” to people. And when that greeting is not returned my natural instinct is throw my elbow into the side of the offenders jaw. How big of an ass do you have to be not to give or return a simple goddamned salutation? I realize that I can’t go around thrashing people for not saying good morning, but sometimes I have a hard time controlling mouth.

Like this morning when I said “Good morning” to someone and when there was a long pause I added “asshole.” It wasn’t a whisper, I barked it out. The look on the guy’s face was disbelief.

“What did you say?” he asked.

“I said ‘good morning,’ and when you ignored my salutation, I added ‘asshole.’ Because when someone looks at you and smiles and says ‘good morning’ and you just stare back for a moment and then look away, that’s what you are. An asshole.”

He just stared at me. I could see he was wrestling with himself internally. I donÂ’t know if I would classify it as fight or flight, but heÂ’d been insulted and he was torn about how to respond. Then I smiled, relieving him of his obligation to try and be the alpha male.

“I’m really sorry,” he said. “It’s been a bad morning…I really apologize.”

“I understand,” I said.

I thought about hammering the point home but decided to leave it alone and continue on my way. I canÂ’t wait for tomorrow morning. There are some things I simply cannot abide.

I hate people when they're not polite.
...Psycho Killer
The Talking Heads

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 11:00 AM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
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Life is a horrible grind.

Yesterday I was forced to go to the grocery store. Grocery stores are a microcosm of society and I suppose that if I had the right prescription I might find it educational or amusing, but for the most parts itÂ’s just depressing.

Anyway IÂ’m in the bakery section and some old bastard is standing directly in front of the fresh rolls like heÂ’s guarding them. He was talking, actually hollering, into a cell phone. From what I could gather from his side of the conversation his wife was berating him and telling him exactly what to buy, right down to the smallest detail. Meanwhile heÂ’s blocking the rolls. I stood there respectfully for about a minute, not wanting to interrupt his conversation and say excuse me, but my patience has a limit. I finally just edged him aside, grabbed the tongs and a bag and cleaned out every roll they had in the joint.

Just as I started to turn away I heard him holler into the phone, “Oh my God! Some guy just took all the Kaiser rolls!” I turned and gave him a little wave and started to walk away. His wife must not have liked what he said because he started stammering and then I heard, “He’s got all the Kaiser rolls! He’s leaving with all the Kaiser rolls!”

And indeed I was. He started to follow me like he was going to debate my right to them or even threaten to take them by force but in the end he skulked away without approaching me. And as I walked toward the checkout I could still hear him on the phone trying to explain about the guy who absconded with all the Kaiser rolls. “He even took the ones with sesame seeds!”

I drove away feeling exhilarated and optimistic.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 10:20 AM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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Is there something in the water in Los Angeles? I mean, just when you thought youÂ’ve seen it all. Please, go forth and read this.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 06:58 PM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
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But sometimes it just has to be done. If you are a man, and you wear cologne, you are wearing way too much of it. ItÂ’s offensive and migraine inducing. You know, itÂ’s all about subtly. Swimming laps in that shit is not going to get you layed.

And if you do wear cologne there are only two acceptable types. Very expensive or very cheap. Ignore the middle ground. I wear a tiny bit of cologne; youÂ’d have to be close enough to lick my neck to smell it. I wonÂ’t disclose exactly what it is because itÂ’s not important, but it is of the very expensive variety. Anybody close enough to smell it immediately swoons. If youÂ’re in the market, look for something classic thatÂ’s been on the market for many years. ThereÂ’s a reason itÂ’s been around a long time.

If you decide to go cheap, go very cheap. Old Spice. Yeah, itÂ’s sweet, but not nauseating like a lot of middle ground products, including but not limited to, Polo, Drakkar, et. al.

Recently IÂ’ve come across a few women who are wearing way too much perfume as well. In fact this post was partially inspired by a lunchtime incident, where I was walking into the building and even though the breeze was blowing I could smell perfume. By the time I entered the lobby I saw the source of the odor entering an elevator. I pity the people trapped in there with her. Good thing thereÂ’s no smoking allowed anywhere anymore because that broad would have gone up like that Buddhist monk on the cover of Life.

