Where no one knows your name

Sometimes I feel like the guy sitting at the bar for an hour. No one says a word after "Wadda ya have"

Then Norm walks in and everyone greets him.

I've so little to say to the blogging community right now. I've stopped reading the "in" sites so long ago, I have no idea if they're in anymore.

I went from a feed of over 1000 blogs to 3. And even those I hardly ever read.

I tried making a comeback a few months ago, but it was forced. You could tell.

So, let's call it a night. No promises of return. Maybe I will. But don't keep checking. It depresses me to know I've let you down again.

Maybe someday I'll write another personal blog. If I do, I'll prove myself with a BlogSpot address for at least three months. If I stay solid, I'll come back here.

Jesus, I sound like Ricky Henderson.

10 Minute Musical Comedy

Stay tuned as the Temple of Me becomes the Temple to Youtube*...

(Don't watch this in the office...or in the library.)

Ok, I liked that, but I'm not turning this into the Temple to Youtube. I'm just in my blue period, and you won't buy that until I'm famous.

Which, by the way, will never happen.

It's Postseason and I Post About a Commercial

Jeny Lens wonders if she misheard the singer from the Mastercard commercial "My Favorite Things." The ad uses the first and last verses from the Sound of Music song. Though the opening is "raindrops on roses," Lens heard "Angels on roses."

My wife heard “Angels” the first time also, but it’s always been “raindrops” for me.

I’d like to know why as the singer starts to scuba she suddenly develops a Southern accent with the line "“these are a few of my favorite things.” Also, doesn’t it sound like she totally loses pitch for the final “so bad…”?

And since my wife and I like this other commercial, I link it here. Well, actually back there.

Update: And here it is....

(I had missed it because I spell the title's first word "favorite.")

Look over there

But it would be good if the story was put to rest because it's always good when journalists report on what's really happening and not on their own prejudices and preconceptions about what they think we want to hear about ourselves. - Lance Mannion

Pushing Daisies

Dear reader,

(Yes, the jig is up. I see you read this site.)

Anyway, dear reader, I am sure you watched Pushing Daisies tonight. Well, because you also loved Wonderfalls and Dead Like Me.

No need for IMDB links. You have them bookmarked.

Did you notice the name of the town?

You saw it too? Couer d' Couers

Yes, that is wrong on two levels. First, spelled correctly it would be: Coeur de Coeurs

And we both know that final "s" isn't needed. That's not correct French grammar. The show translated an English idiom directly to French to make Heart of Hearts sound exotic.

And still didn't get it correct.

Darwin Award Nominee

Picture this. You're pumping gas. The sun is shining and all is right with your world.

You look at the next pump. The young driver has his hood up and is pumping gas into the carburetor.

You are correct. That is not the normal procedure.

He then puts the hose into his tank and props it to pump gas.

If you are familiar with the fact that gas in the carburator can help a car start you know why he put gas in the carb.

You would also know that just a spritz of gas is required. Not the healthy squeeze you saw applied.

You would also know that placing gas on the carb is not recommended as many a car fire starts that way.

And with only a spritz. Not a squeeze.

You, in an effort to spare your young child, would decide you no longer need to fill your tank. The couple of gallons you've pumped will be enough. You will, in less time than it takes to read this sentence, stop pumping gas, close the tank, start your car and leave the gas station.

Expecting a fireball the likes of which are reserved for cheesy police procedurals of the 1970s.

You will be relieved not to see, hear, or feel such fireball. But will nonetheless drive away in what would best be described as "lickity-split."

Wither, Chuck?

Chuck is a nickname for Charles. I bet you have a grandfather or know some old guy with that name.

But I doubt you know a kid in the first grade with that name. You see, Charles was once one of the top ten names for boys. But starting in the 1960s the name began to slip. It's not even in the top 50 anymore.

I bring this up, because I have deduced there is a secret cabal in Hollywood dedicated to killing the name completely.

In a few short weeks we've been subjected to:

I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry
Good Luck Chuck
Chuck

In addition, two new series feature a Chuck: Pushing Daisies and Gossip Girl

I figure the cabal follows the orders of Charleton Heston.

PS: I am not the only one to notice this. Though the others didn't dare speak of the cabal.

Lost, Found, Stolen, Found, Returned

That headline describes 30 minutes in the life of my phone.

After riding my bike I reached into my pack to find my phone missing. If this happened to you, you might assume you lost it.

I didn't. Many times I think I have the darn thing with me, but I've forgotten it on a table, or in a couch, or a pair of pants, or a potted plant (don't ask).

