Monday, November 02, 2009
The Anvil and Its Shadow
Ray Didinger, a quite prescient commentator on football, specifically the travails of the Philly Iggles, commented this morning on last night's defeat of the beloved Phillies to the monsters from up North on I-95, the Yanquis. The Phils, as has been their practice this year clawed back from a 4-2 hole to tie it 4-4 in the bottom of the 8th inning.
In came Philly closer Brad Lidge, the 2008 hero, now the 2009 cursed goat, to close down the Yanquis in the top of the 9th and hopefully give the Phils a chance for another come-from-behind victory. He got 2 outs and then the wheels fell off of the wagon. The Yanquis came up with three runs, Mariano came out of his lair in the bottom of the 9th and put the nails in the coffin of game 4 of the World Series. Yanquis: 7, Phils: 4. Yanquis up, 3 games to 1.
Mr. Didinger's comment? Well, this whole year "...Phillies fans knew there was an anvil somewhere up there in the sky. Last night, the anvil (that is Mr. Lidge)'s shadow covered the field and came down with a thud."
So True.
My heart goes out to Brad Lidge; it just hasn't been his year and, unfortunately, as the Anvil, it doesn't seem like it will one for the Phils.
Now, All I ask...is that someone on the Phils remove that smirk from that self-aggrandizing Alex Rodriguez. I heave bile whenever that lying steroid taker is up at bat!
In came Philly closer Brad Lidge, the 2008 hero, now the 2009 cursed goat, to close down the Yanquis in the top of the 9th and hopefully give the Phils a chance for another come-from-behind victory. He got 2 outs and then the wheels fell off of the wagon. The Yanquis came up with three runs, Mariano came out of his lair in the bottom of the 9th and put the nails in the coffin of game 4 of the World Series. Yanquis: 7, Phils: 4. Yanquis up, 3 games to 1.
Mr. Didinger's comment? Well, this whole year "...Phillies fans knew there was an anvil somewhere up there in the sky. Last night, the anvil (that is Mr. Lidge)'s shadow covered the field and came down with a thud."
So True.
My heart goes out to Brad Lidge; it just hasn't been his year and, unfortunately, as the Anvil, it doesn't seem like it will one for the Phils.
Now, All I ask...is that someone on the Phils remove that smirk from that self-aggrandizing Alex Rodriguez. I heave bile whenever that lying steroid taker is up at bat!
Labels: Philly, Self-Therapy
Friday, June 19, 2009
Wheel of Organization
In the realm of infinite possibilities that is particular to sleep, occasionally the self-guided engagement of personal problem-solving takes purchase in the frontal lobe. In indirect relation to my work-related tasks, my level of (dis)organization at home is both cause for embarrassment and for easy ridicule. As a weak defense, I offer up W.C Fields' horizontal methodology toward filing, which works well if you're into sedimentology and hope that the crush of paper will "concentrate" your filing needs. With the cure-all of shut eye, my problems are solved. It's with waking that the reality of definite solution conflicts with the perfection of dreams.
What I truly need are desks; the more multiple the better. Though the attraction of file cabinets is strong, my home-related preferred lifestyle is not to shut away things but to leave them out as reminders and brain-hints. Space is obviously an issue when discussing furniture addition. In a dinky home, space, furniture and the interplay of the two become seeds for daily chewing. How to arrange and how to stock and how not to go bump in the night leaves one exhausted enough to eagerly welcome sleep from which all successful (if only temporary) solutions flow.
So, I came up with this. A water-wheeled desk. Circles are perfect, no? The paddles would be 18-25 inches deep and all hinged, on each side, in one space. So, as you turn the wheel, the magic of gravity keeps the upcoming desk level. For those previously cursed with cathedral ceilings, fell blessed now as your water wheel desk can have a diameter that we, with 10 ft ceilings can only dream about. I’d have the wheel made from cedar, so as to provide a fabulous scent to one’s desk-sitting, and the desk surfaces made in a variety of woods, say birch, cherry, and maple.
