Ode to Spring

Oh Butterfly, Oh Butterfly
How you flit, and how you fly
From far away so pleasing to the eye
But
When I get up in your face
You're
Ugly

Overheard today

"I don't have to work tomorrow. I'm just going to sit on the couch with the wiener dogs and just be happy."

Now, there's a guy who's got it figured out.

Paradise by the Dashboard Light

Today I face the fact that all of my motivations are external. I'm sitting in the auto dealership having my car "serviced", though I suspect I'm the one being "serviced" in a metaphorically awkward way, if ya know what I mean. (Don't worry if you can't quite parse that last bit, that's why RobotsandEggs is a family blog.) I'm here watching the tumbleweeds blow through the showroom because my dashboard showed me a yellow wrench icon to tell me it was time for an oil change, transmission filter, and other crap I could probably do myself if I invested in the right tools and had the time and a paved driveway. Turns out I'd rather sign over my credit card so I can drink a Coke* and give You People something to read. So it's a win-win situation.

So back to my motivations. My car told me it wanted a diaper change, so here I am. My laptop wanted an anti-virus update, so that's downloading as we speak, as is a windows update. Since that doesn't totally choke the dealership's courtesy wi-fi, my browser told me it's feeling old and wants to be replaced by a younger version, so Firefox 3.something is downloading as well. Like a a Watcher from the Highlander TV series, I am here to "observe and record, but never interfere". Maybe I'll get a cool tattoo on the inside of my wrist. A temporary tattoo, needles make me yincy.

Firefox wants to restart and install itself. I hear and obey. Depending on how it goes, I may or may not be back. Wish me luck.

...and back. Nice and smooth, just like an automatic update should be.

So back to my motivations. My email is another powerful source of impetus. Not the spam (shudder), but I get plenty of new ideas, suggestion, requests, and assigned tasks for work through email. I should be using Thunderbird instead of Outlook, but Mozilla hasn't told me to switch, and when I asked Microsoft, they said to hold off until Bill finishes wiping out malaria, so I'll drop that into 2010's tickler file and move on.

I lie awake some nights wondering what would happen to me if I didn't have a job, a car, and a computer to guide me through my day. Realize, of course, that the influence of these pale in comparison to my wife, daughter, and cat, but life without the latter three would be too grim to contemplate for long. I suppose I would revert to satisfying the primal needs all humans have, but I just can't see being wrapped in a bearskin, hunched over a fire at the mouth of a cave gnawing on the roasted haunch of a beast I slew with a big stick or a rock. All but the roasted haunch part kind of clash with my sense of self. Besides, if you try any outdoor burning in The People's Republic of Carrboro, they'll haul you in for Environmental Assault before the match hits the ground.

So back to my motivations. How long could I go without initiating any action on my own? Would anyone notice? Heck, would *I* notice? If I took just one day, and did nothing but what I was told, suggested, or asked to do, what would be the result? Now here's a thought that frightens me: Would my life be better or worse? In the interests of science, I've gotta try it. It's too good an idea not to.

*First Coke in two weeks. I gave it up in interest of my calorie defecit**, but the vending machine was out of water so I took it as a message from The Almighty that I could have a pass for being good to my car.

** My next blog post will be about consumption, coming soon to an interweb near you.

Queens are good people

So last December I sent a Christmas card to Queen Elizabeth II. She's still working hard at 82, and I thought she'd like to know that those of us on this side of the pond were thinking of her. Yesterday I received a nice little note from Sandringham House, where Her Majesty spends the holidays. Royal Post, Air Mail no less, with her own initials on the post mark.

