C.O.D.?

I was just wondering if a reward is still necessary on "Wanted" posters. I mean, are we more likely to call the police if we spot a baddie on the lam and money is offered? I don't think so. Not any more anyway. Back in the day, I'm sure a reward was a huge – even necessary – incentive to do one's civic duty. But rewards aren't special now, they're commonplace. I don't have an inordinate amount of faith in humanity's capacity to do the right thing simply because it's right, but I bet most people would turn in a kidnapper simply for the attention and kudos it would garner them. And, hey, people do the right thing for the wrong reason all the time.

Still, if I did spot a fugitive rapist, pedophile or murderer, no one would have to pay me or promise me 30 seconds on the evening news to turn him or her in. I'd do it for free.

Thanksgivingness

(To all those not from the United States, tomorrow – November 24 – is Thanksgiving.)

I was talking to Christy the other day and realized, much to my chagrin, that I always seemed to be venting about something bad. Or, at least, something that I thought was bad enough to spend quality time with her venting about. I realized that I was becoming a chronic whiner. One of those people that always has something dire going on in their life. One of those people that always seems to have a little black cloud hanging over their head. One of those people that you cross the street or take the next elevator to avoid. One of those people that you're loathe to bump into and ask, "How ya doin'?" because you don't really want to hear a litany of the crap that's happened to them since you last avoided talking to them.

Seeing myself on the precipice of this abyss wasn't pretty. Diving headlong into a bottomless pit of self-pity and drowning in a pool of negativity ain't pretty. So I made a vow a couple of days ago to not say anything negative for 24 hours (in a row). I think I made it, more or less, but it was hard. It's amazing how easy it is to start spouting about the woes of your life to anyone who'll listen. But I made it, regardless. Mission accomplished. Christy reminded me that, even when lots of bad stuff happens, there's always – and I mean always – good stuff that happens too. We just forget about it sometimes. Or think it's not really worth mentioning. Or we relegate that good stuff to life's B List because it's not as important as the A List crap.

I wasn't entirely successful in my quest for a vent-free day, but I came damn close. (And Christy? If I wasn't as successful as I think I was, I don't wanna know!) And it felt good. I found myself looking for positivity, and I found it. Pretty much everywhere.

So, to that end, the following is a list of good things that happen to me every day, often, and sometimes.

1) The Boys: There's something about my cats trotting into the bathroom while I'm using it that just warms my heart. Seeing their little furry faces in mine first thing in the morning usually starts my day off right.

2) My mom: We have the silliest conversations about nothing and they always leave me grinning. She does more for me than for herself and I honestly don't know what I'd do without her.

3) My fireplace: I bought my first set of fireplace tools ever, picked up some Duraflames and haven't looked back. Napping in front of a crackling fire is heaven on earth.

4) A car for 3 weeks: I don't have a car of my own (long story), but I recently got to be custodian of my mom's car for 3 weeks while she traveled. I didn't actually use it every day, but knowing it was parked out there was nice. The fact that she trusted me with her car was even nicer. (Note to self: Get a car next year!)

5) No line at Wal-Mart: Wal-Mart can be hell on earth. But the other day, in the rain, I was able to pop in there, find what I needed, and there was one guy in line in front of me with 3 small items, and he paid with cash! 5 minutes, in and out.

6) WIC neighbor: My neighbor Ashley, whose hubby won't be back from Afghanistan until at least July, just had a baby and she's on WIC. Every so often, she has extra wheat bread, milk and apple juice. And what does she do with all that extra stuff? She gives it to yours truly. Finally! A cool neighbor!

7) Skype: It still gives me a stomach ache when I try to figure out how they can offer video Skype for free. But it seriously rocks. Soon there's gonna be a generation that doesn't remember what it was like to have a long-distance relationship without free long-distance, texting, emailing and Skype.

8) Organizing: I moved recently and it was a bitch. Obviously, I've moved before, but for some reason getting unpacked and put together was especially challenging this time. I had a burst of energy recently (thank you, Christy) and got a bunch of stuff done last weekend. So much so that I was able to light a fire since all the melt-ables in front of the fireplace were finally put away. (See No. 3)

9) Rain: This morning I was awakened by pouring rain. I got up, opened the blinds, and went back to bed. The sound of the rain on the window lulled me back to sleep. Rainfall is the most wonderful 'white noise' in the world.

10) Christy: She's my good thing every day, often and sometimes. Even bad days are better because I know she's there to tell me everything's going to be okay. As David Gates from the 70s rock group Bread would say, "Never let her go".

So these are some of my good things, big and small, sometimes and always. I hope you have some thanksgivingness to reflect on too.

