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August 31, 2005
Business Week's Best Of The Web Poll
Due to a clerical error, defective yeti has been nominated for Best Humor Website in the Business Week 2005 Best Of The Web Poll. It is currently trailing what is generally regarded to be the finest humor site in the history of the Internet, and neck-and-neck with a site about people putting remote controls on their Nebelungs.
August 30, 2005
The Squirrelly is eighteen months in age, and continues to grow like early Spring Lysichitum americanum in low- to moderate-elevation temperate wetlands. (Marrying a botanist has really Increased My Simile Power.) These days he sort of fluctuates between two quantum states: one moment he's a baby, sitting on the floor and playing with some blocks, then you glance away for a second and, when you look again, he's a full-on little boy, sauntering around the house in pursuit of a cat like he's been perambulating since day one.
I have mixed feelings about his getting older. While I feel no small amount of pride when The Squirrelly hits some new developmental milestones, it is always tinged with sadness. Not sadness that has youth is ebbing away or anything like that, goodness no -- I can't wait for this kid to up and get himself toilet trained -- but sadness that yet another line in our babyproofing defenses is about to be breached. Last year we had him confined to the livingroom, but then he got big enough to push the chair we had blocking the entrance to the kitchen out of the way. So then we let him roam in the living room and the kitchen, but then he figured out how to subvert the babygate in the mouth to the hall. So we decided, well, it's okay if he goes down the hall so long as we keep the doors to the bedrooms closed, but now he's figured out how to push those open. By October he'll be frolicking about in the crawlspace. He's like the little Katamari Damacy dude, barreling around and accumulating mass until he's big enough to crash into areas that were previously inaccessible.
Also, he is now so tall that, when I carry him around, he can further his Sibling Prevention Program just by kicking his feet, if you catch my drift.
(When I mentioned this to The Queen last night she rolled her eyes and said, "You've been complaining about this kid kicking you in the nuts since the day he was born." "That's my point!" I cried. "A few times I could chalk up as accidents, but this is clearly an orchestrated campaign!")
One thing that's cool to see is how things The Squirrelly has been instinctually practicing for months are suddenly clicking into place. Like, he's sort of shuffled around to music for months, but now all the sudden he's dancing. And remember when he was five months old and I posted this pitcure of him?
I mocked him for trying to fit an object the size of a cantaloup into his piehole. Well, as with many of the things babies do that adults dismiss as "play," it appears that The Squirrelly was actually engaged in The Acquisition Of Valuable Life Skills. In this case it seems that he's been systematically working to increase the size of his mouth so as to better shove thirty-seven cookies in there simultaneously.
(Of course we would never give our toddler "cookies." These are, in fact, "Sesame Street Banana-Flavored Crunchin' Blocks." Which are, in all respects, identical to cookies, except they are (a) slightly smaller, and (b) endorsed by Elmo.)
The Squirrelly's still not much of a talker, though we've long since stopped worrying about it. We've noticed that he'll try out a new word for a day or so and then, when he's bored of saying it, file it away in his little mental dictionary. Apparently he's just going to save them up and then, one day when I'm out in the family room guffawing to "America's Funniest Home Videos," he'll come strolling out in his shark pajamas and be all, like, "honestly, I'll never understand why you fritter your time away on this puerile tripe"
Until then he's adopted his own, invented language, which consists entirely of the word "kitty" spoken with varying degrees of intensity.
Me: Are you done with your snack?If he feels that some statement is ambiguous, he will occasionally add, by way of clarification, "Pooh."
Oh, and hey: while we're on the subject of adorable lil' boys, did you know The Squirrelly has a cousin? A robot cousin??!
This is my nephew Pogo, two weeks younger than The Squirrelly, who had the audacity to be born on what was formerly known as "my" birthday.
We have since made up. He is hard to stay mad at, though I tried my best.
August 29, 2005
Okay, Back For Reals
Between The Game, writing about The Game, an unhealthy addiction to Doukutsu Monogatari, and my annual August weblog ennui, I've been a very poor blogger of late. But I think we're back on track, as of today.
Also! If Katrina And The Waves was ever going to come out of retirement, today would be the day to do it.
August 25, 2005
Playing The Game, Part I
At The Morning News today I have a piece called The Pre-Game Show, the first in a three-part series about how I spent last weekend.
August 23, 2005
The Works: Vlogs And More
Here are some the topics we cover:
August 22, 2005
If you're irritated that I haven't been posting, here's the man to blame.
August 17, 2005
Well, it's Wednesday and I haven't posted anything, so apparently I am taking the week off.
Week off! Go here instead.
August 12, 2005
I'm glad that the act of giving birth has not come to be known as "going number three."
The Bad Review Revue
I would have to excerpt Roger Ebert's review of Deuce Bigalow: European Gigolo in its entirety to do it justice, so just go over here and read it.