I guess when you're (deep breath now) "Her Majesty Elizabeth the Second, by the Grace of God, of Great Britain, Ireland and the British Dominions beyond the Seas Queen, Defender of the Faith, Duchess of Edinburgh, Countess of Merioneth, Baroness Greenwich, Duke of Lancaster, Lord of Mann, Duke of Normandy, Sovereign of the Most Honourable Order of the Bath, Sovereign of the Most Ancient and Most Noble Order of the Thistle, Sovereign of the Most Illustrious Order of Saint Patrick, Sovereign of the Most Distinguished Order of Saint Michael and Saint George, Sovereign of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire, Sovereign of the Distinguished Service Order, Sovereign of the Imperial Service Order, Sovereign of the Most Exalted Order of the Star of India, Sovereign of the Most Eminent Order of the Indian Empire, Sovereign of the Order of British India, Sovereign of the Indian Order of Merit, Sovereign of the Order of Burma, Sovereign of the Royal Order of Victoria and Albert, Sovereign of the Royal Family Order of King Edward VII, Sovereign of the Order of Mercy, Sovereign of the Order of Merit, Sovereign of the Order of the Companions of Honour, Sovereign of the Royal Victorian Order, Sovereign of the Most Venerable Order of the Hospital of St John of Jerusalem." you get to have your own post mark. How cool is that?

Celebrity Status

Have you noticed that celebrities just don't try any more? Time was, a celebrity felt some responsibility to maintain an image and give us regular schlubs someone to look up to. The true stars of old would revel in their fame and the reflect the spotlight back to their adoring fans a hundred times more brightly.

Now they hop in and out of black SUVs wearing baseball hats and sunglasses. Unshaven guys (and girls), no makeup, no haircut, they don't even tuck their shirts in for Pete's sake! They get paid umpteen bajillion dollars to pretend to be somebody else, and when they finally get a chance to be themselves they dress down to the Headin-out-to-Walmart-for-a-six-pack-and-some-Pringles level. I mean, Natalie Portman could walk through that door right now, and she'd be just another skank-ass bitch in sweat pants.* I want more from my celebrities.

Heck, if I was famous, you'd never hear the end of it. If I was Viggo Mortenson I'd never take the freakin' sword off. Lord Aragorn, Elindel's Heir and King of Gondor, always gets a table, bro.

Can you imagine how much fun James Earl Jones must have with his answering machine? He can make Darth Vader say anything he wants. "It is as I have forseen. Leave a message after the tone. I will return your call. The circle will be complete."

Liberace had it right. Live the dream.

I guess we can add celebrity glamor to the list of things the internet has killed, just after the ability to get away with lying about trivia (damn Wikipedia!).


*Nat, babe. You know I'm kidding.

Soup Bowl!

So what's the deal with this weekend? Something big is going on, there are snacks everywhere, and all these humongous guys are running around on the TV hollering "Soup Bowl! Soup Bowl!".

They're all jacked up about making the soup bowl, going to the soup bowl, or how they're going to win the soup bowl. Now during State Fair season our local potters, who are famous for their competitiveness, have been known to get a little rowdy, though I don't think it's ever come to blows. But these guys on TV act like they're gonna tear each others heads off over a soup bowl. I'm sorry, not "a" soup bowl, but "The" Soup Bowl.

At the grocery store they have a huge pyramid of chips and beer, like The Lost Temple of Solomon's Snacks to promote The Soup Bowl. Everywhere people are planning Soup Bowl menus, hosting Soup Bowl parties, or deciding which sports bar to celebrate The Soup Bowl in.
But for all the rigmarole, the hype, the hyperbole, the hoopla, I still haven't seen, heard of, or in other other way perceived a single, solitary, can, ladle, or drop of actual soup. Well I aim to fix that at my house. My Soup Bowl party is gonna be BYOS (Bring Your Own Spoon).

What's wrong with the United States

Panhandles. Panhandles are an embarrassment to cartographers everywhere. Panhandles say "Here's a compromise that didn't work." They're a tribute to the petty needs of the stubborn few triumphing over common sense.

Texas and Oklahoma each have panhandles that border the other. Of course they don't get along.

I'll forgive Idaho's panhandle. Nobody there cares anyway.

