Dear Mr. Hyundai

Good day, Sir.

I did quite a bit of research before I purchased my Hyundai Sonata.  The cars constantly come up at the top of Consumer Reports' reports and I hear nothing but good things from owners.

Before my Sonata, I owned nothing but big cars.   Really big cars.  Cars of the class Land Yacht.  Vehicles that had different area codes in the front and rear seats.   Purchasing a Sonata was tacit admission that I could no longer afford land yachts.

The joke, of course, was on me.  My Lincoln got seventeen miles per gallon.  My Sonata gets eighteen to twenty-four (with two less cylinders).

But don't take this as a shot at Hyundai.  My Sonata, purchased as a three year old vehicle, has started every morning and has never failed me (which is more than I can say for the ancient Town Car).

The real shocker came when it was time to purchase new tires.  Why a three year old car needs new tires is beyond the scope of this post.

So tell me:  whose brilliant idea was it to put performance tires on a Hyundai?  Why does a sedan require two-hundred-dollar tires?  Does it have something to do with those silly ethnic wheels?


I have been putting large, round rubber tires on cars since I was sixteen.  Not even the largest and most expensive luxury tire has ever approached this ridiculous price point.  Why?

Today I took the car in for inspection and learned another Interesting Fact<tm>: apparently the same joker who selected the tires had a hand in selecting and placing the bulbs.  Two repair stations told me to take the car to a dealer to have the bulbs replaced; it was too difficult for them.  The inspection station had no trouble at all, in fact, charging me the better part of one hundred dollars to do the job.

I have been replacing bulbs since before I could drive.  Somebody over there at Hyundai is having the last laugh on owners in spectacular fashion.

Are your tires and bulbs made of Unobtanium?  Do you get a kickback from tire manufacturers?  I do not drive a hot rod.  In fact, it's more of a boring family sedan on purpose.  I was hoping to avoid this nonsense....

I will continue to insist that Hyundai makes good, solid cars, adding that a serious investment program (or retirement fund) is required for tire and bulb replacement.

Sincerely,

leftystrat
from the blogosphere

Define Cruelty

I remember all the way back to Friday.  I was telling a friend that I was going to get up off my posterior and head out over the weekend.  I was almost excited.

Then it snowed.  It was almost as if it were personal.

But the true definition of cruelty, and I'm sure you'll agree if you think about it, is a non-cooperative coffee machine on Monday morning.

I've been at the present job for ten years.  Over that time, we've spent days, weeks, and months working on a suitable Coffee Strategy.  Coffee doesn't come easy.  Yes, we do have the coffee machines thoughtfully provided by our employer.  These are really convenient little machines and, when loaded, produce something in the general neighborhood of coffee (or hot chocolate) but not close enough for me.  And they're frequently not loaded, producing the sickest shades of coffee and hot chocolate imaginable.  Unfortunately they don't taste much better than they look, loaded or not.

Being a proper coffee fanatic, I decided the only way to go was to bring in beans, a grinder, and a four pot coffee maker.  This became so successful that we evolved to a twelve cup coffee maker.

It was at this point that we hit our Major Stumbling Block<tm>.  I noticed that if I didn't make coffee, it didn't get made.  Somewhat coincidentally, if I didn't clean the pot, it didn't get cleaned.  Suffice it to say that a dirty coffee pot can grow some of the most interesting blue-green `stuff' you've ever seen.  After a while it evolves speech.  This, while interesting, becomes a bit of a pain in the ass, as it just sits there, saying:

"Clean me."
"Clean me."

Then we discovered Keurig.  These are miraculous machines, wherein you fill them with water, put in a cup, put in a little coffee pod, push the button, and coffee appears in your cup.

And you don't have to wash any pots.

This was a miracle for us, provided we could get someone to pick up the coffee pods.  It was almost foolproof.

Until this morning, of course.

Here we are, yet another Monday, coming into work and pressing the BREW button for some of that magical go-juice.

And the machine just stared back at us.


A helpful person observed that sometimes it starts slowly.  I added that perhaps it's having prostate issues: it gets started slowly but eventually disburses liquid.

And it gave me half a cup of brew.

This is simply cruel.  Monday morning, of all mornings, is precisely the wrong morning to mess with my coffee.  I have barely enough oomph to operate the coffee machine, no less hurl it across the room in a petulant frenzy (a petulant frenzy?).

While we're on the topic, this particular machine is not without its drawbacks.  While it's basically effortless in the coffee-making area, one still has to procure things like cups, sugar, and creamer.  I have noticed that at least one of these things is missing when I go to make my singular cup of coffee.