August 10, 2005
defctive yeti: Proud Sponsor Of Your Lymph Nodes
When in downtown Seattle, I often see this billboard:
Man, this is a complete drag. It's tiresome to have to turn to the camera, give a thumbs-up, and intone "Thanks Key Bank ..." every time The Squirrelly says a new word.
Although I do find it interesting that company have apparently abandoned the quaint, 20th century practice of sponsoring individual things like the Olympics or local t-ball teams and are now laying claim to entire classes of objects and events.
I imagine the competition amongst corporation to appropriate every single thing in the world is going to get fierce.
August 09, 2005
1. No woman, in the history of courtship, has ever uttered the phrase "he's a really great guy" and not followed it with the word "but."
2. Getting involved with a girl who has stuffed animals in the back window of her car is rarely a good idea.
3. Unless otherwise specified, the correct time to microwave something is three minutes.
Update: Some readers are asserting that the final one is not, technically speaking, a "dating" truism. And, okay: I'll grudgingly cede the point.
In its place, though, here are some other dating truisms from the comments:
Check out this astonishingly comprehensive fansite for the late-80's FOX show Werewolf, complete with pictures, videos, mp3s, fan fiction, and even scripts for the original episodes.
I find it oddly heartwarming that someone built sust an impressive site in tribute to a program I barely remember.
August 08, 2005
Adventures With The Highly-Strung Cashier
As my items trundle down the conveyer belt at the local co-op, the cashier grabs a bag of cherries, sets them on the scale, and then reaches for the bananas. As he does, he glances at the scale's display.
Highly-Strung Cashier: Whah?! That's ridiculous!
August 05, 2005
Movies: Batman Begins
My opinions of the last four Batman movies -- Batman, Batman Returns, Batman Forever, and Batman & Robin -- were, respectively, "so-so," "wretched," "good, but only in comparison to the others," and "it's stuff like this that makes me wish the Neanderthals had clubbed homo sapient into extinction back on the savannah." And after each and every one, even the ones I kinda liked, I walked out of the theater thinking the same question. Why, when scores of excellent Batman comic books have been written, does Hollywood feel the need to hire some screenwriter with zero comic book experience to come in and make up the entire mythos from scratch? And I'm not just talking about the big stuff, like "The Joker killed Bruce Wayne's parents?" and "Catwoman gains superpowers after being licked by cats??!" but even the minutia, like making Batgirl Alfred's niece. You could argue that things like Batgirl's identity don't really matter, but that's my point: if they don't matter, what's the point of changing them?
What I really wanted was for someone who wrote Batman comic books (or read a few, at least) to take a crack at the script. Who woulda guessed that Christopher Nolan-- the genius behind one of my all-time favorite movies, Memento -- was that guy? And the co-writer, David S. Goyer, is not only an honest-to-goodness comic book writer (he pens Justice League of America), but has worked on such films as The Crow, Blade, and the forthcoming film The Flash -- not to mention the sublime Dark City. Put 'em together and you get a Batman movie that (mostly) feels right.
Batman Begins at the beginning, even before the death of Bruce Wayne's parents (which is not at the hands of The Joker, thank God -- signaling that this new series is completely divorced from the earlier claptrap). In fact, we don't even get to see the familiar cape and cowl until the midpoint of the film, as the story focuses on the events and training that shaped Bruce Wayne into the legendary crimefighter.
Right from the gate it's apparent that Nolan's approach to the material is radically different from Tim Burton's, as he strives to make the narrative as realistic as possible. Burton created a fantastic, comic book universe for his Batman movies; Nolan grounds the hero in our own. In fact, my one gripe with Batman Begins stems from this fact. Nolan does such a good job of making the back-story believable that that Bruce Wayne's transition from "angry guy who's really good at martial arts" to "angry guy running around in a cape" is a bit jarring, taxing the audience's suspension of disbelief to the limit.
But, in my opinion, two things make up for all of this movie's other deficiencies: Alfred Pennyworth and Commissioner (sory, "Captain") Gordon. As the mythos of Batman has evolved in the comic books it has become clear that these two men are more than just supporting characters, they are every bit as integral to the success of The Batman as Bruce Wayne himself. Batman Begins treats them as such. As far as I'm concerned, this alone shows that Nolan (and Goyer) understand the story of Batman better than any of the previous screenwriters did.
Batman Begins is not perfect, and there's a few scenes and lines that ring false. But it's a quantum leap better than the older ones, and, as superhero movies go, on par with the X-Man series and Spiderman II.
A waited a month and a half after Batman Begins' release to see it, and then only because it was getting rave reviews. I assumed that no good Batman movie would ever be made. But when the sequel debuts -- and assuming Nolan is still behind the helm -- I may well be there on opening night.
One of the sponsors of the geek-a-thon I'm attending is, inexplicably, Gibson Guitars. While all the other vendors were handing out software and flash drives at their booths, Gibson gave out picks.