The Daggers (er...Duggars)

Okay. Lest anyone think, because I have a blog, I'm up on current events. I am not. And, oddly, I'm not ashamed of it. But when I have a strong opinion about something "current", I try to do at least a little homework.

The Duggars.

I was cleaning my kitchen the other day and had the TV on, mainly for background noise. When I'm up early, "The Today Show" usually entertains me enough to forget that I'm washing dishes or cleaning the previous nights' unidentifiable muck from my stove. I was innocently, almost happily, scrubbing a pan when I heard a story begin about "The Duggars". I swear to Rudy that I'd never heard of them before. So I half-listened and continued my toiling. (Keeping a spotless kitchen while creating gourmet meals is something I don't do, nor do I aspire to. But if people think I do, more power to me.)

While eavesdropping on my TV I overheard Ann Curry talking to The Duggars about their 19 children. The number 19 piqued my curiosity, so I turned the water down low so I could half-pay attention. After a bit of small talk about their existing 19 progeny, I glanced up at the television screen as Ann thrust the microphone into the face of Mrs. Duggar and gleefully asked, "So, I understand that Number 20 is on the way. How do you feel about that?" I stopped scrubbing.

Really? I thought two things, simultaneously. 1) "You have her on the show and she must be ecstatic, so why ask?" And 2) "What sane person welcomes a 20th child when they already have 19?" And, actually, Thought No. 2 was a precursor to Thought No. 3, which was, "What sane person wants 19 children in the first place?" Mrs. Duggar went on to explain how child No. 20 was a blessing, yada, yada, yada. (I'm paraphrasing, hence the 'yada') and they're eternally grateful that God's will allowed them to continue pumping out babies. Again, I'm paraphrasing, but the sentiment is legit: neither Mr. or Mrs. Duggar have any problem having so many children.

My consternation has nothing to do with 'pro-life', or 'right-to-life', or religion or, really, anything incendiary (but don't get me started on Mississippi). My question is this: What psychological dysfunction compelled you (The Duggars) to believe that it was your moral or religious obligation to have so many children? 20? TWENTY? What kind of house would you need to raise them in? The Brady Bunch had a 3 bedroom house and 3 brothers shared a room and 3 sisters shared a room, and Dad was an architect! Even he couldn't find a way to give at least the oldest kids a room of their own.

And how do you afford to take care of these kids, nearly two dozen? My girlfriend Christy said, in her infinitely plain-spoken wisdom, "Well, that's why they pimp them out to the networks for a TV show." So, of course, me being the insensitive cad that I am, answered, "So if the parents are pimps, then the 20 children must be...". I didn't finish the thought, but by golly, I wanted to.

We're turning people into celebrities for having too many kids. (Yes, I'll say for the record, that I think 20 kids is too many.) As a mostly-proud American, it makes me wonder what foreigners are saying about us. I mean, hell, foreigners are denigrating us anyway, but this kind of thing just seems like a gimme. "Hey, did you hear the latest? The Americans are giving those baby machines a TV show!" "What people?" "You know -- the ones with all the children."

Really. As a nation, from the government on down, we've already credit-carded ourselves into the poor-house. We're not a super-power anymore even though we keep acting like one. Do we really need to give the rest of the world more ammunition to attack us?

I don't think we should turn into China and start passing laws about how many children we should be allowed to have. But shouldn't common sense kick in and tell us when enough is enough?

Don't Jet With Jet!

Who I Should've Used

I was about to open with a nice, grandiose comment about how I've been gone so long but, thank goodness I'm back, blah, blah, blah. However, it seems that nearly everyone has been so busy lately, I don't seem to have, um, been missed too terribly. But I'm not worried. My cats, my girlfriend and my mom still love me. Dammit.

I was trying to figure out what to write about. I'm still kinda fried from moving so some of the deep stuff I've been knocking around my noggin is gonna have to wait until my brain isn't so batter-dipped. But—speaking of moving...

I'm finally in the Seattle area. Yippity-doo-dah! A few years ago, I moved from one state to another and hired a mover to do all the heavy lifting. That move went off without a hitch: the guys that packed me up and loaded me onto a very big truck were punctual, polite, professional and honest. My stuff arrived in a few days and all was right with my world. This move, however, was the exact opposite. Herewith, my warning: Don't use a moving company ya ain't heard of.

And before any of you start rolling your eyes and saying "Well, duh!" out loud to yourselves as you read this, I need you to know that I swear I did my due diligence. I visited their website to check em out, and they looked pretty legit. (Being a graphic designer, one of my first superficial opinions of a company is based on how well-designed their website is.) Then I went to the BBB website and looked them up. Not only did they have an A- rating, they were even members of the BBB while many companies are not. (You don't have to join the BBB to be rated by them.) Then I looked up their rating on half a dozen movers association websites. Everything...checked...out. Why, I even called a former customer of theirs and chatted with him about his experience. Two thumbs up from Mr. Former Customer.