I may go to put in sugar, only to find it empty.  After I procure more sugar, via an act that is probably illegal in at least thirty states, I get back to notice that the creamer is also short.  It took me way too long to remember to check everything before I hit BREW.

Since there were no additional cups, I had to go to the kitchen to dump out my measly half cup of coffee (which was starting to eat through the cup anyway) and get some more cups.  I ran a cup of plain water, which took on an eerie brown and crunchy shade, and had another go at regular old coffee.

VOILA!  An actual cup of coffee.  Success at last.

Of course I feel sorry for anyone who has to deal with me today, but at least I got my coffee.

----------

Today is Halloween.  My department is dressing as MIS people with bad attitudes.

By all accounts, we've nailed it.

Kids - Like Them or Not....

I've always been up front about my general dislike of children.  I told my wife they were not an option from the beginning.  I figure I'm not done being a child by far so there really isn't any reason to bring one into the world.  Plus there are plenty who don't have it so great already....

I have nephews; two to be precise.  They tolerate me a hell of a lot better than I do them.

We visit friends for Sunday dinner.  The place is impossible to describe.  Suffice it to say that living there are two multiples, a psychologist, an artist, a pair of eighty-somethings with selective dementia, a pharmacist and several partridges complete with their own pear trees.

Another family that sometimes visits caused most of the assembled masses to state that the children had a better chance with wolves than that particular set of parents.  But since they were family.....

A while back one half of the parents got sent to jail on firearms-related charges.  We could not decide if that was a good thing for the kids or not.  The remaining parent, and I use the term loosely, treated everyone else as free babysitting for the baby born just after one of them reported to prison.

I used to call one of the kids Bobble-Head because he looked just like one of those dolls with its head on a spring that wobbled back and forth.  It probably hurt but my wife had to agree - the kid's head was rather large-ish.  The other child was very nice but was already starting to lose entire days.  Not a good sign.

After prison started, Bad Parent #2 hooked up with Random Male #1.  Strangely enough, they produced Little Child #2.  Shortly thereafter, Random Male #1 started beating Bobble-Head.

There was obviously only one thing to do and Bad Parent #2 did what was necessary. She put Bobble-Head in the car and halfway through the ride, explained that he was going to live with his grandmother.  Unfortunately she never checked with Grandmother.

So we all had dinner tonight and Bobble-Head sat with us.  My wife remarked that he really has grown into his head (which still makes me laugh).  She says it's a Polish trait (and who am I to argue?).

The child was dropped off with some shorts (yesterday was the surprise snow storm before Halloween) and three pairs of too-small underwear.

One of the denizens was nervous because lefty does not like children.  It's ok - he may not be terribly fond of them but he won't bite.

I know Bobble-Head has a much better chance with this assemblage than his natural parents.  And since he had a better chance with (random) wolves, I guess he's ahead by two.  But I can't stop wondering what was going on in Bad Parent #2's head (or not going on, as the case my be).

No, I LIKE the Nerdy Look

It was a bad morning to have an eight o'clock doctor appointment.  Strike that - any day is a bad day to have an eight o'clock doctor appointment.  The only thing worse than an eight o'clock doctor appointment ....

Is getting out of the elevator to find twelve people sitting on the floor in front of the locked office.

I learned things this morning.

Things like this might be another of the doctor's `emergencies', as this isn't the first time a crowd had assembled outside.  In fact, I understand they're thinking about putting chairs in the hallway.

People bond over the weirdest stuff... it's amazing what people will say to each other in a hallway, never having met before.  You'd think you were on Faceyspaces or something....

One fellow used to be in the navy.  I'm not sure what the relevance is to this bit of information but he was fond of starting his sentences with `Well, I was in the navy for twenty years and...'

Another lady regaled us with tales of conspicuous consumption.  Of diet soda.

A teen held forth on the topic of nerdiness and how she was purposely going for the nerd look by wearing fake glasses.  Quite frankly, I spent the early part of my life trying to get away from the nerd look, so I sat there in mute horror.  Do you suppose Claudia Schiffer ever turned to her agent and said she needed some thick glasses with that bikini?  Did Adriana Lima storm off the Victoria's Secret shoot and state her intention to trade her push-up bra for a pocket protector?  The mind boggles.

An attractive and very sympathetic young lady kept reminding me that it was not nice (nor was it legal) to do most of the things I was suggesting to the doctor, should he ever arrive.

Speaking of arrival, one guy asked me what time my appointment was (eight o'clock).  Sudden realization hit me when he mentioned having been there since just after six.  At about this point, the entire assemblage stood up, signed their names to a piece of paper, shoved it in the mail slot and left.