Just have to see if this idea will fly with the Ever-Loving Wife. She just may be on her last organization-related idea nerve; the next idea may just push her into the Chuck-It-All Zone.
Labels: Effluvia, Self-Therapy
Thursday, May 28, 2009
$6.66 Due
"You superstitious?", she winked as I perceptibly shook at the amount that appeared on the postage meter."I mean, about the $6.66?", she wondered, clearing up the matter in question. Or so she thought.
It’s a quirky little post office here in town, below the canal. I love it. The folks working at the counter there come in all range of friendliness, warming up to you over the years in indirect proportion to their natural wariness. I go there often enough, 2-3 times a week, to have packages shipped to various friends and family.
"Not another batch of movies?", one asks me as I dump another three self-returning Netflix envelopes in the out bin.
"Hmmm, hmmm, hmmm!", she continues. Weighty opinions via two consonants.
"Is she right?", I wonder calibrating the "mmm"'s loaded in her "Hmmmmm"'s.
"Am I spending too much time watching movies, instead of shifting my eyes to the passing clouds by my window, watching life go by?"
"Oh, another package going up to Canada with the Customs tag labeled "Family CD’s"?", another asks me as I fill in all of the requisite shipping documents.
"Don't you think they’ve had enough of your family’s pictures? Give their eyes a break, why don't you? Let their minds savor your packages so they start wondering what's up with you, instead of loading them up with pictures and CD's. That's too much information too soon, don't you think?"
"You know, she may be right!", I cogitate, my mind's cogs imperceptibly engaging.
"I'm no longer even a whisper of a mystery to my friends and family! I'm a drudge. No! Worse! I'm a self-recorded drudge!" I hesitate, before reluctantly letting the package go, vowing I will delay the next shipment for at least a month to allow a patina of inexplicability to coat my daily life.
"They forget something? Again??, he asked and laughed simultaneously as I pondered whether to overnight the forgotten items to one of my kids or make them suffer and send it Priority Mail.
"You'd think with their young minds they'd be able to remember all this stuff. Well, maybe they just have too much stuff. Maybe living without would make them appreciate what they live with?"
I nod, taking in another Post Office gristy observation that I'll roll around into a pearl later.
"The regular?", he inquires, not so much as expecting a negative reply as going through our routine exchange.
"Yep, the regular"
"O.K., Two Day delivery. $4.95. See you tomorrow?"
I hand over a five, wait for the change, and first shake and then nod my head, thus covering all possible answers to his question.
"Ha!", he notes, "Kids! They've got you to where you don't know "No" from "Yes". See you...whenever.", and he turns around chipping my package into a rolling bin.
So, today the $6.66 incident. My passport had expired 2 years ago; an indication that I'm losing it. Since I was a teen, I'd never had my passport expire without having a renewed one in hand. If you're going to be a self-perceived Man-On-The-Go, you best be sure you’ve got the legal documents to Go-Where-You-Want-To-Go. How I’d let the expiration date slip by 2 years ago sadly indicated that my On-The-Go had been going nowhere. An application was quickly filled out, passport pics taken (you don’t want to ask), check written, and expired passport shoved all together in a padded envelope destined for Philly. Registered Mail, of course, the only accepted method of Slavic Mail Paranoids.
"So, are you superstitious?", she quizzed me again.
"Me, superstitious?", I muttered to myself, the Ever-Suspicious One.
I had all reasons to be! Sure! This passport was going to be with me for 15 years. Fifteen Years! And it's begun its decade and a half life's journey by being marked with the postal total of $6.66!?
What is that saying?
Will my letter, registered,yes, but still...will it arrive at all?
Will the State Department employee who receives my letter notice the $6.66, scream and toss my letter and application into a shredder?
What if the State Department employee, droning away, misses the $6.66 postmark, processes the application, and mails the new passport to me, not realizing that the sign of the $6.66 has burned itself into my passport thus guaranteeing some horrible, nasty, unforgivable act to be done to my person in the next 15 years that I have this passport.