So, I calmly went into the house and called my cell. I do that to hear the ring from the hamper, the couch, my desk, or the refrigerator (don't ask).

No answer. I walk outside with the cordless and call again. After all, it could be in the grass, under a bush, on the driveway, or in the compost (don't ask).

No strains of "Strawberry Letter 23" (My ringtone. Don't ask.)

But someone answers my phone! "Hello?" Relieved, I say, "Great. You found my phone! Could you..."

Click.

I call back. I hear street noise. I hear "Hello." I say, "Hi, you've found my..."

Click.

I call back. Same result.

I had only ridden my bike in a 5 mile loop. I could find that street sound. I call my wife. Explain I've lost my phone. She understands immediately she needs to call it. (Don't ask.)

I interrupt to explain the new twist.

I ask her to call it over and over as I retrace my steps. Someone would be walking the street listening to "Smooth." (My wife gets a special ringtone.)

I search the streets. No luck.

I stop and call my wife. Another twist!

My wife explains after a few similar hang ups, a woman called her to explain that her daughter had found my phone. I could go to their home and retrieve it. That makes sense. My path took me by an elementary school.

The retrieval deserves a post of its own, but some things are best left unwritten.

I go home and check out my phone.

That elementary school child who found my phone? Well, she took a picture of herself. She looks 20. I guess I had that wrong.

Plus, some calls had been made to numbers I don't recognize.

You need to know a couple of things about me. My number is always blocked. I call from my cell and it doesn't show up on any residential caller ID. Also, I have no method to check my cell number from the phone. So, if you find my phone, there's no way to give the number out so you can use it.

There is no moral to this story. Except, while writing this I realized my phone isn't on the stand by the door. I'm afraid to call the number.

You Should Have Been Here yesterday, the Doughnuts Were Fresh

Really, if you're going to play trivia, you shouldn't use the Net. The thrill is knowing the answer. Not looking it up.

If this doesn't make sense to you, you shoulda been here yesterday, when the donuts were fresh.

I

My wife bought me a new toenail clipper today.

That was the high point of my day.

Now you know why I haven't written lately.

I have dilemma. I have a wonderful young daughter, but I write little about her daily life on here. This isn't a parenting blog.

I have a fear. I don't write about my job. There already has been one Dooce.

I have a concern. You don't really know me. No, seriously, I'm not him. I'm the other one. Who sounds like him. And if I write too much you might find out who I am. And then what would be the point of having a blog?

I have a problem. Really, there should be quotes around problem. I've got good days and bad. The good days I'm uninteresting, and on the bad, I worry people.

I have a dream. No, different than his. I'd love a blog written by a group of people. Each one using "I" and all signing the entries Me. No names. No identifying information. I don't know who'd read it. Well, I would.

And, Sister, that's where I've been.

Yes, I know. That was anti-climatic.

6 Superfoods That Prevent Disease

clipped from www.redorbit.com "Basic foods that have proven health benefits are what we want to emphasize." says Steven Pratt, MD, author of SuperFoods Healthstyle. "For example, blueberries, broccoli and tomatoes have a large number of peer-reviewed published studies substantiating their health bent- fits. These foods are readily available, inexpensive and have other benefits, such as high fiber content. And they've been used for years, with m no drawbacks, side effects or toxicity; you're never going to see a headline that blucherries are had for you."

I Wish I Still Had the Photograph

There was a corner at an intersection I can't name anymore. I have two memories. Strong photographs in my mind's eye.

Mind's eye. That just seems a piss poor way to say it

I have a folder of photographs. Most are color. A few singed; and a few were taken out of the developer too early. They're stored in chemicals and electricity. I carry them in my head.

It was in Pensacola. The early 1980s. I think I was on an east-west road turning left onto North 9th, or maybe North Davis. It matters which. But not for this moment.

I had my window down. I often couldn't get the window to stay up. I drove a Chevy Chevette. The Bic Disposible of cars.

He leaned into my window. His face obscures my left peripheral vision. He wants to inquire about my relationship with Jesus. He's talking nonsense, or scripture. I don't remember the words.

I remember looking to my right. There's an old building. Not well kept. A business. Probably closed.

Spray painted on the wall is a peace sign following a name:

John Lennon

I told the man John Lennon was Jesus. The light turns green. I let go of the clutch. Jerk. He pulls back.

I drive away.

Later, I took a photo of that graffiti. I used a Canon AE-1 Program. I misplaced the photo.

That was 25 years ago.