It was the finest Synchronized Leaving Event<tm> I have ever witnessed and it did my heart good to be part of it.

Apparently they didn't lift my prints from the note, as the office called me later.  Funny how they managed to find my number a few hours later, as opposed to some time before all of my new friends had time to assemble in the hallway...  Yes, it was an emergency, plus some nonsense about somebody dying.  I don't believe a word, especially about the emergency, plus it takes huevos grandes to lie about a death in the family.

My wife says it sounds like he drinks.  That's a rather odd thing to say out of the blue, but then again, she's not the average wife.

What, you ask, is the moral of this story?

• Don't take any grief from doctors (but be nice to their staff)
• Demand to be paid for your time
• If you're going to have sex with a fellow patient, make sure you're protected.

Bands Better Off Without Original Members

The fine folks over at Guitar Squid just posted a piece called Ten Bands Better Off Without an Original Member.  It comes complete with videos, generally of the former variety, with the original member(s).

It was simply crying out for comment.

9. Stevie Ray Vaughan:

Now let's face it... I've heard Lou Ann Barton and Lou Ann ain't no SRV.  Her departure put Stevie right up front, where he belonged.  

Damn helicopter pilot.

7. Fleetwood Mac:

This is where the alarm bells started to go off.  Some would say they are still ringing.  I only discovered Fleetwood Mac when Stevie Nicks and Lindsey Buckingham joined. They certainly contributed immense amounts and were definite full members.  The tunes were great, as was the pharmaceutical comsumption.  And ass anyone who was there took note,  Stevie was a sight for male eyes.  

And female too: she launched a million fashion devotees.

Now that I've seriously discovered the original Fleetwood Mac, I can't agree with this site's assertion.  I'd feel much better if they were simply split into two separate bands, as this is essentially what they were.  Peter Green is a legend (and deservedly so).  I think the jury is still out as to whether the illness preceeded the drugs or vice-versa.

6. Bon Jovi:

Cough... cough... cough... 

Who cares.

4. Deep Purple:

Let's face it: as a fan looking backward and trying to figure them out, it appears as though you'd see a random new band member every time you caught the act.  Never a band to hire a slouch, many talented folks breezed through Purple and it's practically a new band if you see them today.

2. Megadeth:

Don't know a lot about these guys.  Don't hear a lot of their music.  I know I enjoyed the video from the site.  It appears as though Marty Friedman is one of those lefties who writes with his entire wrist cramped around the pen (look at the way he holds the pick).  I understand Marty is no longer with the band.  

The tune is as far and as heavy as I go without running to turn off the track.

Go to the site and check out the rest.  It's always an interesting read at Guitar Squid.

And don't forget to check out the most recent Joe Walsh interview.  New album coming February 2012.  Unfortunately I just missed him at the Borgata in New Jersey.   I can't even afford to drive by the Borgata.

Stabbed WHERE?

Man stabbed in scrotum with hypodermic needle; Cops suspect girlfriend...

That chick was a real pain in the nuts...

Eating Puppy Meat Is the Same as Eating Pork, TV Chef Says...

This guy will be really popular down at the SPCA.

Iraq threatens to break military links with USA...

Ten years and ten billion dollars too late...

Vodka-soaked gummy bears create buzz among teens...

What, you've never played shoot the gummy at the cleavage?


Man electrocuted trying to steal power lines...


Sounds like the problem took care of itself.


Ok, everyone knows about the mummers, right?   It's a loose, large group of partially-sober men and women who get smashed, glue feathers and sparkles to themselves (not in a San Francisco-ish way), then stumble around in a semi-organized fashion, to the accompaniment of horrid contraptions called banjos and horns.  This happens on New Years Day and is judged by an invisible panel of Vogons, who liken it to their poetry.

Right.  So I heard on the news that there were two arrests for prostitution in Sowf Filly, at one group's clubhouse.  Those of us with a libertarian bent firmly hold that the government has no right to make laws about what one can and cannot do with one's body, thereby decriminalizing selling your body.

Then I checked things out further.  Even though I'm all about prostitution, have you seen the women?  These alleged prostitutes are accused of plying their trade outside the clubhouse.  Ok, I see some benefit to incarcerating them, even if it simply keeps us from having to see them.  Or, heaven forbid, hear them.

Ubuntu 11.10 Installs (so far)

I'm roughly two for three in this department today.  The three machines all had Xubuntu 11.01 and I used the update mechanism to update to 11.10 (Onomotopoetic Orangutan).