Florida's panhandle is another matter altogether. If it wasn't for Mobile, Alabama would be landlocked. In fact, Mobile shamefully sits smack dab in the middle of what one could argue is the Alabama panhandle. All I'm saying is that if the Governor of Alabama were to mobilize the National Guard and march south to the Gulf of Mexico, I'd gladly look the other way. Florida should share the Gulf Coast. It's not like they're using it.

West Virginia has two panhandles. Having lived up there amongst them, all I can say is: Evolution can do mean things to people.

The attached map (which you may click to enlarge) shows my humble proposal to set things right. I've taken the liberty to address a few issues in addition to panhandles, as noted below:

1) Alabama gets full access to the sea, and helps mitigate Florida's exposure to natural disasters.
2) Oklahoma gets the Texas panhandle. Texas gets punished for having the larger of the two panhandles.
3) West Virginia cedes both panhandles. Maybe Ohio and Maryland can do something with them.
4) Michigan's upper peninsula/panhandle is absorbed by Wisconsin. It's just more tidy that way.
5) California is split into 5 states: San Francisco, Los Angeles, Northern, Central, and Southern California. The world's 7th largest economy shouldn't be concentrated in one state.
6) New England is consolidated into one state. They're still over-represented in congress.

What about Alaska's panhandles? No can do. Russia and Canada get nothing.

The above changes would serve to erase the stain of panhandles from our nation's geography. They would lead to a more orderly union, and we wouldn't even have to change the flag.

Everything's Better with Gravy

Love may make the world go 'round, but gravy is what makes it worth the trip.

Today is Thanksgiving, and this year what I'm thankful for is gravy. Thick, savory, steaming gravy. Big ol' honkin' ladles of the stuff, just running over everything and pulling together the fragmented components of the traditional Thanksgiving dinner into a cohesive and tasty whole.

Gravy says relax, take off the tie, and hunker down to the chow. You're among friends.

Gravy comes in many forms. What's a salad without dressing? Naked, that's what. A sundae without fudge sauce is just a bowl of ice cream. Banana splits are loved the wide world over for not one, not two, but three kinds of gravy. Barbecue is just roasted meat until it meets the gravy.

Fries without ketchup? Hot dogs without mustard? Heavens forfend! It's all about the gravy.

* * *

I'm lucky enough to have gravy when I want, how I want, and in the quantity I want. Most people aren't so lucky. If you need a little nudge to spur your holiday/end of tax year donations read this. It's important.

I don't like things I can't pronounce

Nature is a wonderful thing. When something is very bad for us, nature gives us warning. This way we know to avoid that which can destroy us or make us all itchy. Lions roar really loudly and bears have big teeth and claws, so we know to not mess with them. Some women wear way too much eye makeup so you'll know that they can and will hurt you. I once saw a day-glow orange beetle crawling across my parent's backyard in Florida. I figured nothing with coloring that bright could survive unless it was a major bad-ass, and discretion being the better part of valor, I discretely hauled my valorous backside back inside.

Nature gives clues in other ways too. One that I've noticed lately is that if I can't pronounce it, it's probably not good for me. To wit:

Foie Gras - I'm not going to talk about it. Google if you must know.

Wednesday - Wed-nez-day? No way. It should be Winds-day, and it's too far from either weekend to be useful. I vote we either get rid of it, or convert it to a middle of the week holiday.

February - Feb-ru-airy? Nope. It's Feb-yoo-wary. Too short, too cold, and more bad things have happened to me in February than the other eleven months put together. I'm bitter and it shows.

Toyota Prius - Pri-us? Pre-us? Priss? Pre-yus? Who cares! It's liberalism at it's most conspicuous. Sure they come with a stylish Obama bumper sticker, but I'm old school enough to think that bumper stickers should never be stuck over paint, only over chrome. (When was the last time they put chrome on a vehicle anyway?) That many volts passing near the cabin just has to impair driver cognition. How else do you explain that fact that Prius drivers never seem to know where they're going, and take their time getting there?

