Colorado Christmas

Had a Colorado Christmas

My sister in Colorado recently reported she had her first baby, so Tamara and I flew up to Colorado to see our new nephew. The reason you didn’t hear any more about it at the time was that we were limited to a 16Kbps modem and Internet connectivity was slow and unreliable.

Colorado is beautiful, but I have a hard time comparing it to Virigina – it’s an apples and oranges problem.

There is literally nothing like the continental divide, with enormous snow-capped mountains that span the whole western horizon. The valleys are packed with everything from small historical gold mining towns to modernized cities with shops, malls, and amusement parks.

I’ve been in Colorado for the summer (hot and dry) and for the winter (cold and dry), and residents joke that fall and spring last only a week. Having a 4×4 is a mandatory requirement of residency, and the ability to drive fearlessly on ice doesn’t hurt either.

I have two favorite signs in Colorado: “Left Lane 55MPH Minimum” and “Speed Limit 75”.

What Colorado seems to lack is the very dense job market of opportunities that are available in NoVA, the wide variety of foliage that changes colors during the seasons, and humidity to prevent your skin from cracking. Other than that, it is like living in a post card.

Under the Hood: Telemarketing

Had a very interesting talk with a supervisor at Dytel, a telemarketing service.

Given that I telecommute and my wife has her own business, we have a lot of phone lines. In fact, in order to manage them all, I had to purchase a PBX box, though now it seems that you can home-brew your own solution using a PC and Asterisk, a full-featured open source PBX software package.

Anyhow, lots of phone lines means lots of telemarketing calls. And, while we’ve registered with the National Do Not Call List, it seems that some telemarketers disregard this. Unfortunately, the law has a couple of loop holes. First of all charities, political organizations, and telephone surveyors are exempt, as are companies you’ve done business with.

About every other day, we get a call from the caller id of Alabama, and it’s always the same thing. Would we give money to the police, to needy children, to needy police, to needy children needing policing, and so forth. It’s getting old, and it’s getting very, very annoying. I don’t think I should have to install call block just because a single company wants to harass us for handouts.

The script is pretty much the same, “thank you for your previous support, can we count on you again this year?” Your gut instinct is to think that if you gave before, then you already worked through the thought process, and you might as well give again.

This time rather than hanging up, I asked to talk to the supervisor; which, legally, they’re required to do, but many will just hang up on you. It always helps if you can come up with a question the guy at the phone can’t answer. I asked what organization was calling, and he told me the cause he was dialing for, and I said that no, I wanted the organization name of the call center. Poof, supervisor.

Once I had him, I asked three questions. One, “why is it you guys say I gave, because I know I didn’t — has someone stolen my credit card and I should investigate fraud, or is this just a script?” His answer was that no, they don’t take cedit cards, they mail directly to the house and ask for a check with for deposit only written on it. And, that yes, sometime in the past I gave to one of their organizations.

He clarified that they call for a number of programs, and that if you give once, you’re tagged as a giver, and they hit you up for all programs. Ah ha!

Turns out nearly 10 years ago, we did give once, when we thought it was the local police department calling. We later learned that it was an organization that had gotten the classification of charity, because they donated 1% of profits to the police. The rest was kept as overhead. Very slimey. Even the police themselves say not to us them. As such, I don’t donate anymore unless it’s a cause that has direct meaning to me or impacts my local community, no matter what sob story they tell or heart strings they try to pluck. Even so, I’ve also started looking at how organizations behave, between the paid cop who sets up a speed trap on an empty road to meet a quota to fill state coffers versus the unpaid volunteer firefighter who’s given up family time to rush into a burning building risking personal injury to save an unknown person, I know where my extra dollars will go. If I felt safer, saw less evidence of gang activity, or read that meth-houses were being shutdown, I’d whole heartedly alter the priorities.

Anyhow, I next asked what the call center was, and he identified them as Dytel. A quick search on the web shows that Dytel makes autodialer equipment, so there has to be a little more to the story. And so there is, check out this article. Things sounding familiar?

Finally I asked the guy if there was a way that I could be put on a permanent Do Not Call list, and ideally removed from the database. That I had no intention of ever giving in the future, and that their repeated calls to me were just going to jack up their overhead and be less effecting at target marketing. And, eventually, the supervisor said he would remove me from the list.

We’ll see, as the article above points out, that often does little good. However, the article points out that the next stop should be to Secretary of State the next time the phone rings and says it’s from Alabama and a telemarketer begins a pitch.

From Pictures to Mac… literally.

Here’s how I fell down the slippery slope of computer equipment…

I recently went down to Roanoke and took a bunch of pictures. And, what may not be apparent is that when I get back to the computer, it requires literally hours of sorting images, rotating them correctly, selecting the right ones, altering color space, performing edits, cropping, beaming up to the server, and making a web page with all the thumbnails and descriptions. A few pictures is fine, but I often come back from a photoshoot with two DVD’s worth. Yes, you read that right.

Enter in Apple’s new Aperature software. This thing, while friggin’ expensive, is friggin’ amazing. It solves the whole workflow problem end to end. What takes hours (or days) is done in minutes.

So, I run out and buy a copy, slap it in my machine, and discover nearly instantly that I didn’t have the minimum recommended equipment. This was surprising, as I had a really beefy Macintosh.

Turns out the problem was the graphics card, and upon researching which new card to get, it was suggested to me that maybe it might be worth it to upgrade to a new machine, given all the video and photography work I do in addition to development.

So, as I’m trying to ease the wife into the problem, she jumps to the end of the equation and suggests I get a new Mac. Acting quick before whatever cold medication she was on wore off, we ordered the Mac. And thus the slipperly slope began.

A new Mac meant new memory, new drives, new mouse, new keyboard, new software, a new table to put it on, and so forth — normally this isn’t a problem faced by regular users, but it’s something us developers bump into when we try to create a whole new work environment.

Anyhow, as I write this data is flowing seamlessly between the machines.