I hesitate. Do I take back the envelope, rip it open and shove blank pages inside to up the weight and the postage?
"Look, I know this will sound peculiar. Can you mark it up to $6.67? Can I pay $6.67? Please!?"
Slyly, she tempts me with a pause."I understand, but I can't overcharge you. It would be against the postal code. Do you want to take it back and add more blank pages?"
What! I know now that she's cruelly toying with me. She's reading my thought. Quick! Wipe out that ATM card access code from your mind!
"Uhmmm, no. That's o.k. Just send it in as is"
"As is? You mean...", she stares at me as she combs back her horns, "...as $6.66!??".
I leave, then turn around as I see her putting my package in a special bin. I take out a nickel and surreptitiously slip it onto her postal scale and quick step out the door, just barely hearing her laugh and yell, "This Washington's not going to shield you from the $6.66!!"
Labels: 2009: The Year of Living Dangerously, Glimpses, Self-Therapy
Friday, February 27, 2009
Below the Surface
I won't say it's a "Guy" thing; that's may too much of an Auto da Fe opening symptomatic of the recent decade's rant against the stupidity of men. I'll steer away (tires screeching in the background) form the generic and park in the specific. Being of sound Slavic mind and therefore leaning heavily toward the paranoid and suspicious, I tend to power down my computer completely if I stray away for more than an hour or so. Visions of slithery Internet snakes or Ethernet versions of those invisible Amazonian insects that scoot up one's privates invading my files were on constant loop play in my head. Other pictures of my computer self-combusting and burning down our house or even our whole block also flashed in my head whenever I'd left my PC running. So, shutting down was a solution for my own sanity, perhaps unconsciously affected by the workings of my own brain. When I'm sleeping, my 2nd most favorite activity, my brain shuts down as well. Dreams perhaps are concocted, but I could never relate them when I've awakened as my slate is clean. I'm convinced the majority of my brain shuts down so it doesn't catch fire while my head's on the pillow or that it isn't affected by murmurings in my ear left by my Ever Loving Wife.
"Books! Books! Throw out your books!"
or
"CD's! CD's! Melt down your CD's!"
The thing is, when I do wake up, the brain goes through its booting up process and I'm simply capable of only trundling off to the bathroom, taking a shower, and semi-clothing myself. You know, the basic stuff. My other coping programs such as speech, comprehension, wit? Well, they're buried deep in my brain's drive and I'm happy to see them engaged within an hour or two. By the time I've arrived at work an hour later, I appear to be a fully functioning human being.
My Ever-Loving Wife? Well, her brain is never at rest, even when her body is. Perhaps, it goes to a hibernation state, from which a quick start-up is possible. But I doubt it; I'm positive her brain is perpetually engaged in activity. Her dreams are multi-technical productions involving casts of thousands, none of which have been duplicated/triplicated/quadrupulated by software chicanery.
So, when we awake, we are at two different points of human comprehension. I am still in the Cro-Magnon state while the ELW is of a future species not yet recognized.
Excuse my long intro, as the table should be finely set for a comment she left me with, an Ohrwurm, if you will, that has accompanied me all the way to work and into this blog entry.
While I was grunting and preparing to land a little peck on her cheek before the Daily Grind departure, she peered into my eyes and said that our love affair is definitely (in her words) "gone subcutaneous". Puzzled, I wriggled uncontrollably and starting scratching my arms, trying to feel how that would feel. I mean, my ELW being under my skin. She was right and so was Frank. She's deep in the heart of me.
A great itch to be scratchin'
"Subcutaneous Love". Hmm, sounds like a song Andrew Bird would come up with.