Maybe it's a Chapel Hill thing, but you can't fire duck liver out of a slingshot around here without hitting a Prius. I used to mark the spot on my morning commute where I saw the first electro-funk mobile of the day. It used to average somewhere between two and five miles from my house. Over the past year it's gone down to less than a mile. Now it's even money that I won't make it four blocks. It's almost enough to make me miss the new VW Beetles. Almost.

Crazy Eights

Today is 8/8/08, one of twelve days each century when the day, month and year are all the same number. Rejoice in a phenomenon too regular to be coincidence, yet too mystical to be mundane.

I forgot to do something eight-ish in observance of the day*, but I've got a year and month and a day to get ready for Sept. 9th, 2009.


*Not entirely true... I ate a lot.

Schrodinger's Chick

A friend of mine tried to explain teenage girls to me once. He started out with, "How well do you know quantum physics?" Umm, well there are these quark thingies and... Fortunately he interrupted me before I could embarrass myself further. I sure as heck didn't understand teenage girls when I was a teenager, and I don't understand them now, even though a great many harvests have come and gone since then.

He continued. "It's like Schrodinger's Cat."

"Oh yeah, the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle and all that." I relaxed, back on slightly more familiar ground.

"Right" my friend went on, "there's no way to know the state of the item in question without observing it, so you can consider it to be in a mix of all possible states until you actually observe it and it resolves to a single state."

The light went on! Girls, and by extension Women, exist is a great many states all at once, and it's only when you open your big fat mouth and say something do they note that they are being observed and resolve into a single state. To wit:

You're hanging out with your sister, lady friend, paramour, soul-mate, whomever, and things are fairly amiable. This is too good to last.

Out of the blue she hits you with: "Do these jeans make me look fat?", confirming that you don't have to be psychic to know the day, hour, and minute of the apocalypse. "It's a nice world, and I'd rather stay in it for a little while longer" you think to yourself. So you mutter something unintelligible but vaguely upbeat and hope that something distracting will happen. Like maybe Hillary Clinton will burst into the room screaming "Oh my God! I love what you've done with the colors in here! I must have you on my committee!"

No such luck, and she fires the fat jeans question back at you, along with a look that says, "If you break eye-contact without giving me an answer you're going to be able to hit all the high notes in The Star Spangled Banner."

Now realize that up until this point her behind has been both narrow and wide, fat and thin, Humpty and Dumpty. But now it's going to resolve. And as often happens when matter changes state on a quantum level, it's going to release a startling amount of energy. Almost certainly in your direction.

It's the simultaneous need for, and abhorrence of, being observed that drives the teenage soul. The only question more terrifying than "What if somebody sees me?" is "What if nobody notices me?". Maybe that's why cell phones and facebook are so popular with the acne-and-hormones crowd. They get to see and be seen more often, but at a lower, less volatile, intensity.


* * *


They say youth is wasted on the young. Buuuuullshit. You can have it. I say middle-age is where it's at. I'm at the top of the bell-curve, and the view is spectacular.

I don't have to impress anybody - I'm already married. I can cruise grocery store with a terminal case of bed-head, in swimming trunks and mismatched plaid socks, and nobody will say a word about it. Heck, people under thirty can hardly even see me at all. Best of all, it's my generation's music they're playing in the check out line.

"Hey, Honey! Remember those shirts that were so popular twelve years ago? This one still fits!" My wife would say "Cool!" and congratulate me on the money I'm saving. No one who subscribes to Maxim can say that.

Necessity is a Mother

Here's my gift to Humanity, free of any patents, licenses, or other encumbrances on productivity:

1) Take a piece of 4x4 post
2) Drill holes in it slightly larger than your skewers
3) Put your skewers in the holes, pointy side up
4) Stick all sorts of grillable noshes on the skewers
5) Marvel at how much time you saved vs handling all the skewers each time you wanted to poke something tasty on them.