No in retrospect, I ponder — did I really get a brand new machine because I took a picture of a friend’s baby? You betcha.

So That’s Why I Don’t Go Opening Night

Yesterday evening was a time for celebration. My wife returned for a short duration, and I decided to celebrate with her by skipping work and going to see Harry Potter on opening night.

By the time we got to the new AMC in Tysons, all the shows were sold out until 10 o’clock and lines were forming waiting to get in. Strangely enough, the ticket booth wasn’t swamped. So I went up and asked when the earliest Harry Potter was showing. The lady looked at her watch, punched a few buttons, and said “right now, 6pm”.

“No, I know that… your sign said ‘SOLD OUT’. What’s the earliest I can see it?”

She turns around behind her like she’d never noticed the automated movie board then rotates back to me. “Yeah, sometimes we do that. We have 6 o’clock tickets, and they’re seating now. You won’t miss anything but a few previews.”

Holy cow. Yes please! And within seconds I had my Harry Potter tickets and was marching past the long lines. I instructed Tamara to go grab some seats, and I’d go get some munchies.

I run up to the food counter line, and again, there’s no line and like a zillion attendants. I march up to the first face and ask, “Hi, my movie’s about to start, are your hot dogs made from beef?”

The guy turns around, like he’s never noticed they sold food here before, and says he doesn’t know. And, before I can tell him not to worry about it, as I’d get something else, he starts flagging down other just as clueless workers, who all seem to have no idea where the manager is. Meanwhile, precious seconds are ticking away as my show’s about to start.

My cashier returns and as I’m about to order, some woman step up to the counter and starts talking with him. Now, I know I’m not as pretty as 80% of the women out there, but I’ve got cash and a big order. And, as far as he’s concerned, I don’t have my hot dog answer, so he’s ignoring me. Or flirting. Or both.

Enough of this, and in a loud voice I call out, “look, just never mind” so that if there is a manager on the floor, they can see me shoving wads of greenback firmly into that thing I keep trying to convince people is my wallet.

Pissed, I march into the theater. Whoa. It’s packed. Not tightly packed. But packed. Packed enough I see Tamara sitting in the second row. Great… no food and a twisted neck.

No, wait… wait… they’re doing trailers… they’ve just started! So I go back out the exit and approach one of the friendly door watchers who’s trying to make sure people aren’t sneaking in. “Man, I’m counting on you, how much time do I have before it _really_ starts… I wanna get some food.” He looks at his watch. “You have seven minutes.”

This must have been the most confident guy on the face of the planet, because everything about his posture, delivery, contemplation, and so forth screamed he knew what he was talking about.

Plenty of time.

So, I go running back to the food area, and there are now small lines and fewer cashiers. What happened? I was just here 45 seconds ago?!?

None the less, I go up to a line, and who starts walking toward me from the other side of the counter, Mr. I-Can’t-Help-You-Cause-I-Don’t-Know-Hot-Dogs guy.

Now I know it’s probably not his fault that he’s not beef aware, but what he should know is that if I’m in a mad panic about a movie starting, I don’t want to be standing here for five minutes.

We make eye contact; I shake my head and step out of line, returning to the theater. I’m now pissed and annoyed.

I find my seat, and I get a happy surprise. These theaters are so friggin’ huge and so well designed that the second row itself may actually be the sweet spot. From that vantage point, the screen just falls short of one’s peripheral vision, and the experience is immersive. Yet, at the same time, the center of the screen is almost near eye level, so you don’t have to crane your neck. And what’s this? My seat reclines!!!

Walt is happy again!

But now my throat is starting to get dry. Now I have a choice, miss the opening and deal with the snack bar from hell, or tough it out. I opt to tough it out. And seven minutes goes by, and no movie. Eight. Nine. Ten. Fifteen. What’s going on? I mean, I’m all about conservative estimates, but I could have driven to McDonald’s had dinner, fixed their Coke machine, and been back in this time.

Thirty minutes goes by, and just as I’m at my breaking point to get up, the movies starts. Pish!!

Now all during this time what I hadn’t noticed was the tiny little boy sitting next to me. He’d been so good and quiet all through out the previews he was almost invisible. Little did I know, all of this was about to change the moment the movie started.

In a normal talking voice, all throughout the whole movie, we got lambasted with questions:
“Dad, is that Harry Potter?”
“Dad, is that the castle?”
“Dad, is the the sky?”
“That boat is Chinese, isn’t it dad? We’re Chinese, aren’t we dad?”
“Is that the goblet of fire, Dad?”
“Dad, is fire hot?”
“Dad, are dragon’s Chinese?”

and on and on and on and on…

All during this time, he was fidgeting, kicking me, and whacking my arm and hand.

Glances and loud “shhhhhs” didn’t seem to do any good, whether directed at him or his father. So when Harry Potter was being shredded by dragons, attacked by sea creatures, stabbed with a knife, given an alien anal probe, and forced to endure an IRS tax audit, I took far more private joy than I should have when this kid was cowering under his coat in a little ball.

I’m all for audience immersion, with cheering and booing and screams. But, the way I view it is that I, and others, have paid a considerable sum to have an entertaining experience where we can enjoy a little suspension of disbelief, and part of the equation it to be able to hear what’s being said. Unlike TiVo, DVD, VHS, and Deloreans, you can’t back up time and catch it. So anything from questions, to conversation, to heckling that spills over detracts greatly from the experience. Previews, teasers, and commercials are different, we’re not paying for those and often they represent a fictional view of the movie. They’re also freely available on the internet and other sources — the movie content itself, is not.

That’s why I stopped getting frustrated at the kid next to me and turned my mental wrath at the teens sitting behind us. What started out as quiet internal jokes to the group where occasionally their voices might carry by accident turned into a “you know I’m getting drunker by the moment and now I’ll just talk all over the movie”. It became evident that they thought the movie was dumb, but rather than leave, they’d ruin it for the rest of us paying customers.