I dunno -- this doesn't seem like the target demographic for Gibson. If we were guitar players we would have had girlfriends in high school, instead seeking solace in our Commodore 64s.
August 04, 2005
Pushes My Button
Speaking of this, you know what I think they should do? I think they should make it so if you press an elevator button that's already lit, it goes off. This would serve two purposes.
First, it would allow a rider to cancel a button pressed in error.
Second, it would thwart those A-personality types who enter the elevator and press the button for their floor even when it's already lit. This would obviously be the greatest boon of the technology, because, as we all know, those people are totally fucking annoying.
August 03, 2005
My Baby Can Beat Up Your Baby
The Squirrelly is shaping up to be quite the bruiser. At seventeen months he stands a head taller than most toddlers his age and has already wearing the largest size in infant footware. Upon meeting him for the first time and observing the discrepancy between his physical and behavioral development, many people understandably assume that he is a retarded three year old.
There's no way to know if this trend will continue. But, if it does, and he winds up a hulk compared to his elementary school classmates, it will be incumbant upon me to teach my son the fine art of not being a bully.
Alas, this may prove to be a problem, as I have no expertise in this area. Which isn't to say that I was bully in school -- far from it. It's just that bullying was never viable career path for a child of my stature, so I never had to grapple with any ethical quandries when opting not to pursue it. Indeed, any sentences describing my childhood years that contained the verb "bullied" was infinitely more likely to feature my name as the direct object rather than the subject.
So I'm not really sure how to go about imparting the whole "with great power comes great responsibility" message, and I'm often afraid that I am inadvertently teaching him the wrong thing. Take the other day in music class, for instance. All the parents were sitting in a circle with their toddlers on their laps, and the instructor was clapping her hands in assorted rhythms. Most of the other children were clapping along, but The Squirrelly was just looking at the other kids with curiosity. So I gently took hold of his wrists and brought his hands together repeatedly in time with the beat.
After about a minute of doing this, I glanced down and noticed that The Squirrelly wasn't exactly clapping; while his left hand was flat, he had the fingers of his right hand curled into a ball.
So there he was, looking at each of the smaller children in turn and ominously punching the fist of one hand into the palm of the other.
August 02, 2005
Bush Appoints Bolton To UN
In a move that critics decried as "a slap in the face to a venerable institution," President George Bush today bypassed Congress and appointed Michael Bolton as ambassador to the UN. "As the winner of two Grammies and six American Music Awards, and as an artist who has sold over 52 million albums and singles worldwide, Michael Bolton is unique qualified to represent America's interests in the United Nations" Bush said during a public appearance with the aging "easy listening" maven. "He'll be more than just a reformer, he will also serve as the UN's 'Soul Provider'."
Wasting no time, Bolton spent his first day on the job today, where he addressed weakening ties between the US and Europe by singing "How Am I Supposed to Live Without You?," gave tribute to a former USSR territory with "Georgia On My Mind," and inexplicably interupted a spirited debate on debt relief with a soulful rendition of "Can I Touch You ... There?"*
Bolton's nomination had been stalled for months, as Democrats threatened filibuster unless the White House blocked release of the upcoming "Best of the Bolton" album. Upon hearing the news, Senate Minority Leader Henry Reid blasted Bush's use of a recess appointment as "an outragous abuse of power" and derided Bolton as "a no-talent assclown."
August 01, 2005
I'm spending the week at OSCON, a conference so geeky that they won't even let you in the door unless you have in your possession a Linux boot disk, the root password, a 20-sided die, or proof of virginity.
I whiled away the morning in a three-hour presentation given by perl überguru Damian Conway. Everyone in the audience was laden with all manner of newfangled contraption -- laptops, blackberries, iPods -- and the presentation was interrupted several time by the ring of cell phones. Each time a ringtone sounded Damian would stop talking and adopt an air of overly-taxed patience while the owner fumbled around for his phone and mumbled apologies; everyone else chipped in by swiveling around in their seats and glaring at the knucklehead du jour.
After the third time it seemed as if everyone had finally wised up and turned off their phones' ringers, because nearly an hour went by without further incidents. Then, just as Damian was entering the home stretch of his lecture, the phone on the guy sitting one seat over from me burst into song. It had one of the most obnoxious jingles I have ever heard, and waas set on a volume that ensured it would be heard even if the phone was accidentally dropped down a storm grate and whisked out to sea.
As Damian stopped in mid-sentence, incredulous, and all heads turned in the direction of the ring, my neighbor first sat there paralyzed with a stunned expression upon his face, and then frantically fished the phone from his pocket. "Sorry, sorry!" he cried, clearly chagrined.
And yet his shame didn't stop him for actually taking the call. He leaned way over -- almost to the point of putting his head under the desk -- held the phone to the side of his face, and, in a low voice, whispered, "Hello?!" After a moment of listening he angrily hissed, "Nice timing: you just totally pissed off Damian Conway."