If the MacArthur Foundation calls, I'll be on the deck.

There's procrastination, and then there's this...

When we moved back from Auburn in the fall of 2006 I found my recipe folder and thought it would be a good idea to get them all into the computer so I wouldn't lose them. Seems I've been paving the road to hell for nigh on a year and a half now. Maybe that should bother me more than it does.

Maybe not.

Yes, I use Outlook. I'm sure there are better email clients out there, but other than being a slow resource hog, it hasn't given me sufficient motivation to switch. Also, Spambayes (which is brilliant!) has an Outlook plug-in, so I don't deal with spam, potted meat, or Vienna sausages. I had a bad experience once involving too many Vienna sausages and a swing set when I was a little boy. Suffice it to say that I don't eat them anymore.

The best interface is no interface

I found a bunch of those self-contained LED walkway lights on sale at Target. For two bucks I got a solar cell, an LED, a AA Ni-Cd battery, and some circuit-stuff so it can turn itself on at night and off during the day. What a bargain for me.

This isn't really a "Make", it's more of a re-make. A re-tasking, if you will. Except that I never had any intention of using the lights for their intended task. Oh well, let the philosopher kings bandy about the semantics, I just like to solder stuff.

I painted the inside of a mason jar with glass-frosting paint (from my local craft/home improvement store), chopped off the bits from the light housing that I didn't want, unsoldered the solar cell wires, ran them through a hole I poked in the lid, and reconnected them. Then I sealed the whole thing up with copious amounts of hot glue and Robert's my Father's Brother.

Leave the jar out in the sun and the battery charges. When it's dark the light shines. No switches, no ethernet connection, no $25 iPod recharge cable. It just does what it's supposed to do, when it's supposed to do it.

There are links to other things I've made under "Escaped Inventions" to the right.

With Guilt, Shame and Remorse to make it complete

I know they mean well. Free Range Chickens and all that. But for The Love Of Pete they could hold the irony until after I've had my breakfast...

Indiana Jones and The Zimmer Frame of Doom

I haven't seen the current Indiana Jones flick, so don't take the title as a slam on Harrison Ford or the movie franchise. Ok, you can take it as a slam on Temple of Doom, but I think everyone here would rather pretend it just didn't happen. What I'm trying to talk about, and will get to eventually, is the power of marketing not only to shape our perceptions, but the fabric of the very reality in which we sit. Note to those of you who stand while reading the internet: Siddown!

For the past few days I haven't been able to move the left side of my face. [Don't Panic. They think it's Bell's Palsy, and temporary.] No particular reason, really, I just lost a little function Friday night, and by Saturday it felt like I'd just come home from the Dentist in a tingly-novacaine-about-to-wear-off kinda way. The odd twist came when I realized that my left cheek and surrounding area wasn't numb, it was paralyzed, in an Hey-My-Face-Doesn't-Work-Anymore kinda way. To stifle the immediate reaction of an undisclosed number of You People out there, I am aware that there are some for whom my face has never worked. However, it has always worked for me. (And for Steffi Graf? You'll have to ask her. That's all I've got to say about that.) Now hush.

Faces are, on the (and when) whole, wonderfully handy things. Handsome faces even more so. Being able to blink your eye fully closed keeps it moist and irritant free. Being able to control your lips helps you spit instead of slobber, smile instead of smirk, clearly annunciate your bilabial aspirated fricatives, and keeps other people from fleeing the table when you're eating soup. It also allows you to kiss beyond Junior High School Level. On the other hand, my hopefully temporary partial paralysis has done wonders for my Elvis impersonation*, and my People's Eyebrow has never been more convincing.

Faces also sell things. Babies learn early early on to zero in on Mom's face. It makes everyone smile (another facial skill) and the little tyke gets what he needs. And a baby that can do his own smiling can make even the coldest, meanest, orneriest sumbich melt like a Nazi in an Indiana Jones movie.