Thinking to my self, what would James do, I decided that I couldn’t use the exact terminology without ticking off Jackie Chan and his question asking kid. If I had any sense at all, I should of leaned over and had the kid ask his dad if theater hot dogs were made of beef.

When the movie ended, I suppose there was a minor bit of the universe balancing itself back out. The instant the credits rolled, I turned around and gave a glare to the teen and started to stand up. He got up from his seat and rather than going out the isle, stepped over the chair into the prior isle and made way for the door. I’d like to think I was that intimidating, but the real matter of the fact was more likely that he had to go pee. Still, I held on to my delusion, enjoying what last bit of disbelief was suspended.

When I turned back to the other seat monkey, he and his dad were gone. And in his chair was a glove. Ah ha, some one’s gonna get in trouble for losing their expensive glove. Yeah, I turned it in to lost’n’found, but again, I got a little more pleasure that I should have.

Then it struck me. This movie was a little different. The photography was a little bit more artsy, the pace felt more broken, the transitions were choppy, but the CGI effects were much, much, much better. My guess is that a different director made this one, and I’m not sure that I was as pleased.

The last Harry Potter movie was so well done that I was able to stay engaged in the movie the whole time, and that was with a full bladder and an alligator chewing on my foot. Clearly, it was the directors fault — had he made a better movie, I wouldn’t have noticed the other bozos in the audience.

DAY 4: McBusted and Evilness at the Steak House

Thursdays mark a fun day for me because it’s Art Klub day. A bunch of cartoonists and artists head over to the local Starbucks, draw, and share advice.


This Thursday was going to be exceptionally fun, because we got Jenn from the RoadHouse to agree to come model for us.

Let me explain how that happened. Yesterday, another cartoonist and I were at the Roadhouse (where else?) and Jenn was our server. We had invited her out to Art Klub before, and she’d even accepted, except that she was a big no-show.

We teased her about it, invited her again, and she again committed to come.

Right. Sure. Whatever. And she knew we didn’t believe her.

So, she whips out some paper and writes on it “I, Jenn, promise to be at Starbucks at 11:30” and signs it. She hands it to me and says, “There, that’s as good as my word. If I don’t show, you can do anything you want to me.”

I look over at Jenn with an evil grin, “anything?” Jenn looks us both in the eye and replies, “Anything.”

I’ve got to learn to get a more solid grip, because the other cartoonist snatched the promissory note right out of my hand.

So now it’s Thursday, and we know Jenn is going to show up, because she would never willingly subject herself to the abuse this group can fathom.

As we’re sitting there watching the time click away, someone turns to me and asks: “you think she’s gonna show?”

We were all thinking it: “Hope not! Muh ha ha ha ha!”

Turns out contemplating humiliating revenge is tedious work, and I decided to go to get a Coke at the next door McDonalds since I don’t do coffee.

Another one of my buddies joins me.

After ordering a vat of Coke, I go over to the machine and press the button. Nothing comes out. The thing is broken.

I confidently look at my buddy and announce, “no problem! I can fix this!” And before he can stop me, I rip the face plate off of the Coke machine exposing a number of wires. Finding a dangling wire, there are several places it can go. I pick one, jam it in, much to his horror, slap the face plate back on, and press Coke.

We’re both waiting for the machine to explode or a fuse to pop, but Coke starts shooting into my cup.

“Wow, man! That was impressive. That would have been great to catch on camera,” he says in astonishment. Now you’re in on it, because you’ve been following my Lack-Of-Spouse series, but he’s not, so when I pull a camera out of my pocket and hand it to him, he’s just as taken back.

To be honest, I was fairly impressed the rewiring of the coke machine worked myself. So, I rip off the face plate again, the wire was dangling just as before, and he pops off a few shots that would look good for Live Journal.

New problem. I can’t get the wire back into the hole.

New problem. The manager of the store sees the huge flash and comes to investigate.

New problem. The manager now sees me rewiring her Coke machine like I’m trying to defuse a bomb.

I instantly play dumb, and thanks to a language barrier, I act like I was filling Coke when it exploded in my hands. She explains she can fix it, and she muddles with the wires but is clearly timid about getting a shock.

So, as she’s got her hands in the middle of this thing, I lean close to her ear and make a sharp hissing pop sound. “Fwpop!!”

She jumps.

Just as she’s getting the face plate back on, the cook leans over and hands me the rest of my order, asking if it’s to go? I’m filling up my cup and answering, “yup, it’s to go.”

Apparently when I startled the manager, she didn’t wire things back up just right, because there was an awful lot of carbonation. And how that carbonation became time released, I’ll never know.

All I do know is that I’m taking my food, which the cook handed to the manager, and the manager handed to me, and as she’s doing this, my cup spontaneously overflows all over the floor.

I look down, “uh-oh”, and since she’s not moving, I grab a hunk of napkins and throw them on the large wet spill, where I start mushing the soggy napkins around with my foot.

I’m seriously trying to help here, but her damage assessment availabilities far exceed my own, and she starts waving her arms as fast as she can. I’ve seen this gesture quite often. It’s the one that precedes Tamara throwing me out of our kitchen in similar circumstances.

She points at the door and says “To go. To go. We clean.” (Okay, now you know she was Asian.)

So there I am back at the Starbucks, and already Day 4 is starting to unfold.

We agree that tonight might be a good night to hit the steakhouse again, if not to let Jenn know she’s now in serious jeopardy.

At the steakhouse we get seated with some new waiter, don’t get either of our favorite waiters, but given that we’ve now got the horse group mixing with the ex-coworker group, conversations start flying. And, what’s the one thing both groups have in common?

Using Walt for verbal target practice.

I suppose I started it. When asked what I’d like for my a side for my steak, I asked for broccoli. The waiter clarified, “is that just broccoli, or would you like carrots and cauliflower mixed in as well?”

“No, I want the bed all to myself tonight, fresh broccoli please.”

Now, should you ever find yourself amongst a group of friends and being coerced to share stories of how you can’t open a can of Spaghetti-Os or have to explain why you were buying panties at Victoria’s Secret, let me share with you something very important.