The three machines are an older dual core 32bit, a more recent, higher-powered dual core 64bit, and a netbook.

DISCLAIMER:  As usual, I must state that I am not normal and furthermore not a normal linux user (whatever that is).  The Unity interface can go suck eggs.  It is ill-conceived and does nothing for me.  The beauty of linux is that I can go and install a desktop I prefer instead.  Sort of.

Aside from download time, the 64bit machine went smoothly yesterday.  Not a hiccup.  The 32bit machine was a much faster download and only failed installing samba.  When I rebooted, it told me to go get samba to make the install complete.  Good job, guys.

When my desktop came up, I was happy.  This lasted up until the background reset itself to dark blue.  I checked the desktop settings and saw that they were correct (NOT dark blue).  I hope this is the worst thing that will happen.

The netbook was also a quick download.  When it finished, it rebooted and I had completely lost use of the touchpad.  Plus it set up the netbook interface.  Now I seem to remember that this was the original laptop install that I put XFCE on afterwards.  Unfortunately I can do little without a working touchpad.  Will try a USB mouse later, when I get more time.

The install deleted tsclient, the interface for rdesktop.  I have no idea why, but I reinstalled it.

Have I mentioned that I hate the Unity interface?

In addition to hating Unity, I'm not terribly fond of the Ubuntu Software Center.  They went overboard to make it prettier and now it looks like it belongs on a Mac.  Synaptic no longer comes with a standard install (but got retained during upgrade).  I do like the NEW feature - this has been missing since the dawn of time.

I am happy to say that at this point, there is no significant change from what I've been used to with 11.04.  The boot up may be a hair slower and the login screen is different.  Neither of these is a game-changer.

The rest of the reviews you read will no doubt be full of descriptions of the new, colorful screens.  I just don't do that stuff.

I will update you as I figure out more about the upgrade but thus far it's been just fine.  Go forth and upgrade.

 ----------

Edit:  I also upgraded my laptop, an HP4525 quad processor unit.  Smooth as silk.  The only ill effect thus far is that it changed the coloring on my terminal windows by itself.  Odd but livable.  My `hidden' setting on a menu bar doesn't work, but that's been quirky for a while.

Another Linux Recovery Success Story

Being the Computer Guy, I have a multitude of friends and relatives asking me for everything from advice to extricating them from sticky situations.

This one fellow just doesn't seem to get why his Windows machines slow down, lock up, and acquire virii.  By way of explanation, he has an AOL account.  If he asks me why, I start to explain and watch the poor guy's eyes glaze over.  It generally takes longer to explain it than to just fix it.

I have done a number of repairs for him, each time attempting to impart some helpful knowledge along the way.  And don't get me wrong; I am unnecessarily handsomely rewarded.  Last time I got a chilled case of Yoo Hoo and chocolate.

This time it was the home Windows box.  He tried everything to fix it but it kept asking to replace important Windows files.  When the system starts asking you for files in the SYSTEM32 folder, you're pretty much toast (without some slightly advanced tools, knowledge, or a geeky friend).

My task was to retrieve data from a few of the Windows profiles.  Apparently the machine was of no consequence after.  I might suggest installing linux if he doesn't have other plans.  At least it won't slow down and attract viruses.

So we already know the machine won't boot.  I pulled out my trusty USB stick that boots Ubuntu to perform the task at hand.  And, in typical fashion, I discovered that since this was an old machine, it was not able to boot a USB device.  It's been that kind of day lately.

Then it was time to locate a Windows rescue disc.  This would be the easiest task in the world for normal folks but I apparently fear being struck by lightning if I ever put something back where it belongs.  Plus I'm quite lazy and the discs might be a room or more away.

I did manage to locate an old version of Xubuntu on a CD so I figured I'd try booting that one.  I booted in live cd mode, which runs linux in memory and doesn't touch the hard drive.  This is very useful for trying out different flavors of linux without messing up your current operating system.  It's also useful for rescue efforts like this one.

I mounted the hard drive and tried to burn a cd but the drive was whacked.  The day was getting even more lovely.  So I picked up a large USB stick and transferred the files from the Window profiles on the hard drive.

I burned the files to a cd on my laptop and BOOM - DONE.

What have we learned?

1. Always look annoyed when someone asks you to fix their computer
2. linux live cd's and bootable USB drives get the job done
3. Live by Windows, die by Windows (or Mac)

Why I'll Never Be A Great Jazz Guitarist

I have been staring intently at jazz guitar players for years.  I have seen them live, on video, on YouTube, and at guitar shows.  Aside from technique and years of experience, not to mention an ear for jazz, what do these guys have that I don't?