Labels: Married Life, Self-Therapy
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Sweet Somethings
In a recent NYT article on wig preparation and Sarah Palin, an item jumped out at me in all its hirsuteness. In discussing a cast member on "Saturday Night Live", the topic came up that"there probably isn’t a male analogue of Tina Fey to play Senator Joseph R. Biden Jr., not to mention the complications that could be involved in replicating his hair, which seems to be a particularly fraught piece of real estate.".A pang of empathy surged up my body and out through the remaining follicles on my head straining for purchase on my pate. ...a particularly fraught piece of real estate. I felt for the guy. Our state's very own senator and here he is in newsprint not getting respect for the planting and re-planting he had done quite a few years ago in attempts to densify the crop on his top.
Ah, how things can change in one's life. I sifted the remaining wisps on my own head and paused for one of those Mr. Mulliner reflections.
I started out as a blonde and bony kid who sported the popular buzz back in the day. Then, as my world mood darkened, so did my hair, to some combination of brown, red, and dirty blonde. The shortness lengthened to scary proportions that had neighbours locking their door and taking in the cat.
My overall appearance commenced with chubby cheeks (both areas) and then, with growth spurts, into your classic Slavic cheeks, wherein passers-by plied me with food to fill in the hallows of my face. My body type stayed fairly constant, a bit on the squirrely side, this all thanks to lack of a cornucopia of tv channels, tons of friends in the neighborhood to spend all hours of the day and night with, and a diet of three home-prepared meals.
Throughout my life, my temptations were minimal, not due to any religious nay-saying, but rather due to the preciousness of occasions where my temptations were in play. Certain toys, usually made either in Italy or Germany were temptations that later on morphed into albums and cd's. Books became a passion from early on, but were usually contained within the palaces of local libraries. It wasn't until after college that an accumulating nature took firm hold, a temptation that's now, I admit, a vice. There are more books in my house than I could ever possibly read, even if my wits were to stay within the confines of my head.
One temptation, however, has kept its place as the carrot I follow in my life.
Cake.
The loveliest of our mono-syllable words. Say it slowly and you are swallowing the last crumbs you've licked from your fork's tines. Say it quickly, and feel your ears prick up, as if to hear the gurgling of the icing in its slow melt down the coated sides of the cake.
It is the most soothing of drugs, even when ingested in the melee that is the last scene of a 4 yr old's party. Kids and cake, chocolate lipsticked drooping in chairs with fingers splayed and spiked with bits of cake innards. A mother's cleaning horror, this. But, the kids? The cake was working its way through their system, first introducing that thought that will follow them forever. I'm.....getting...older...
Depressing, no?
That's why there's cake. And that's why tv's should be turned off, kid's soccer/hockey/football/baseball games should be ignored, lawn care farmed out, and house repairs ignored. Cake should be re-introduced to your life's regimen.
By cake, and please excuse my elitism, I don't mean those bathtub sized monstrosities one is forced to partake of at the innumerable office birthday parties. Set up your standards!
Start with this simple question. Is there butter in the cake? 95% of the time, the answer is a quick "No" or a forever "uuuhhhhhhhhhhmmm", which is worse as the person has no clue what is in the cake.
No Butter. No buy cake. Simple. Cake is for the soul and the soul demands butter.
To save you some eating time, I strongly suggest that you seek out a true bakery. A bakery that bakes cakes. Not cakes, bread, rolls, pizza. No. A cake bakery, preferably (Notice: Political Incorrectness Alert), where the head baker is from Northern Italy, Austria, or certain Slavic countries. Sometimes, 2nd generation will suffice, but check to see that they have pasted pictures of their European ancestors on the door leading to the ovens. These are referred to as their "Baking Papers".
God has not been smiling down on my little state for a long time. It is to the USA what Newfoundland is to Canada, what Sicily is to Italy. Now, we have our senator only 50 or so days away form possibly being the elected VP of this country. Only 3-4 years ago, all the great cakes in our state were imported from Pennsylvania or New Jersey (o.k., save for the mighty fortress of culinary arts that is the DuPont Hotel...but their cake is still rather unreasonably priced).
But, now?