This is the face of evil:

That’s right. That innocent, young face hides a brutal assault of comic delivery. Notice carefully that Loralie is reading something. I didn’t draw that, and I wasn’t allowed to see them.

Eventually I did.

It was pictures of me abusing myself with a can opener, another was me wearing a bra that was the wrong size (is there a right size?), and so forth. And, as soon as I get to a scanner, I’m gonna show ’em to ya.

How wrong were these comics? How well recognizable that it was me and not some abstracted cartoon dude?

Once again, take a look at Loralie’s face… I don’t even have to write any more. Words no longer do justice.

Follow Up….
Here are the pictures Christy drew of me. Mean. Mean. Mean.




If they weren’t mean, I don’t know that I could respect her.

Anyhow, just to show I can poke fun at myself — here’s my worst fear.

Day 3: Getting the hang of it. I think.

Today was fairly uneventful. It seems the secret to surviving without a spouse is to do as close to physically nothing as possible. For instance, I woke up, it was raining, I went to work, and that sums up about the first 8 hours of my day.

Things got a little more interesting as a phone call to a cartoonist friend of mine actually ended us both up at the steak house, where neither of us had planned on being. Oddly enough, this solved the dinner problem.

By six o’clock, we left, and I decided to start working on the bonfire pictures and videos. It’s near 11:23pm as I write this, which simply means the time totally slipped by me.

I guess the reason it’s taking so long is that we happen to be sitting in the middle of one of those rare update cycles. On the PC side of the house, Microsoft has just released a pile of patches, and it’s taking a bit to get the kinks worked out. My machine is trying to update, even as I write this, and I can only imagine the horrors of being on dial up. Worse yet, many people don’t know how to take care of their PCs, and simply skip this phase, only to complain (usually to me) that their machine is running slow, acting funny, or is displaying pornographic pop-ups every time they hit the space bar.

Under normal circumstances, I’d simply scoff and flaunt my Apple around. However, Apple’s preparing for some major sneaky goodness, and they just put out a major patch for OS 10.4. Unlike Microsoft, which tries to keep adding to the turd until it’s a uber-mess, Apple announces that they are deliberately going to break things in order to make them better.

The down side is that some vendors don’t get the patches out in time, and a number of applications that used to work start acting funny. Amazingly, my 3D rendering software and my video editor are both having a hard time with the changes. Not to worry, in a few days fixes will be available, and things will run better than ever, but that kinda puts a crimp in my getting the stuff done tonight plans. I suppose that’s the price to pay when one wants to be on the bleeding edge of technology.

Amusingly, my cat scared the willies out of me. She snuck up on me while video editing, and just as I was trying to get a frame transition properly aligned, she decided she wanted to play with the mouse that I was using. Landing on my hand, she sends me startled, flying back in my chair — as I thought my mouse just grabbed me or something equally surreal.

This sudden panic attack on my part didn’t do her too good any, and she went scurying across my desk, causing papers to fly, CDs to fall, which made an awful crash, which only scared her and me even more. Because, as she was doing her fireball of terror, my brain wasn’t registering what was going on. All I knew was that my whole computer workstation area was exploding, something that I was sure wasn’t caused by OS.

We’re both calm now and enjoying each other’s company. I suppose I’ll do damage control tomorrow.

Tomorrow happens to be Art Klub day. That’s when I get together with all those famous artists and we illustrate for a few hours. Should be fun.

Given that nothing’s terribly gone wrong today, I’m almost, but not quite, asking “Tamara who?”

That’s not to say I don’t miss her, or that I’ve finally returned to a state of self sufficiency, but rather that I’m so weary and tired I don’t have the strength to notice things going wrong tonight.

Day 2: Don’t Believe It? I Have Witnesses!

Quick re-cap: Walt’s wife is out of town, and Walt has to fend for himself. Last night’s dinner was a disaster, so this evening he eats out and does some chores.

I think by now the aluminum burrs have passed through my system from the manged lid that fell in my food. Not wanting to go through that trauma again, nor wanting to wash a fork (we’re out), I thought I’d grab the camera and some friends and have dinner out. What could be easier?


Alan and Loralie swung by after work, having agreed to help me out with some chores. It seems that within the last two days, my T-Mobile SideKick has decided not to read its internal memory card. I get this SIM NOT READY message, which disables all incoming and outgoing calls, prevents text messaging, and often causes the phone to reboot. Oddly enough, I can still send and receive email.

The last time this happened, I was on hold for four days with customer service, who simply told me to take the phone into a T-Mobile store, and they’d replace the SIM card for free. I did that last time, and it worked. So this time I thought I’d make things easy on myself and return to the same store.

As I’m trying to describe the problem, the sales clerk is trying to get me to spend $200+ on a newer phone. Problem is, the two new features it has, a head set and a camera are two features I just don’t need. Additionally, I can also “upgrade” my plan, and pay $80 per phone per month, instead of $40, for an additional 500 minutes, which I never use anyhow.


While I’m trying to convince the sales person this is not an economically sound idea, he’s twiddling with my phone. He pops the SIM card out, blows on it, and puts in back in. Ha the fool! I know technology, and that kind of wishful thinking is why you’re in retail, and I’m, well, where ever I am.

He hands me back the phone, and as I go to laugh in his face, the phone is working perfectly. Oh, ha ha.

Convinced the phone isn’t working, or more likely is about to implode in a cascade of error messages, I refuse to leave the mall. Just as well, it seems Loralie wants to go exploring.

We decided to hit the Walden’s bookstore, only now it isn’t a Walden’s anymore. It’s a Borders Express. And I have no idea what that would be. A smaller book selection at outlet mall markups? Maybe the Starbucks seats less and only serves Espresso. Who knows.

All I do know is that it doesn’t make any sense, because directly across from the mall is a Border’s super mega store. I mean, if you pull out of the parking lot, you’re already sitting in the non-fiction section.

We didn’t bother to go in, and decided to solve a different mystery.