It's not like rock guitar, where the criteria are different.  In rock (and by extension, blues), it's all about the Guitar Faces.  Not the equipment, years of practice, or even a great groove - it's totally about the faces.  This was explained to me by an incredible but slightly odd electronic technician once and it took quite a while to get it.  My wife, on the other hand, got it right away - it's the faces, stupid!

If you don't believe me, check out Robin Trower, arguably the greatest living guitarist by faces alone.  Bonus for guitarists: dig the CBS Strat, the Marshalls, and the definitive use of the Univibe.

So today I came upon a random link and It finally hit me: jazz was going to be different than rock and roll.  It would not involve guitar faces at all.

The secret to jazz playing is entirely in the knobs.  It took way too long to put this together but I finally nailed it.  Watch any jazz guitarist and the first thing you notice is almost obsessive tweakage of the volume knob.  They might only move it 1/100th of a turn, but they allegedly hear something.... something that makes them play a bit, then go back to adjust the volume some more.

The audience never actually hears the effect of the volume knob but because this is jazz, trusts the player's instinct and takes on faith the aural effects thereof.

Back when I was doing sound and recording, someone asked me to turn down the SUCK knob.  We didn't actually have a suck knob but this birthed a tremendous idea: psychoacoustics.  Before you get your brain cells in a knot, this is not the psychoacoustics of the past twenty years or so, which deals with the perception of sound.

Or maybe it is - wtf do I know?  I would designate one knob as the psychoacoustic knob.  It did absolutely nothing and was connected to nothing. When a particularly picky band member would have me making minute adjustments to his instrument or headphone mix ad nauseum, I'd get aggravated and tweak the Psychoacoustic Knob, then smile and ask him didn't that sound better now.   The answer, in one hundred percent of cases, was yes.


WHAT HAVE WE LEARNED TODAY?

Nothing.  We learn nothing of value from this blog.  Ever.

That aside, we learned that the key to rock guitar is Guitar Faces.
We learned that the key to jazz guitar is Volume Knob Adjustment.
And we learned that no matter how bad they sound, you can't turn down the Suck Knob.

Occupy THIS

I have been watching the various Occupy protests with interest and confusion.  I suspect I am not alone in this.

It is truly a wonderful thing to see the Great Unwashed tear themselves away from Dancing with the Stars and actually doing something.  It had been pointed out to me that Europeans get serious and riot while Americans buy beer and watch television.  I was all set to agree when all of the sudden, Occupy broke out.

It is also great to see the movement spreading.  Furthermore, it is shocking to see press coverage of the movement (even though it took about three weeks).

The left is doing its best to co-opt the movement.  The right is telling the movement to get off their lawn and get a job.  It's Politics as Usual in D.C.

As for yours truly, well.... glad you asked.  The phrase right church, wrong pew comes to mind.

Let's make a break with politics and deal with reality for a moment, shall we?  The bankers paid off the congresscritters to make favorable laws.  Then the congresscritters went and bailed out the bankers, after sleazy, underhanded dealings left them with less profit.

So it would only be logical to protest against the congresscritters, correct?

We don't blame illegal aliens for being in the country - it's the fault of bad laws, enforcement, and policy.  Blame the cause of the loophole, not the beneficiary.

So let's direct protest where it belongs: at congress.

Believe me, the Powers that Be are sitting up and taking notice.

Regis, Kelly, the Geneva Convention and a Colonoscopy

It's not like I meant to get up at six in the morning: usually that's reserved for things I enjoy doing.  But I smiled (sort of) and did my husbandly duty, escorting my wife for her diagnostic procedure this morning.

PREP

Before you have a diagnostic instrument inserted into your choice of orifices, there's generally some sort of preparation.  This can range from simply not eating to taking all sorts of interesting medicines, with what one can only describe as spectacular results.

My wife, being the woman she is, went for spectacular.  And why not - she deserves some spectacular in her life.  [FAB-u-lous!]

The way it was explained to me, my wife's plumbing is like her husband - a little slow.  As a result, she had to go with the half-week super-spectacular preparations.  Rather than explain it to you, let's just say it involved pills, ginger ale, a hamster and four to six midgets.

I'm reasonably certain I missed the best parts of the prep.  The only thing I really witnessed was her talking to me one moment, then leaping like mad for the bathroom (with one crazed cocker spaniel attempting to keep up).  It would have been amusing if it weren't so downright hysterical.