Walking back down the hall to my office I was overwhelmed, as I am everyday after lunch, by the smell of menÂ’s cologne. Maybe I should put out a memo that dousing yourself with cologne after a break does not cover up the smell of pot.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 06:57 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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IÂ’m having a hard time differentiating between the technically stupid, those having a very low IQ, and those who are either crazy or emotionally disturbed. I used to think that people who were acting unreasonably about something were all half-wits. My wife patiently explained to me that thatÂ’s not always the case. Her claim was that some people are so emotionally immature/disturbed that that it overrides the logical thought process.

We were discussing the idiots who claim that 9/11 was perpetrated not by terrorists but by our government. She reasoned that some people, in spite of normal intelligence, are so emotionally invested, in this case with their hatred of Chimpy, that reasonable thought is simply not possible.

I countered with the fact that if that is indeed true, and that they can’t “think straight” due to whatever emotional problems they might have, that they are crazy. There was a debate about temporary insanity versus just plain crazy, but we decided that yeah, they’re crazy.

I have assembled the following formulas to aid in your understanding of these matters:

A genuine moron = a genuine moron

Normal IQ + emotional instability = a half-wit (for all intents and purposes)

A moron + emotional instability = an online customer service rep or blogger

High IQ + emotional instability = a serial killer or mad scientist

How crazy is crazy? I donÂ’t know, but I suspect a lot of people I have contact with every day are a hell of a lot crazier than many people under lock and key on the 8th floor somewhere. I reckon it to alcoholics. You have your unemployed blathering hobos and your functioning alcoholics. Same with crazies.

And nobody knows what to do with the nuts. As long as theyÂ’re not killing people were content to let them walk around with the rest of us. ItÂ’s really the only explanation for a lot of the people I see every day. And the range is huge. I know a guy who walks around all day grunting, laughing too hard at almost anything anyone says and occasionally singing in gibberish like a toddler. HeÂ’s a fucking nut. All I can do is keep my distance and shake my head.

But IÂ’ll tell you this. Not a day goes by where I donÂ’t expect somebody to start clawing at themselves and jump through a first floor window.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 07:04 PM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
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I bought a new grill over the weekend which was a real pain in the ass. IÂ’m the kind of guy that researches every grill made before buying one. Anyway, the market is now full of stainless steel grills because people have finally gotten tired of replacing these things every year and by now all the manufacturers have realized they can get more money for stainless.

Unfortunately, the quality of stainless steel varies greatly. When you buy silverware, actually cheap flatware, you can see on the box the ratio of nickel to stainless, usually 18/10 or 18/8. The stuff with more nickel has a higher luster. Well, you canÂ’t do that on a grill yet but IÂ’m here to tell you, you get what you pay for and most of these stainless grills are of poor quality stainless and will look like shit directly. Also, the burners, the important part, are sometimes made out of crap while the rest of the grill is stainless.

Regardless, I picked one but the half-wit at Home Depot decides he doesnÂ’t want to look for one in the box, he wants to sell me the floor model. I know the floor model wonÂ’t fit into my car because I was bright enough to measure before coming into the store and I was standing there with my own tape measure when he tried to pawn it off.

“This won’t fit in my car.”

“What kind of car do you have?”

“Just get me one in a box.”

“We can deliver it.”

“Get me one in a box.”

Forty-five minutes later I leave with the grill. I carefully unpacked each piece. I opened up the bag with all the screws, counted them, and placed each individual size into itÂ’s own little Tupperware things which I keep for these occasions. I laid out all the tools I could possibly need and more, just in case. I am an expert assembler.

I then checked all the parts according to the instructions and put them into a rough order as I would need them. The final step was to sit down on the couch and read the instructions cover to cover, insuring I knew how the process would pan out as I progressed. I noted that there were some problems with the illustrations, namely, that they seemed to be rough crayon type sketches similar to what a child draws when they have no sense of perspective. There was no detail at all, just rough blocks of out of focus shapes.