It seems they’re putting on a new wing at Dulles Town Center mall. Outside are a bunch of lights highlighting a ton of expansive construction. We wanted to know what it was, so we walked down to that end of the mall, and were sadly surprised by a bunch of dicks. Literally.


Was a movie theater going in? How about a new wing for the mall? Nope. A Dick’s sporting good store, two levels it seems, is going in. They had dick posters all over the place.

We decided to walk on. And Loralie thought it might be fun to visit one of her old haunts: Victoria’s Secret. And this time, she had two men in tow.

Just as we were about to enter the store, Loralie spotted her old boss. And, in an aggressive act of work avoidance, she dodged getting noticed, suggesting that instead we go upstairs to the lingerie store.

We didn’t resist. We waited out side…

…for about five seconds.

Loralie started showing me perfumes (and, for the record, I _hate_ perfume). She picked up a bottle and said “this is the new version of the one you said you liked last year.”

Harrumph! I don’t remember saying I liked anything last year. I took a whiff expecting to be overwhelmed by either concentrated musky soap or urine scented rose petals, the kind of smell you expect from the old lady in the pew in front of you who can’t sing on key each Sunday.


But, to my surprise, the scent was alluring and inviting.

You’d think that’s a good thing, until you realize that if you put perfume on Tamara, some strange chemical reaction occurs and it ends up smelling like someone dissolving tin foil with a vat of acid.

I admitted Loralie was right, and we started to explore the rest of the store. Which, I’m going to point out was filled with underwear. Lots of it.

Only problem, it was the ugliest underwear you ever saw. The colors looked so pastel that you thought it was Easter. The nicer looking stuff had been attacked by someone with a Ronco bedazzler. The lace looked more like the doilies my grandmother used on her chairs and table. I mean, really, what is sexy about a 70’s pattern that looks like an Austin Powers poster? Ick, yuck, ick.

Loralie tried her best to help me find something, just on principle, that I liked. The sales clerks offered to help, but Loralie fended them off. I think it was a matter of personal honor.

During her pervasive panty plowing, she stumbled into the oddest pair of panties that I’d ever seen. So, I went and grabbed my camera.

It was at that point the store manager came over and told me I wasn’t allowed to take a picture of their panties in the store.

I asked why.

She said it was store policy. I couldn’t take a picture in the store.

“That’s dumb,” I said aloud, as now there were other employees and customers watching, “what prevents me from buying the panties, leaving the store, taking a picture, and bringing them back? Isn’t that the same thing?”

I reached in my wallet and pulled out a credit card.

“You’re not serious,” she responded.

“But I am, and I’d like to buy these panties please,” and I put the card on the table. As she was ringing me up, I made the comment, “I’m fairly certain that I’m going to change my mind in about 30 seconds. You do have a return policy, correct?”

Her mouth dropped open as she got me a bag.

“Hmm, I don’t know that the bag is even needed, do you? In fact, I don’t think I’ll even be touching them.” To which at that point, I signed the receipt, had Loralie take my fresh panties, and leave the store. We walked right in front of the display case of the store, and took the forbidden picture.


When I’m lifting a skirt, the last thing I want on my mind is whether or not I have to run spell check.

At that point, I walked back into the store, said they didn’t fit, and wanted to return them. This little red tape dance created a substantial amount of paperwork for the manager, but, technically, I did legally own the panties, and it was my right to photograph my property.

The only problem at this point was somewhere between walking out of the store and back in, I lost the receipt.

Yup, I wasn’t sure how I did it, but apparently this side comment was all it took to bring a different sales clerk to tears via laughter.

Turns out the receipt was in the bag, and having never touched my own product, I never knew that.

Just so you know I’m not making up any of this, the returned receipt is shown off to the right.

I checked my phone, which by the way was the whole point of this, and dang it, it was still working. Frustrated, I decided it was time to get dinner.

Now you may think we headed to the Texas Roadhouse. Nope. Oddly enough, I was too tired for steak. So, instead, we went to the Japanese Steakhouse… (look, when your wife leaves, let’s see if you can hold a coherent thought).

We got there and it looked like the place was closed. But there was a big, hand written sign on the door saying “yes, we’re open.” So, we go in.

Turns out one phase of the electrical system across the whole mall was out. I don’t know how this happened, or what this even means in electrical engineering terms, but all I know is that the left side of the restaurant was deader than a Bush presidential speech. The right however, was functioning just fine.


I actually wish it was the other way around, because the air conditioning was controlled by the part of the power that was out. Remember, these Japanese chefs use fire to cook with. It was 78 degrees in there and rising.

Our poor cook was sweating over the hot stove, literally, trying to get our meal out, be entertaining, and not pass out from heat exhaustion.

So far, on day two, I’ve had my phone die, been out done by a minimum wage tel-co brat, lost a bookstore, gained a dick, been chastised in a place of unchastity, thwarted corporate nonsense, and dined in a sauna. For some reason, when my wife is around, this kind of stuff just doesn’t happen.

Ok, it does happen, but she knows how to distract me so I don’t notice it. (Sometimes she lets me chew on her shiny keys and ride in the front part of the shopping cart.)

And, just when you thought it couldn’t get any worse…

…we lost power, and finished our meal in romantic candle light. Exactly the kind of experience you’d want to have with your wife, only she’s not around.

(At least I wasn’t in the bathroom, like someone else in our party. I guess I do have something to be thankful for after all.)

DAY 1: The Butterfly Effect and Entraping Men

I’m sure you’ve heard of the Butterfly Effect. It basically goes that since we live inside a large, enclosed, inter-related system that everything has an affect on everything else, and thus a wee butterfly on another continent can merely flap its wing, and the resulting draft can cause a cascade of events that do anything from opening a black hole to causing rioting in France.

Today, I discuss how one man’s desire to get a little nookie has left me abandoned in a sea of the unfamiliar. I’ll chronicle my adventures, and in this installment expose how women are covertly entrapping men.