I don't know what side effects the medicinal preparation claimed but in total they had the effect of turning a perfectly normal (and FAB-u-lous!) woman into a gas-spewing man.  From all available outlets.  It was like the guys digging in your yard hit a gas main and couldn't quite figure out how to shut it down.  Between gaseous exhalations, my wife found this quite amusing.

The musical question then became `how do you convince a dog who knows how to open the bathroom door to stop it'?

I don't know how she did it but she finally went to bed.  I was terrified to get next to her but as there were no rhythmic tents appearing and disappearing, I figured it was probably safe.  The dog seemed relatively unaffected, serving as my canary in this particular coal mine.  And wasn't I lucky that there were no noises as I crawled into bed..

WHAT TIME?

Her phone went off at four o'clock.  Never mind, I thought, that's just email.  Bless her heart, she left email notification on.  I can only guess at the treasure that felt the necessity to slam into her email at that time of the morning.  Probably an urgent missive from some shopping site or a polite offer for Viagra.

After what seemed like moments, it was six.  Even the dog wasn't interested in being awake.  He kept wondering what his mommy was doing and feigning sleep so she wouldn't drag him outside.  To no avail.

When the hospital tells you to be there at seven, they're not kidding.   And when I say not kidding, I mean that the time of arriving is arrived at by a complex numerical and illogical process so secret that nobody in the entire chain knows what it is.  Therefore they just throw out a time and hope people show up.

Check-in is a breeze, almost like a cheap motel, only forty minutes longer.  There are over seventy separate forms that must be filled out with information such as third nephew's cell phone number and husband's favorite dessert.  The twin ironies here are that

1. they asked for all this information last time
2. they don't need it - it goes right into the shredder

It turns out that check-in is just the first in a long series of exercises designed to frustrate the patient, create employment for the extremely elderly and incompetent members of the board's extended family, and frustrate the patient.   Oh yeah, and to hike the insurance rates.

I don't know about you but our medical premiums have gone up nearly fifteen percent yearly, with an accompanying leap in copays but no additional coverage.  In order to keep down the number of people using the emergency room for primary care, they instituted a fifty dollar fee for emergency room visits, waived if there was an admission.  Now it's a one hundred dollar fee, which becomes five hundred dollars if there is an admission.  Now we need a fee to discourage people from staying home when they get sick.

Having said that, the fee for the short procedure unit was three hundred.  I sure picked a bad time to work in an industry that doesn't get bailed out.

AT LEAST IT WASN'T KATHY LEE

We were directed to a waiting room.  Do you know why they're called waiting rooms?  Because the doctors get some sort of perverse joy from making you wait.  I knew a physician who couldn't wait til he could afford to expand his waiting room because it made him look even more important.  He felt that the more people he could make wait, the better a doctor that made him.  I wonder if he ever got properly medicated....

Sitting down, one could hardly miss the concert volume of the television, which was busy blasting the blasted Kelly Rippa show.  We were spared Regis, as they are getting ready to watch him fade into the sunset.  The joke is on them, though.... Regis has been dead for twenty years.  The man makes Al Gore look animated (and I've only seen him in commercials).

I could hardly contain my excitement when I discovered that the cohost was Katie Couric.  How they could fit that much cute on one show, no one will ever know.   You'd think it would reach critical mass and explode on camera.

The larger problem here, content aside, was the volume at which this nonsense poured out of the hospital television.  Mind you, my television isn't anywhere near as nice as the hospital television.  I also can't charge people for watching it (or can I?).   But it seemed as though the telly had an entire sound system for the express purpose of making patients deaf.  Even the old people's ears were bleeding....

Just as we were attempting to become comfortable in the spineless seats set out for our lounging pleasure, we were escorted to a much nicer waiting room.  Much nicer in that the television was not causing deafness (just partial hearing loss).

Did you know that blasting Regis and Kelly at the unwilling (and let's face it - who is willing?) is a violation of the Geneva Convention?

At this point, someone's relic of a relative walked in with a brand new computer system to take down the same old information.  We asked her why wasn't it transferred from the perfectly fine old computer system.  She mumbled a bit and asked us a few questions about President Roosevelt.  Then only fifty or sixty of the same questions asked at check-in.  She asked pages of questions then, almost as fast as you can say shouldn't be allowed near a computer, she deleted the answers.  Some of her beefier coworkers came in and gently carried her away so procedures could start eventually....

WAITING ROOM.  AGAIN.

You could have knocked me over with a feather: I had cell phone reception deep in the bowels of the hospital (oh great, a bowel reference... how clever).  Well, there you have it: me saying something nice about T-Mobile (nah, the hospital must have set up repeaters indoors).

So I started waiting.