Well, I could work around that. However, the instructions themselves seemed to have a lot of words I’d never come across before and I have a large vocabulary. In three languages. I figured I could work around that too, being mechanically inclined. In addition, there was no mention anywhere in the instructions of the many washers and lock-washers enclosed. Not enough for every bolt but plenty of them and I would have to guess on those, as well as a large piece of grill, about 24” x 6” that was also mentioned nowhere in the instructions.

After struggling for thirty minutes trying to attach the heavy-ass weighted base to some legs with no help, on the next step I realized I had them on backwards and had to start again. They were backwards because the instructions were backwards. Literally. That started a long afternoon of swearing and sweating. The high point was trying to decifer sentences that went like this:

“Place F end C into equipment section vsentraew.”

Nice, huh? By the time I got the damned thing together I was fit to be tied and IÂ’m good at that crap. I was a broken man by days end.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 05:39 PM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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Blogging has been light due to circumstances beyond my control. I appreciate the emails inquiring as to my plight, but all is relatively well, IÂ’ve just been busy. And it brought Jim out of retirement. I wondered what would happen the day the page turned white, and sure as eggs is eggs, Jim mounted up and rode onto the field. I am pleased.

On to new business.

If there’s one thing I can’t abide it’s an unannounced visitor. When I’m at home relaxing after a hard day, the last thing I want to hear is the doorbell. I used to pretend I wasn’t at home—I’d quietly sneak up to the door and peer out the little hole to see who was invading my privacy, at which point I’d either slink away or open up, depending on who it was.

For some reason the doorbell only rings when my wife is out, leaving me to deal with it. SheÂ’s out a lot. IÂ’m a homebody and sheÂ’s a social creature so it works out well, with me getting my alone time. Except for when the doorbell rings.

Neighbors are never given an audience. I donÂ’t care if music was blaring and both cars were in the driveway. Yes, they know IÂ’m in there and I donÂ’t care. IÂ’m not putting on pants for them. I generally opened up for my wifeÂ’s friends because I enjoy standing there in my underwear watching them try to look me in the eye instead of looking at my drawers, and they were always invited in to wait so that I might prolong the uneasiness. After a while they came to expect it and it was no longer fun, and in fact, started to present a danger.

But those days are over now. As soon as the doorbell rings my kid jumps up and runs towards the door yelping. ThereÂ’s no way to pretend youÂ’re asleep or not home with all the racket that kid makes. I long for the days of old, when a butler answered the door and visitors were expected to present a calling card, which would be brought to the master on a silver tray.

“Send them away, Throckmorton. I shan’t be receiving today.”

Since thatÂ’s not going to happen any time soon I have adapted. I generally just swing the door open and stand there in my drawers regardless of who might be on the other side. I imagine itÂ’s a sight, what with the kid trying to get around me and run out like a mad dog and me standing there with a glass of scotch, but you know, thatÂ’s not really my problem.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 10:10 AM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
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I donÂ’t know why this bugs me so much, but it does.

Why wonÂ’t people use their front doors? Last week I stayed with some friends and during the entire weekend we were not permitted to use the front doors. We had to go in and out through the garage. IÂ’ve noticed that many people instill this rule and it makes me nuts.

Instead of opening the door and walking out we had to go through “the tunnels” as I began to refer to them. A roundabout ass-backwards route to the driveway. What the hell is so special about your front door that you can’t open it to general use?

I’ve also noticed that the same people who won’t use the front door also have “the museum room.” The “museum room” is one room in the house, usually a big room, that no one s allowed to go in. Years ago people called them formal living rooms. Old people insist on covering all the furniture in the museum room with plastic.

Regardless, a shitload of people still have a museum room that people are forbidden to enter. I guess they figure if no one ever walks on the carpet it will last forever, like a shrine. Museum rooms usually have at least one white couch. I think thatÂ’s in the handbook somewhere. Anyway, people spend a lot of money for a house and then they cordon off the biggest and best room and declare it off limits. I can only assume whatÂ’s in their heads, that maybe someday, maybe, someone important enough will visit and they will enter the museum room and sit very carefully on the furniture for a little while. I donÂ’t know who will qualify, but IÂ’m pretty sure it would have to be a royal, or at least a Baron or a Viscount.