Long story short in order to begin my own: Meet Jeff. Jeff marries my sister. Sister puts out. Sister has baby. Other sister goes across country to see new baby and help new mom. Local niece and nephew left without adult supervision. Meet Tamara, super adult with accompanying vision. Tamara leaves husband to babysit kids… for a WEEK. Husband, me, left to fend for self. So, collapsing the plot, because Jeff got some, I won’t.


Moving on, now that you have context, I’m at home fending for myself this week. In order to help me accomplish this task, Tamara has prep’d the place. For example, I might need to dress my self for work. Here’s how she’s handled that.

That’s right, she’s labeled my dresser.

And the sad part? It helped.

There’s this story about a guy who’s trying to capture some wild pigs. Only problem is, he can’t get close to them. Anytime he does, the pigs spook and run off. So, he gets an idea. He puts some feed in the middle of a field where he sees some pigs running. The pigs eventually learn about the feed, and eat it. Each day, he brings feed and puts it there in the pile, but does not approach. Eventually the pigs learn it’s easier to go to the feed than to work for their own food. One day he skips a feeding, and the pigs return and wait for the food, eventually leaving hungry. They’ve stopped fending for themselves. In his next plan, he puts a post in the ground where the food is. The pigs aren’t sure, but approach without threat in due course. Eventually he builds a small section of stand alone fence. The pigs learn to ignore it. Over the next few days he adds sides, and eventually has a full scale pen with an open door. The pigs march in, get food, and leave. Then he adds a gate, and the pigs ignore it as well, and then one day while feeding, he marches up and closes the gate. The pigs, having given up their freedoms and knowledge of self sufficiency over time in small increments for minor conveniences now find themselves trapped, and eventually on the kitchen table.

Men are pigs, with slightly better hygiene, and with slightly worse table manners. And, it is the process of dating and marriage that snares a man until it’s far too late.

The catch, however, is that women have help. Corporate help. And by this, I mean the evil folks at Pampered Chef.

Oh sure, you may think your wife is off at a party having fun, or you’re getting a great deal, perhaps winning free door prizes in hopes of the ever elusive antifreeze filled ice-cream scoop! But no, here’s what’s really going on: they’re feeding her devices like Q supplies 007.

It’s only day one, and I’ve just discovered in my wife’s absence that my house is littered with them. After you see this with your own eyes, you won’t doubt there’s a conspiracy afoot.

I come home from work at 8:30pm and decide to cook myself some dinner. And, by dinner, I mean Spaghetti-O’s… the low maintenance food for men.

In the cupboard, I discover the one last can. So, I pull out the fancy can opener and go round and round a few times.


Now I’m male, an engineer, and fairly strong. This black blade of death contraption merely morphs the lid of the can into a frictionless surface so that when I pull out an old fashioned can opener, which I used in college when I used to be self sufficient, it would no longer work.

Those bastards! I have only ONE can of food and this genetic gender sensing device has just locked my tasty morsels from my taste buds.

Ah ha! But I’m a man, and I’ll use brute strength. So I pry and pry and pry, until I eventually succeed in ripping the frigging lid of the can, as pictured.

Now what I like about Spaghetti-O’s is that they give you a lot. What I don’t like about Spaghetti-O’s is that they cram them all into one small can, so that when you get it open, they won’t pour out.

You have to smack the bottom of the can again and again, repeatedly, until you dislodge enough to make an air bubble and they come whooshing out. That is except for the fifth of them at the bottom that refuse to budge without even more whacking.


So, there I am whacking away, only to discover that the lid of the can I was just prying off had been mysteriously scored in such a way that it had a time release. The obvious happened.

Pisses me off, cause right at this time the cats are hearing cans crashing and come over where they stand on the hind legs and stretch against my leg begging, emphasizing their innocent love by drilling their claws in with excitement.

No kitty! Down! Not for you!

Still not put off (don’t worry, I do get there), I opt to use a fork and pluck out the burr covered lid.


It was at this point I knew there was a conspiracy. One can. Evil can opener. …and now, no forks.

Seems that as this chain of events was happening, it all had to have been carefully crafted, because that’s the only way that each necessary step could be a precursor to the disaster that followed.

Part of eating Speghetti-O’s is knowing you can do something nice, like saving the labels for the local schools.

What schools do with labels, I have no idea. Maybe they save up a few metric tons and glue them together into play ground equipment, I dunno. But we’ve been saving labels for years, and I figure why stop now.

Only problem is, the zillion steak knives I bought my wife for Christmas are gone. Oh, I eventually find them, they’re on top of the fridge instead of on the counter. I can only assume that she foresaw I’d injure myself and put them out of harms way.

Like a true guy, because they were in a slightly inconvenient place, I opted to use a butter knife instead. We had at least three of them.

So, like a pro, I slid the knife under the label to break the seal as my wife so expertly does.


And, that’s when I discovered two things. First, I’m not my wife. Second, they use some really freakin’ strong glue these days. I guess the labels must be so valuable, they don’t want people running off with them willy-nilly.

It all became fairly clear to me, as I was eating my cold Spaghetti-O’s (two zaps in the microwave and I just got impatient) that the food, the new kitchen utensils, the missing forks, and the magic glue were all too elaborately coordinated.

I know I’m male, but I’m not that incompetent. Like the pigs, I’ve been trapped by warm hugs and hot meals. Now that my wife isn’t here, I don’t just miss her, I sit in the corner crying for her return.

I’ve never felt so helpless and alone. I’d want my mommy, but I’m sure she’s in on it too.

Napkin Comics

Napkin Comics
A number of you have asked me if I got comp’d any more meals at the steak house. Turns out, the answer is yes — though a doodle on a napkin isn’t a guarantee, nor is producing them in quantity.

Things have gotten far more advanced, and by some accounts are spiraling beyond anything I had ever conceived.

Where we last left things, the manager, as a joke, gave me a pile of napkins to take home and draw on. The theory was that if napkins provided my inspiration, he’d toss several hundred at me and see what happened.