Wilmington has its own Sweet Somethings, a clean and delightful little paradise run by bakery chefs of Czech descent, whose birthday concoctions make aging a respectable pastime. A group of friends have been investing in their soul's pleasure with monthly visits to this emporium of butter, nuts, flour, and heat.
We are carefully working our way through The List, exercising caution to not overeating in pleasure and driven by fear that such a mecca in Wilmington could possibly go under before we made it to the final line, Assorted Mousses by the pound (No, Alcessa, not those kind of Mooses!)
n.b.: I previously blogged of the Infamous Frankopanska Torta of Crikvenica (Croatia) here. I am, yes, planning another pilgrimage, this time armed with a camera and a more open schedule.
Labels: Manly Advice, Reviews, Self-Therapy, Wilmington
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
No! Not me! (PLEASE, not me!)
My behaviour recently, that is, the critique of my recent behaviour has been such that it required a singular word to capture its full effect. Based on words spoken to me, it seems this mot juste, doryphore, might just do the trick. No excuses are offered. No explanations of circumstances possibly causing this "Colorado beetle" like behaviour will be given. Either would serve only to provide the fuel for the commenting fire.My own conclusion of this (hopefully short-timed) phenomenon is that being the passenger in a car v. being the driver causes personality changes (hopefully short-termed) that encourages the left side (or is it the right side) of my brain to fully engage its critiquing ability. Though no harm is intended, it seems my quest for efficiency, especially in others, is only successful in making a listener reach a level of displeasure and offense rapidly. Although my (perceived) aim is true, my targets would appreciate more misses than hits. It's an awful thing, this act of being a questing prig. I mean, you'd want the brain surgeon sawing into your skull to be a doryphore while he/she were poking up there in your hippocampus (no matter how small it had gotten. Funny. If you had asked me which part of your brain did get smaller due to this, I would have said, "Oh, yeah that college campus part". But, you didn't ask, so I'll just return to where I had left off...). But after the operation, I doubt you'd want to be confined to a bed and have to deal with the nit-picking medical genius, pointing out all of the errors of your way of living.
I will strive to minimize my role of auto passenger and thus, hopefully, decrease my innate doryphore. I'm way too old to try to change this; I'm at the age where self-suppression works best. That, or carry a large sock o' horse manure to insert in my mouth whenever I get an urge to point out deficiencies.
Perhaps, If everybody did their job, I'd be less cantankerously picky.
See more funny videos at Funny or Die
Labels: People, Self-Therapy
Monday, June 16, 2008
A Call Out
The daughter, ever sly and humorous will be picking up a dog, a Westy to wit, shortly. The pup comes from a litter of 4, he being the 3rd one sold. The breeder sounds like a real character, a retired gentleman in northeastern PA who has a rambling old house that is the domain of 14 of these little energetic flashes of white fur. The last time we had pets in our dinky (Sub-Saharan word for "tight, small space") house was 15 years ago or so. A caged rat named Nicodemus, an animal whose name took longer to say than the poor animal lived. When the Ever-Loving wife and I first took up shared residence, I brought a Maine Coon-ish cat into our connubial bliss situation. He, poor guy, didn't last too much longer as his abundant hair, or rather, his abundant hair loss was a source of allergic reactions for our kids. In a cruel trick of timing, he was neutered the same day that our first-born arrived. Cats being such intelligent creatures, he always looked at my son with a scowlish look, convinced that his emasculation and my son's arrival was more than mere coincidence. So, off he went to another owner blessed with no aversion to cat dander.So, we haven't had an animal in our house in quite a while. We haven't been tied down by four legged beasts that would put a crimp in our imagined spontaneous & exciting lives. The kids are grown and we...have opted to burden ourselves with a wet-nosed tail-wagging bundle of joy. Who says you get smarter as you get older?
Oh, yeah. The name. I had mentioned the slyness of my daughter, right? She opted for the Nom du Chien of Barko. Yes, Barko, which coincidentally rhymes with Darko. Wonder who'll be coming when he's called?