So when Harrison Ford's face shows up on a movie poster under the Leather Fedora, we whip out the cash and troop to the theater like good little drones. Because the marketing folks know what we like. Of course they know, they trained us. More to the point, when Harrison Ford's face shows up on a Snicker's Bar, we whip out the bucks and buy them too. But it's not just a candy bar. Not with Harrison Ford's mug on the wrapper. It's an "Adventure Bar". How about that?

So let me see. I can either swing through the mosquito infested rain forest, tracking down some antiquity of inscrutable origin and even more unfathomable evil, pursued all the while by Nazi's, henchmen, savage monkeys, (did I mention mosquitoes?), and I don't know what-all, OR (and here's where I get back to marketing like I promised) I can just eat a candy bar and have: Exactly. The. Same. Experience. Hmmm. Risk dismemberment, consumption, partial facial paralysis, or eat a Candy, no, Adventure Bar? Geez Monty, that's a tough one. Let me get back to ya. I got a guy on the other line about a set of white-walls.






*"Thank ya. Thank ya very much. Hey... uh.. C-can I get some more gravy on this?"

Food Groups

Snacks can be classified by how well they balance the four basic food groups: sugar, salt, fat, and caffeine. Any decent junk food has two of the four. Doritos: Salt and fat. Coke: Sugar and caffeine. Add a third and the value goes up dramatically. Chocolate: Sugar, fat and caffeine. Yumm-tasty!

Achieving casual nosh-nirvana isn't as easy as just gobbing on the goo. I almost found the courage to try a deep fried snickers bar at the state fair this year, but my gall bladder clenched up and wouldn't let go of my esophagus until I'd cleared the exit. On the other hand, peanut butter chocolate chip rice crispy treats are quite tasty. That 255 mg of sodium in one cup of Rice Krispies sure cranks up the old blood pressure in the morning, and peanut butter hits the trifecta [FAT, SALT, SUGAR] all by its lonesome.

The best I've been able to do is the humble offering below, which would have won a ribbon at the state fair if those old biddies hadn't let them dry out for two days before proclaiming them "good flavor, but dry". Well, Thank you Martha Stewart! They were left out for two freakin' days! Geeeee-zus! I'm sure the Queen was all over the Royal Catering Society to get Princess Di's wedding cake finished and set out in the sun a full 48 hours before the reception so it would have time to properly cure. Lord. Ham. Mercy.

So here's the recipe for Tom's No Bake Ultimate Hell-Raise Peanut Butter Fudge Oatmeal Cookies (AKA Horse Patties). By the way you can either take my advice and eat them when they're barely cool enough, or follow the lead of The North Carolina State Fair Old Bat's Committee to Frustrate Aspiring Bakers Who Really Have Better Things to Do With Their Time But Figure What the Heck I'll Give it a Go Just for Fun and Defenders of Traditional Country Women's Domain (wow, it's hard to type with this much blood deforming my eyeballs from within) We'll Teach Those... Those Men to Stay Out of Our Kitchens and Sit Back Down in Front of the Television Where They Belong and let them dessicate on the sidewalk in front of your flat for a fortnight or so.

Am I bitter? No, I'm angry.

Tom's No Bake Ultimate Hell-Raise Peanut Butter Fudge Oatmeal Cookies (AKA Horse Patties)

2 Cups sugar [SUGAR]
1 1/2 Stick of Butter [FAT, SALT]
1/2 Cup Milk [FAT]

3 TableSpoons Cocoa [CAFFEINE]
1/2 Cup Peanut Butter [FAT, SALT, SUGAR]
1 TableSpoon Vanilla Extract [Smells nice]

3 Cups Quick Oats [Takes up space]
1/2 Cup Sweetened Coconut [FAT, SUGAR]

Heat the Sugar, Butter and Milk slowly in a large saucepan, gently stirring until it starts to boil. Reduce heat slightly and let boil gently for 3 minutes without stirring. (This keeps it from hardening too much later. If it's boiling too violently, just remove it from the heat.)