Problem is, spare time. Or, more accurately, lack there of. The napkins sat here for a while, and I found myself visiting the steak house again and again. …and again, and again, and again.

While I’m there, there’s really nothing else to do -but- draw comics on napkins, much to the dismay of my friends that wish I’d be more social and engage in conversation.

So, I decided to try something different, based on an off handed comment by two of my art buddies.

The first one said, “you really gotta put your name on these things, someone’s gonna come in and want to get these professionally printed on napkins.” The second one said, “you’ve got a wider audience than you believe, you need a web site.”

My first gut reaction was that they were chicken scratch level of drawings, and I didn’t want to put my name on that. But that got me to thinking, the printing on napkin idea was an interesting one. Consequently, I took the time, did a paper and pencil mock up, used the right comic illustration ink and tools, produced a master copy, and did a test screening on about 200 napkins.

I presented these to the manager, who got wonderfully excited and started passing them out at the bar. Sure enough, the initial “marketing” was an overwhelming success, and I was presented with another pile of napkins.

Since I had high resolution scans of everything, it seemed only fitting to follow up with the next comment. I mean, I already had a website, but in this case it needed to be a targeted one.

I’m happy to announce NapkinComics.com has gone live. I’ve put a small sampling of the high-quality printed ones up there for viewing. I’ve also posted some other strips to make fun of myself and the process. As I transfer more of the illustrations into digital form for reproduction, I’ll be posting them on the site. You no longer have to visit the steak house to enjoy the humor, but you do if you want to see over a hundred originals that are littering the walls behind glass.

On my second to last visit, I got approached by the regional marketing director.

On this last visit, I was told by the manager that a pair of gentlemen had come in, examined all the artwork for well over half an hour, and wanted to know how to get in touch. The manager gave them the website information. He gave me an entire box of napkins for the next round.

I’m still not sure where all this will go. I’ve done enough to establish a repeatable workflow that produces high-quality quantity printings out and at a faster pace. If I can figure out a way to move the printing part out of house, I’ll be set. I’d rather illustrate than replicate.

So, here’s the official announce to my friends: NapkinComics.com is live — disposable humor you can wipe your mouth on.

Jaded Monday at Ruby Tuesday and Microsoft Madness

It takes considerable effort on the part of a restaurant to hit the low end of my service scale, prompting not only no tip, but a LiveJournal rant. Ruby Tuesday of Chantilly, VA — congrats. You win the big loser award.

Monday lunch started out well enough, the typical indecision about where we were going to go, when we were leaving, who was gonna go, and who’d do the driving.

For whatever reason, the developers were craving salads. Personally, I think the only way for that to happen is if someone tampers with the water. Except as we all know, developers don’t drink water. They survive on sodas, caving only to diets when chicks start pointing fingers and laughing.

Ruby Tuesday came up, as it has long been our fall back plan for the utter stupidity of Bungalow Billiard’s royal screw over in which the more one tried to be kind to other customers, the more Bungalow charged.

I managed to talk a party of six into going, and we left early, like 11:15am, as to avoid the lunch rush. I was in such a good mood that a decision had been reached, that I even offered to drive.

We got there and were seated promptly. That’s where the geometric decay curve in service started.

For the astute, you may notice that you can’t put 6 people in a car. Well, okay, you can put 6 in Alan’s car, you can barely put 4 in mine. And, like I said, I was driving.

Consequently, four of us arrived minutes early, and the other two followed. Everyone ordered water, so this was not exactly difficult to screw up.

Four at the table ordered salads, and James and I were the only two non-salad-conformists and opted to get a cheap appetizer instead as the meal.

I might point out that the point of an appetizer is to serve two functions. One, to come out -before- the meal. And, two, to come out -quickly- before the meal.

The herbivores of our group managed to fill their plates, and I mean FILL their plates and return to the table. They leisurely ate their entire plateful, and went back a second time to refill their troughs.

To which they again returned to the table and took their leisurely time eating the second helping. With plates clean, they then sat in silence as they waited for the check.

The waiter never came by to see how things were, didn’t check on the food in the kitchen, and never brought any refills, much less the check.

We eventually had to have another waiter page him over, and James canceled our appetizers (which constituted our whole meal). The waiter just nodded, didn’t say a word, didn’t check back with the kitchen, and didn’t apologize.

In fact, that’s when we realized that he hadn’t said a single thing since we ordered the water.

As luck would have it, the manager was passing by and asked us how our meal was. My intention was to let James have the floor, but something snapped, and I explained how we had ordered appetizers about an hour and a half ago, and that we hadn’t seen our waiter since, and that the guys who came in last were done eating two servings of the salad bar.

The only reason they had superior service was because it was *self* service.

The manager offered his apologies. I said it went beyond apology, that this was downright embarrassing — we were leaving the establishment, not coming back for a very long time, letting our coworkers and friends know what happened, and in the meantime were going to go across the street to Wendy’s because a fast food joint that was filled with minimum wage immigrant workers that couldn’t speak English natively treated its customers better.

It seemed to strike a nerve, especially since I was making sure my voice carried over to the neighboring tables.

The waiter who served us was cowering in the back of the restaurant. If I had had any sense, I should have made him stand by as I chewed out the manager.

Now let me show you why Ruby Tuesday gets the dingbat award. When you mess up, especially involving public relations, you make amends to those you screwed over.

The manager, instead of providing some coupon for some food at a later date, offered to pick up the table’s meal.

At first it sounds like a nice offer — but check out what this really means. It means that the people who benefited from getting food got their meal free (and salad bars are cheap); the people who got nothing, got an additional nothing. What’s up with THAT?

Anyhow, I did get a rousing thanks and pat on the back from the coworkers who got free shuttle service and a meal. I suppose that was worth something.

For the record, I kept my word. We did drive over to Wendy’s, and to be fair, I placed a complex order and timed them. The time was now 12:30pm — mid-lunch in high volume Chantilly. A number one, super-sized, with extra pickles and extra onions — total elapsed time: one minute and 15 seconds, and that included paying.