So I went for it. And about 6 weeks later came to wholly regret it. Holy crap. They showed up the day of the move and the foreman took a cursory glance at my apartment and proceeded to jack the price up to nearly double the estimate I'd lived with for weeks. He did me the "favor" of bumping it back down a little and, in the same breath, demanded a $150 cash, off-the-books tip for "his guys and supplies" before they even began the job. (He subsequently hammered Christy for the tip every time I left the room.) A very long story short, they made a mess of my apartment and the surrounding area, tried to steal some of my tools, ransacked my refrigerator and took 12 1/2 hours to pack a 1-bed-den apartment. I didn't give him the $150 tip.

Three and a half weeks later, my stuff finally arrived at my new home. The good news: the crew that unloaded my stuff was headed up by a guy who knew his sh*t. The bad news: he still showed up a day later than he said, so I spent an entire day sitting in an empty apartment. Waiting. (That's a bit of artistic hyperbole. I only waited four hours, but it felt like all day.)

Without getting into all of the nuances of how Middle Easterners do business ("No, no, no – I do you favor, my friend! I give you good deal, my friend.") or how annoying the guy who moved me was ("You have enough glasses for ten people, my friend!" "You have too much stuff, my friend!"), I'll say this: DO NOT USE JET VAN LINES, INC. Yes, that's a direct dig at the actual company that mangled my move (and my mood) for the better part of a month.

I'm now in the process of filing a claim with a third-party company that facilitates this sort of thing. I'm keeping fingers crossed that they'll elect to imprison the staff and demolish their headquarters. But I'm not holding my breath.

On the plus side, I couldn't be happier that I'm finally up here! I'm in the same state and time zone as my two favorite women, the weather's beautiful, the scenery is even more beautifuller, and my new digs rock.

But did I mention that the move sucked?

"Leeeaavin', on a jet plane..."

 

Well, this is it! I'm heading up to my new home so I'll be offline for a couple of days. But...

I'll be baaa-aack!

Have a great weekend everybody!

What the...?

Troll (n): One who posts a deliberately provocative message to a newsgroup, message board or other forum with the express intent of causing maximum disruption and argument.

Trolls...trolls...trolls. They're like traffic: a sad fact of life that we bitch about but can't really do anything about.

Most of us who have spent any time at all on a public forum, blog or in any open online community have had to suffer a troll. Our coping mechanisms in dealing with these digital degenerates has ranged from open, bald-faced hostility ("WTF? What a f*ckin' loser!"), to confusion ("I wonder if...? Are they in the right place?"), revenge ("I wonder how hard it is to actually develop and send a virus?"), frustration ("What the...?"), derision ("Get a LIFE!"), and finally to resignation ("Crap. Here we go again...").

I didn't really know what to expect when I began this blog. I mean, I know what I hoped for: a place to voice my thoughts about this and that. And, maybe if I was lucky, a place to share those thoughts and ideas if anybody bothered to show up. The one thing that never really occurred to me was that, along with you all, the trolls would show up. We engage in discourse — sometimes heated, often funny, always enlightening — and like silent flatulence in a crowded room, they show up and stink up the room. And no matter how much hand-fanning and breath-holding we engage in, we can't ignore them. We just have to wait patiently until the air clears and we can breathe free again.

But who are these people? Who are these Dandies of Dumb who insinuate themselves upon us with virtual impunity? And why do they do it? Well. We all know who they are. These people are morons with too much time, too little sense and questionable hygiene. Losers who don't have much of a real life that entertain their fevered yet smallish minds by swooping into random blogs, puking on said blog, and swooping back out, giggling maniacally to no one but themselves.

But recently I've discovered that, though this theory may be true for some, it is not true for others. I've discovered that some trolls are wives and husbands, aunts and uncles, brothers- and sisters-in-law, co-workers, even friends. My goodness, some of them are seemingly normal people! Surprising? Yes. Disturbing? You betcha. Fascinating. Yeah, well, that too. It fascinates me that folks that ought to have something better to do choose to waste time trying to bug strangers or even people they know when they ought to be spending time with family and friends.

The only remedy I've found for these...people is something I heard right here: "Don't Feed the Troll". It seems apparent that ignoring them is the best way to get rid of them, at least temporarily. Of course (as Christy ironically noted), by posting this discourse I've just given them far more attention than they deserve. But what the hell – f*ck em.