Note Bene: My apologies in advance for sappy puppy photos that will most probably appear on this blog. I will provide advance warnings of these treacly pics whenever possible.
Labels: Domestic Burdens, Manly Advice, Self-Therapy
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Insulation
Forgetfulness
The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,
as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.
Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,
something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.
Whatever it is you are struggling to remember
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.
It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even
forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.
No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart."
Billy Collins
I was going to post a picture of some of my "memory aids" here but, out of concern for personal safety, opted not to. Suffice it to mention that these "aids" are piled/stacked/organized by my bed, by my desk, by my sofa. Basically, any furniture in the house has a "by my" pile associated with it. Yes, the memory has bee slipping for a while. I believe if I read less or had less books, less would be forgotten. I, however, am of the thinking that, perentage wise, the amount of forgetting as a function of the quantity of printed matter located within the property lines is significantly less than if I had a smaller inventory of books. While the books forgotten quantity may be the same, upping the composition of the divisor, i.e. # of books on hand, makes my forgetten books % lower.
That's my rationalized outlook on keeping the printed words around and I'll stick by it.
Besides, it's been rather chilly lately and the books stacked against the house's outer walls has been keeping us warm.
Labels: Home Decor, Humans, Idiosyncracies, Self-Therapy
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
Reasons for Reading
From Neurology, in research-speak, it was noted that one can make "deposits" to one's Cognitive Reserve (CR), which can come in handy when one is perambulating around a heavy lead environment. The NYT, in its weekly Tuesday Science section, in human-speak, concluded that "good readers retained much of their skills (skills involving attention, memory, mental calculations and decision making), even as they, too, were suffering damage to their nervous systems (from heavy lead exposures)."I love that term, Cognitive Reserve (CR). For those of us who are readers, an actual health benefit seems to be self-generating when we slog on through books. Now, for some of us, let me be a name-dropper and mention Ms. Jagosaurus (who seems to read books once a week through the advanced concept of Laying of Hands and absorption), this Cognitve Reserve must be overflowing past the brain's storage capacity. It's as if she's generating her own electricity and her meter's turning backwards. CR scientists should investigate if these CR deposits can be inter-brain transferred, you know, like the money we switch back and forth on our Internet bank accounts to dupe ourselves into thinking that money, contrary to the law of physics, can be in two places at once.
And now we''l be able to answer that Tennessee Waffle House Waitress' question, What ya readin' for?
Well, to increase my Cognitive Reserve, of course!
Labels: Idiosyncracies, Self-Therapy
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
The Absolutely Final "Final Game" Tonight?
Ottawa Senators 
Scott Burnside,one of ESPN's hockey writers, on interpretation of an interview.
"What they said:
"Our focus is just on the game. Obviously, the end result is there, but we've worked too hard and we've sacrificed too much to lose focus at this point." -- Veteran Todd Marchant on not thinking too far ahead.
What they meant:
"Have you ever heard what (coach of the Anaheim Ducks, Randy )Carlyle sounds like when he gets angry? He makes Al Pacino in 'Scarface' look like Howdy Doody. So, we'll just pay attention to the game until he tells us it's time to open the champagne, and not before. I've been in the league since 1994 and he still scares the bejeebers out of me.""
Anaheim Ducks
No team has blown a 3-1 lead in a Best of Seven format in 65 years. In 1942, a team known as the Toronto Maple Leafs came back from a 3-0 deficit to beat the Detroit Red WIngs in 7 games. That team resembles the current Maple Leafs in that both were/are based in Toronto.
Should be an entertaining game as the Senators may actually have their sticks checked for incorrect curvature thereby resulting in at least 50% of their shots to be on the Ducks' net rather than on the hot dog guy selling his wares. The big question is, "When will Alfredsson get clocked for that meathead play at the end of the 2nd period in the last game where he mistook Scott Niedermeyer for a hot dog vendor and shot at him with a slapshot?". Mr. Frozen (cuz he's beyond cool), Scott Niedermeyer's pulse was reported to have risen from 25 to 27, a major emotional display on his part.