About ten minutes into my waiting, a nice staff member asked if I was with a patient (apparently she didn't remember talking to me ten minutes earlier) and said that I could wait in the original waiting room.  Well sure, if someone would have asked earlier, I would have gone there.  Certainly don't know to go there on my own...

Unfortunately, the Katie and Kelly Show had somehow managed to attain additional volume (and additional cuteness).  With a pair of in-ear phones, cranked past Painful, I could not drown out the volume (and worse, the content).

Have you ever endured the pain of George Stephanopoulos discussing Dancing with the Stars on a morning show?  Having to watch the premier of an Americans Idle winner's new album (fresh from the Noise Factory)?

As if it couldn't get any worse, Rachel Ray appeared.  I know this is Rachel Ray from her Dunkin Donuts commercials, just like I know Regis from the Stupid Bank Commercials.  In addition to being deceased, the man apparently has no nasal passages.

Rachel doesn't appear as overtly cute as Kelly, so I hoped for some semblance of sanity.  In morning tv, you say?  HA!  

Luck just wasn't with me, as one of more attention-y whores of the Kardashian family came on to discuss Rachel and some connection they had.  I had given up on my headphones, even to simply block out the cacophony.  I was in such a bad state that I was starting to consider Christianity (or something) when I saw in the distance a vision.  A very attractive nurse was holding up rags, attempting to call my name in semaphore.

IS IT SUPPOSED TO SOUND LIKE THAT?

They brought me to my wife, who looked worse than I felt.   Perhaps they had Rachel Ray on in the operating room too.

But no; she was sitting up, hunched over (don't even attempt to visualize this), and rocking a bit.

Failing in the Witty Entrance Department, I asked if she was ok.

Major fail.

Apparently it was an interesting procedure, in which they did things that shall not be described nor repeated in polite (or otherwise) society.  And then the aftershocks started.  She was sitting there with what is referred to as an emesis basin but we regular folks call a puke bucket (in harvest gold).

She was making very good use of said basin, emesis-ing like a pro.  Unfortunately with each surge of activity from the north, there was a corresponding blast from the south.  The prep was still making her a man!  If we could only bottle that stuff, we would end our dependence on foreign oil.  And local oil.

And if we could have rocked her manually, we would have the most interesting and complex musical instrument Simon Cowell had never seen.

The problem, at the moment, was trying to decide what to do with myself.  It was apparent that I could not be of any assistance.  I was vacillating between making myself invisible, yelling SOMEBODY GET ME A DOCTOR, and laughing hysterically.  I wisely chose invisibility (saving the hysterical laughter for the blog post I was already composing in my head).

SMALL PRINT

If you are to have any sort of procedure involving tubes and orifices, it will not go this way (at least in terms of gas, emesis and pain).  You will absolutely fall victim to the hospital and its staff but that's as it should be.

You should be screened for All This Stuff<tm> when you reach a certain age or show symptoms.

Risky Behavior

Which is more dangerous - sex with a possibly HIV-infected partner or sex with Amanda Knox?

Steve Jobs - Seriously?

I really intended to let this one pass.  Never liked the guy.  Hated his products.  I figured why not let him RIP.

I've only been home for about an hour, catching up on some rss feeds and watching a little news.  To put it politely, if I hear one more lionization of Jobs, I'm likely to lose my breakfast.

The local news featured kids who were somehow brainwashed into believing that there would be no computing at all without Jobs.  Well, that's certainly a marketing coup.

Then there was footage of people passing by a random Apple store, leaving flowers and putting up sticky notes.  The interviews were nauseating; as if the greatest humanitarian in the world had just passed.

"...comparable to the day Princess Diana died" 
"..coolest store we've ever seen with the coolest toys"

"changed the world"

"...compared to henry ford and alexander graham bell.."

Yes, one hell of a marketing coup.  I may be the only person on the planet who regularly listens to podcasts on a device bereft of lower case `i' in front of it.  Who computes on many devices without an `i'.  Who even has a netbook and tablet without `i's.

Apparently I'm one of the few people who listens to music on a number of devices onto which I transferred the songs directly.  Who can play music in any format.  Who does not require Steve Jobs' permission to play only certain music with certain extensions.  Who isn't subject to the Jobs Vision of How Things Should Be.

I can use any hardware, old or new.  I can perform just about any task done on a Mac, with free software.  I don't have to reboot constantly.  I belong to an enthusiastic and helpful community.  I can find software anywhere.  If I were telented, I could modify the software.  And my systems are still incredibly secure.  The hardware is modular and can be replaced when one component breaks; I  don't have to take the whole thing in.