ItÂ’s been my experience that no family members will ever qualify to enter the museum room. And since the Queen Mother will probably not be visiting the Detroit suburbs or wherever any time soon, the whole thing is moronic. Three hundred square feet of house is roped off like a police crime seen; completely unusable. I have seen people live in a house for twenty years and never use that room.

In addition, the people who do this don’t have fifteen dollar per square foot wool carpet, priceless oriental rugs or even decent furniture. All I ever see is the standard, middle-class fare, including a shitload of small, inexpensive knick-knacks. Usually white ceramic pieces that are terribly old-fashioned. Maybe some cut glass—certainly not Venetian.

I have also noticed that if the family has a dog, he has been beaten into submission and will never enter the museum room except to shit on the carpet, because thatÂ’s the logical place, it will not be found for while.

So. Go ahead people. Keep roping off a big room that your family could use on a daily basis. Keep it reserved for the occasional poodle turd. Because you never know when someone better than you might drop by for a cup of Earl Grey.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 10:37 AM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
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I havenÂ’t been able to receive email for who knows how long but it seems to be fixed now.

My car is leaking something again. Just enough to worry about.

I have a world class migraine and a dinner meeting tonight.

Every time my computer comes out of sleep mode the CD door flies open.

My lawn has giant patches of yellow spots from the sprinklers not functioning properly. Soon to be brown spots. The HOA will likely throw a grenade through my window over this.

All of my friends appear to be MIA. Please make yours whereabouts known.

Every time I try to print something I get the message “incorrect ink cartridges installed” even though it’s new and they came with the damn printer and it has worked for the past two weeks.

That pretty much sums it up.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 02:53 PM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
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IÂ’m not a big fan of nicknames unless theyÂ’re derogatory and used behind someoneÂ’s back. But what really tips me over the edge is people who decide theyÂ’re going to bestow upon themselves a nickname. And yes, adults do this.

ThereÂ’s a big difference between legitimate and illegitimate nicknames.

Let’s say a guy buys a boat and tells all his friends about it. Eventually the friends go on the boat which is promptly run aground due to incompetence. The friends decide, spontaneously, to start calling the guy “Captain” much to his dismay. This is a legitimate nickname.

The other way is to pick a nickname for yourself (because youÂ’re mildly retarded) and then try to put that nickname into play. IÂ’ve seen this play a hundred times but two incidents come to mind immediately.

The first time I saw this phenomenon was in college. A guy stuck his hand out and said, “They call me Rebel.”

I was taken off guard and though I knew I was dealing with an asshole I couldnÂ’t be bothered about it. The next time it happened I was ready for it. I was at a barbeque and a guy came up and stuck out his hand:

“They call me Crash.”

“But what’s your name,” I asked. He looked shocked.

“Everybody calls me Crash.”

“But you must have a real name? Is it Cecil or Hubert or something?”

He walked away fuming. Point, game, match.

I’m sorry, but I really can’t help myself. Anybody who has the balls to start a sentence with, “They call me…” is going to get shit from me. Not to mention the fact that people with real nicknames never introduce themselves with it. Most wish it would go away.

For the common good, please stamp out self-imposed nicknames at every opportunity.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 06:26 AM | Comments (8) | Add Comment
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Today I was walking from my car to the office and there was a guy three cars down who was arriving at the same time. As he got out of his car I was able to smell his cologne from thirty feet away, outdoors. As usual, it enraged me.

What possesses people, both men and women, to swim laps in that shit everyday? Can you imagine working with this guy? Last week I was olfactorily offended at a restaurant by a woman four tables away. This has got to stop.

You shouldnÂ’t be able to smell that shit unless youÂ’re close enough to kiss somebody. Meanwhile IÂ’ve got people at work who reapply that shit three times a day. ItÂ’s taking the goddamned paint off the walls. Have you ever had to sit in a conference room with someone who has bathed in perfume? Because I have and IÂ’m here to tell you itÂ’s migraine inducing.

Stop. Now. Before I start accosting you publicly

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 06:24 AM | Comments (6) | Add Comment
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