I'm still rooting for the Senators...but that Alfredsson play is starting to sway me.
Scott Burnside,one of ESPN's hockey writers, on interpretation of an interview.
"What they said:
"Our focus is just on the game. Obviously, the end result is there, but we've worked too hard and we've sacrificed too much to lose focus at this point." -- Veteran Todd Marchant on not thinking too far ahead.
What they meant:
"Have you ever heard what (coach of the Anaheim Ducks, Randy )Carlyle sounds like when he gets angry? He makes Al Pacino in 'Scarface' look like Howdy Doody. So, we'll just pay attention to the game until he tells us it's time to open the champagne, and not before. I've been in the league since 1994 and he still scares the bejeebers out of me.""
Anaheim Ducks
No team has blown a 3-1 lead in a Best of Seven format in 65 years. In 1942, a team known as the Toronto Maple Leafs came back from a 3-0 deficit to beat the Detroit Red WIngs in 7 games. That team resembles the current Maple Leafs in that both were/are based in Toronto.
Should be an entertaining game as the Senators may actually have their sticks checked for incorrect curvature thereby resulting in at least 50% of their shots to be on the Ducks' net rather than on the hot dog guy selling his wares. The big question is, "When will Alfredsson get clocked for that meathead play at the end of the 2nd period in the last game where he mistook Scott Niedermeyer for a hot dog vendor and shot at him with a slapshot?". Mr. Frozen (cuz he's beyond cool), Scott Niedermeyer's pulse was reported to have risen from 25 to 27, a major emotional display on his part.
I'm still rooting for the Senators...but that Alfredsson play is starting to sway me.
Labels: Effluvia, Self-Therapy
Thursday, May 03, 2007
Needs ...
Borrowed from Gwynne, over at The Shallow End.
1) Go to Google.
2) Type in your first name.
3) Space.
4) Type the word, "needs".
Hit Return.
Post a blog with the key needs deemed for you.
My needs included the following.
Darko needs some Light.
Darko needs to find out why his destiny must be as it is.
Darko needs some cable television analyst to inspire him.
Darko needs to be traded.
Darko needs therapy avalanche.
Darko needs to be watched multiple times in order to gain a full understanding.
Darko needs Detroit’s big men to all snap knees! (I’m not touching this one)
Darko (with a name like that who needs enemies). (…straight from the Google Search, unchanged)
Darko needs his own move. (Been looking for that since I mis-placed my mojo)
Darko needs to grow up, listen up, and smarten up. (A popular refrain I’ve been hearing)
Darko's hair needs to be discussed. An intervention might be required. (Considering I need hair, an intervention would be greatly appreciated)
And finally…
Darko needs time to digest this information, and (so he)takes a walk.
Note Bene: This is a very small selection. It seems, according to Google, I personally have over 625,000 needs. That sounds about right, although quite tiring as well.
1) Go to Google.
2) Type in your first name.
3) Space.
4) Type the word, "needs".
Hit Return.
Post a blog with the key needs deemed for you.
My needs included the following.
Darko needs some Light.
Darko needs to find out why his destiny must be as it is.
Darko needs some cable television analyst to inspire him.
Darko needs to be traded.
Darko needs therapy avalanche.
Darko needs to be watched multiple times in order to gain a full understanding.
Darko needs Detroit’s big men to all snap knees! (I’m not touching this one)
Darko (with a name like that who needs enemies). (…straight from the Google Search, unchanged)
Darko needs his own move. (Been looking for that since I mis-placed my mojo)
Darko needs to grow up, listen up, and smarten up. (A popular refrain I’ve been hearing)
Darko's hair needs to be discussed. An intervention might be required. (Considering I need hair, an intervention would be greatly appreciated)
And finally…
Darko needs time to digest this information, and (so he)takes a walk.
Note Bene: This is a very small selection. It seems, according to Google, I personally have over 625,000 needs. That sounds about right, although quite tiring as well.