I'd be nauseated if all this noise were over Bill Gates too.


I am a linux user.

Breast Pump Baby, it's a Gas Gas Gas

Yes, I work in the Twilight Zone<tm>, where gravity is merely a suggestion; right at the intersection of the yellow brick road and the duck pond.

It was a light and chilly morning.  I was kinda tired and not at the top of my game.  To prevent falling asleep at my desk, I decided to take a walk.  I am beginning to suspect I work in the Obsessive Compulsive Disorder center of Philadelphia, where hand-washing is not only mandatory, it's constant.  And after everyone is done washing their hands, they can feel free to hit the antibacterial soap dispenser and rub their hands some more.  I am looking for some helpful pamphlets on germphobia and hand-washing to put under the dispensers.

So I stumbled out to the kitchen to splash some water on my face and stood behind a coworker.  In my semi-awake state I noticed a bunch of plastic parts on the drying rack.  While washing my own hands, it suddenly occurred to me: those plastic parts look like a breast pump.  This lady was washing out her breast pump in the kitchen sink.

To be dreadfully honest, I have never seen a breast pump in person, but this had somewhat of a genuine appearance.  It was definitely not at the top of the list of things I thought I was going to see this morning.

F. Scott Fitzgerald

F. Scott Fitzgerald

F- Murray Abraham too.


Cemetery Worker Stole Guitar From Army Vet’s Casket

Don't f-k with a man's Telecaster, especially if he's dead.

Where the hell is Sly Stone?


Doritos to be Sprinkled Over Creator's Grave

Creation saw him to 97.

Nancy Grace suffers wardrobe malfunction on 'DANCING'...

No one cares.

University of Texas frat allegedly recruited with live sex shows...

Where the hell were these people after I graduated high school?


Protester calls Obama 'Anti-Christ'...

Unfortunately they removed the wrong guy from the auditorium...

Mob attacks man in his own home...

You're white, therefore you're wrong.  No matter what you say or do.

When good dogs go bad.

Actually, when I'm president, dressing up your dog will be grounds for death.


Americans Express Historic Negativity Toward U.S. Government

How they tore themselves away from Dancing with the Stars is a mystery...


The 2011 Ig Nobel prize for Peace goes to Arturas Zuokas for discovering that the problem of illegally parked luxury cars can be solved by running them over with an armored tank.  Check out the rest of the awards.


We won't mention that this has been my idea for years.


DATING ADVICE:


If you're looking to date the newly free Amanda Knox, hit it and split.  Otherwise there could be `complications'.

Left Handed = Left Out When Guitar Shopping

I hadn't been to Guitar Center in months.  I don't get out much and I can only stand so much disappointment, no matter how much I crave it.  So yesterday I stopped in on my way by.

Most of the Guitar Centers I've been to have a section called Lefty Land, with all the lefty guitars and basses hanging in that area.  Yesterday I noticed Lefty Land had been moved.

Looking around, I spotted three lefty electrics on a wall.  One of the Helpful Guitar Center Salespeople asked if he could help and I asked where all the lefties went.  He pointed to the three guitars on the wall.

I was amazed.  I explained that I didn't think it was possible to have fewer lefties than the last time I was there, but Guitar Center went right ahead and let loose the shock and awe.

He giggled.

Whenever I ask for something lefty at a music store, after the person gets done telling me no, he always inserts `something helpful'.  It's usually something along the lines of `we could order that for you'.  This time it was `you should talk to our repair guy, who has turned a lot of guitars around.'

If I wanted a backwards guitar, I'd have asked for one in the first place, doofus.  If I wanted to order something sight-unseen (and unplayed), I'd have asked for that too.

And yes, I understand economics.  I know that guitar companies can't viably afford to make everything in the line lefty and I know why there's an upcharge (except for Martin).  I also know why stores can't stock a ton of lefties.  But if salespeople keep telling me customers are looking for lefties, why aren't they stocked?  Does Mr. Guitar Center get an electric shock every time he orders a lefty?  Is there some sort of pain involved with servicing the left-handed population?

It reminds me of the Monty Python Cheese Shop sketch:

Do you have lefty Strats?
No.
Do you have lefty Teles?
No.
Do you have lefty Gibsons?
No.
This must be the finest guitar store in the world.
Why?
Because it's certainly uncontaminated by lefty guitars.



Funny, though.... there are thousands of guitars in the store....



=============================

That having been said, I saw an incredibly cool Fender color called Chromium Blue or something to that effect.

I went looking for the Electro Harmonix pedals I keep seeing online.  Zero.  Zip.

And the acoustic section had a pair of cheap lefties.