Quickly stir in Cocoa and Peanut Butter. When combined, remove from heat and stir in the Vanilla Extract, the Coconut, and then add the Quick Oats a cup at a time.

Distribute on wax paper, let cool, then consume.

Makes two cookies. One to eat and one to share.

Road Tunes

One of the reasons I really like my car stereo is that it plays mp3 and wmv files. Which means I can put all of my Paul Thorn albums on one disk, and not have to shuffle them in traffic. I suppose I'm a luddite for even owning CDs, but I'm not inclined to cough up the bucks to Bill's Evil Coupertino Twin until he can promise me he won't take my music away.

I snapped this horridly appropos picture as I was leaving work after a long day.

I'm a #9 Curly McCoy

Myers-Briggs don't know nuthin'. It doesn't matter if you're Empathic-Aggressive, Extroverted-Logical, Effusive-Misanthropic or any other useless combination of terms slapped together by The Man. What matters is your position on the Stooge-Trek Matrix. Line up your favorite Stooge with your favorite Trek-guy and all will be revealed.

#1 Moe Kirk: You're a bossy, philandering, control freak. You mete out destruction when you don't get your way. Everyone still likes you, despite your hair.

#2 Larry Kirk: You have a Walter Middy-esque fantasy life. Outwardly reserved and loyal, you'd be a leader if you weren't such a great target.

#3 Curly Kirk: Chaos follows in your wake. The center of attention, you'll go over, under, around, or preferably through, all obstacles.

#4 Moe Spock: It's no coincidence they had the same hair cut. MoeSpocks are smart, and hindered only by their smug sense of superiority.

#5 Larry Spock: You're a right-hand man all the way. An indispensable Man-Friday. Many US Vice Presidents were LarrySpocks.

#6 Curly Spock: Full of contradictions, you struggle to control your inner demon-child, and rationalize the occasional odd outburst.

#7 Moe McCoy: A meticulous neat freak. You do things by the book, regardless of which book it happens to be.

#8 Larry McCoy: Sensitive and artistic, you're happiest alone or in small groups. Music is your life.

#9 Curly McCoy: You do it all in the name of misapplied science. You mix chemicals just to see which ones blow up.

Save the Zero!

I've made a personal lifestyle choice. I've decided to see if I can go the rest of my life without using the zero button on the microwave. Now, it would be ironic if I were struck down by a rogue meteor before tomorrow morning's Pop-Tart. Ironic and painful. But wait, isn't irony only for the unexpected? Since I'm sending this out to the world, one can hardly now consider the rogue meteor "unexpected", which would make it cliched, rather than ironic. So I must be safe, as I avoid cliches like the plague. Ooh, you say, a sudden plague would be more than a little ironic, wouldn't it? Dang. I'm not gonna sleep tonight.

Anyhow, back to the microwave. I've recently started to notice that the zero is always the most worn button on any microwave control pad. It gets more use than "Popcorn", and for no good reason. It gives one a useless illusion of precision, nothing more. Who's to say you should nukulate that slice of pizza for 60 seconds, rather than 55 or 66? If you forswear the naught button, you'll be off by no more than 10%, and it's a 50/50 chance that it'll be an improvement. So stop kidding yourself. Try 53 seconds sometime. 11 seconds is almost 10, plus you save the time you would have spent finding zero with your finger. In that split second you just might be struck with the inspiration of what to say to that fetching, raven haired beauty who's presence overwhelms your basic motor skills and who's absence haunts your sleepless nights. Hint: "Hey" has always worked for me.

By "worked" I mean elicited no reaction whatsoever.

I don't expect you to follow my path unless you feel it in the depth of your being. Don't do it for me. Do it for yourself.