Labels: Self-Therapy
...and Wants
1) Go to Google.
2) Type in your first name.
3) Space.
4) Type the word, "wants".
5) Hit Return.
Record a blog with the key wants deemed for you.
My wants included the following.
Darko wants more than just money.
Darko wants to stay.
Darko wants to have African food for people to sample, but is skeptical that ARAMARK will approve it.
Darko wants revenge. (A good blanket statement)
Darko really wants to be a point guard.
Darko wants us to be a part of his reality because it is better for us.
Darko wants you to think he’s really deep. (Ouch!)
Darko want(s) to balance the cost with the need in the market.
And finally…
Darko needs to figure out what he wants to be. (Clever use of "need" and "want")
Note Bene: This is a very small selection. It seems, according to Google, I personally have over 634,000 wants. My wants outnumber my needs by 9,000 or 1.44%. Ain't it always the case.
2) Type in your first name.
3) Space.
4) Type the word, "wants".
5) Hit Return.
Record a blog with the key wants deemed for you.
My wants included the following.
Darko wants more than just money.
Darko wants to stay.
Darko wants to have African food for people to sample, but is skeptical that ARAMARK will approve it.
Darko wants revenge. (A good blanket statement)
Darko really wants to be a point guard.
Darko wants us to be a part of his reality because it is better for us.
Darko wants you to think he’s really deep. (Ouch!)
Darko want(s) to balance the cost with the need in the market.
And finally…
Darko needs to figure out what he wants to be. (Clever use of "need" and "want")
Note Bene: This is a very small selection. It seems, according to Google, I personally have over 634,000 wants. My wants outnumber my needs by 9,000 or 1.44%. Ain't it always the case.
Labels: Self-Therapy
Thoughts, while we're at it
O.K. One last needlee waste of time.
1) Go to Google.
2) Type in your first name.
3) Space.
4) Type the word, thinks
5) Hit Return.
Record a blog with the key thoughts you allegedly had.
My thoughts included the following.
Darko thinks he's just a troubled young man who's seeing odd hallucinations, but in actuality, he's the saviour of the human race.
Darko thinks he's Socrates! (Eureka)
Darko thinks Woody Allen’s Annie Hall is a cautionary tale about the futility of romance. (what I really thought was, that the movie was about eggs, cause we all need 'em)
Darko thinks Smurfs are asexual.
Sure, he's not an idiot, but Darko obviously thinks that to get elected, all you need is a smile and long eyelashes.
And finally…
Darko had more important thinks to do.
Note Bene: This is a very small selection. It seems, according to Google, I personally have only 265,000 thoughts. While my wants number 334,000 and my needs top 325,000, thinking is not what I seem to spend a lot of time doing, which explains a lot. But the Ever-Loving Wife knew this already as she was trying to figure out what I was thinking when satisfying me cd needs and wants.
1) Go to Google.
2) Type in your first name.
3) Space.
4) Type the word, thinks
5) Hit Return.
Record a blog with the key thoughts you allegedly had.
My thoughts included the following.
Darko thinks he's just a troubled young man who's seeing odd hallucinations, but in actuality, he's the saviour of the human race.
Darko thinks he's Socrates! (Eureka)
Darko thinks Woody Allen’s Annie Hall is a cautionary tale about the futility of romance. (what I really thought was, that the movie was about eggs, cause we all need 'em)
Darko thinks Smurfs are asexual.
Sure, he's not an idiot, but Darko obviously thinks that to get elected, all you need is a smile and long eyelashes.
And finally…
Darko had more important thinks to do.
Note Bene: This is a very small selection. It seems, according to Google, I personally have only 265,000 thoughts. While my wants number 334,000 and my needs top 325,000, thinking is not what I seem to spend a lot of time doing, which explains a lot. But the Ever-Loving Wife knew this already as she was trying to figure out what I was thinking when satisfying me cd needs and wants.
Labels: Self-Therapy