As an added perk, I found a penny on the floor. All Ruby Tuesday had was discarded gum.

With that incident, Ruby Tuesday has been added to my list of places to avoid. The list is small, but I hope that when I vote with my feet that others who hear the tale also spot the illogic and avoid putting themselves in similar jeopardy.

So, that was Monday. How was Tuesday shaping up?

Well, Tuesday started off by getting up early to go to a Microsoft event. We had an invitation to come out and see a technical presentation of Microsoft’s new development platform! It sounded exciting and we’ve been waiting weeks for it. Obviously Microsoft, the king of innovation had much to show off.

It used to be, back in the early 90’s, that when Microsoft held such an event it would flood conference centers with geeks. We’d get a pile of goodies, and when the curtains parted, we’d get a sneak preview at some amazingly cool ideas. The event was fun and we felt special.

It was at one of these conferences, I had a chance to talk with the lead guy for Microsoft’s C++ compiler. When asked about the long term plan and release cycles, he explained that the Microsoft compiler was more like Jello. When it stopped jiggling, you took advantage and shipped it. It was this hackery that led them to try a “subscription” model, which evolved into MSDN as we now know it. He further added that they had pretty much exhausted all their ideas, and while Borland was jamming on new features and innovation, Microsoft just added some simple dialogs around cut’n’paste code –nothing clever– and called them Wizards. He couldn’t believe how the masses bought into this so easily; there was no logic – nothing special – it didn’t do anything – and it was amazingly small. However, give someone a ‘wizard’ and it must be magic.

The tone was different this time, however.

I was the first to arrive in the room, and there was no one to greet people. Others came in a while later, and there was no one around. Eventually someone showed up when the room was full and said we needed to do registration, so could we all exit and re-enter?

They were serious. Rather than calling roll or passing a sign-up sheet around, we all had to get up, exit the room, stand in line, say our name, and re-enter again, taking the very seat we left.

Then the presentations started. Except they had audio problems. The speakers on one side of the room weren’t working. And rather than going for a conference room (not a conference hall or center, but a room) that was deep, they went for wide.

The speaker tried shouting, but it didn’t work. The correct solution would have been for him to go to where the speakers were malfunctioning, talk in a normal voice, and let the working speakers do their job. No such luck.

The speaker asked us what language we used, and by a show of hands, well over 99% of the room used C#. He proceeded to tell us how Visual Basic was his favorite language of choice, and spent a full hour going over the new features that were added to it.

Bad move.

VisualBASIC to a C# person is like public transit is to a bulldozer driver. Sure, if you have limited knowledge and only want to go where someone else has planned a route, you can do so with minimal effort on your part — but if you have to forge new and better ways for those that follow, you need a serious tool that puts you in control, not one that takes you along for the ride. Besides, C# has had since its beginning all the features they were showing off. And what were the new features? 1) It didn’t reformat your code (oh, like every other competing product knew not to do since the start of time). 2) You could document your code. 3) Look — wizards that gave static templated code fragments. Meanwhile the live demo we got had on a number of occasions crashed or hiccuped.

We almost busted out laughing. This was a repeat of the C++ discussion from ten years ago.

Then things moved from bad to worse. The next speaker didn’t use a microphone; he softly mumbled. His big thing was about how Visual Studio was great for doing architecture work. He spent a whole, boring, monotone, slow-paced hour drawing six boxes and five lines.

A software architect, for those not in the field, is more like the guy who comes up with the blue prints. He’s got the big vision, and a high level way that it can be implemented. The actual designer, who’s stuck with the supplies, people, and raw reality may have to make engineering tradeoffs and changes so that the equivalent structure gets built. So, for the most part, architecture is about communication about the conceptual design of a system. Get that? Communication. Visual Studio, however, is a tool. It’s the backhoe. It does the work. This is like someone putting a word processor in a screwdriver. It doesn’t belong, but it does jack the price up.

The next person up was the marketing person who was gonna tell us all about licensing this new product. And to say that they’ve over complicated, split up, recombined, renamed, and screwed with the pricing and product model so that you can’t tell which way is up is an understatement. Bottom line is that if I want all the tools at my disposal, the new price tag is $4,500. Hold tight — per person.

That’s right, my junior developer, who never got any architecture experience in college because Microsoft licensing wouldn’t let him or his professor buy a discounted educational copy, is now costing me more because I’m supplying him with tools he doesn’t need. If I’m driving to the store for a quart of milk, I do not need the booster rockets of the space shuttle. Geez.

Microsoft has got to be out of its mind. This is getting insane.

For a recap, if you buy Apple’s latest Tiger operating system you get with it *ALL* the development software and documentation Apple has for *FREE*. And for each additional developer you add, the cost per head is roughly $17.50. You read that right, less than $20.

What’s REALLY sad? The XCode tool which comes with Tiger is better!!! And if you don’t wanna switch to Apple, go with Eclipse (www.eclipse.org) — it’s FREE, commercial grade, extendable, and open source. And if you want BASIC, of all things, get RealBASIC, at least your source code will work on Windows, Apple, and Linux/FreeBSD, not just Microsoft only.

It used to be that when you attended a conference, you’d also get complimentary personal copies of the compiler. This was sheer genius. You’d go home, install it, learn it, and go to work and ask for it. Microsoft in their jab-everyone now gives away a timebomb trial copy so you can “eval” whether or not you want it. Once it explodes, it can’t be reactivated or upgraded. And let me say, Microsoft’s uninstall of such things that intertwine with an operating system doesn’t normally go smoothly. Consequently, you need to buy MORE software just to run the TRIAL software so you don’t screw up your system running THEIR software. Arrrggghh!

What is it about the world that makes Ruby Tuesday and Microsoft experiences like this so common? Why does the general public put up with it and keep going back?

As for me, I’ll be eating my cheap food while I work on my free software… oddly enough, those that take a peek seem to be really impressed with the graphics and capabilities, not of the burger, of the machine.