Happy blogiversary to cocktailswithkevin.com

On the day I turned 30, I woke up prematurely around 5:30 in the morning. It was a Saturday as I recall, and for whatever reason I couldn't fall back asleep, so I sat in my comfy plaid chair in the living room and downloaded birthday music. One of my favorites was a tune by the Arrogant Worms called, ever so justly, "The Happy Happy Birthday Song." The lyrics are high-larious and worth googling but I think the gist of the song can be summed up with this verse:

So let's drink to your fading health

And hope you don't remind yourself

The chance of finding fame and wealth

Decrease with every year.

My blog turns one year old today, and while I can't say it's helped me find fame, much less wealth for that matter, I have to say it's been a pretty good year. Through the miracle of modern blogology I've shared my worthless opinion on everything from sitting in a doctor's waiting room to pretentiously faux French restaurants to adorning our cars with those silly magnetic ribbons to a run-in with a bear. I've talked about far-away places and up-close places. Readers of my blog have suffered through my cantankerous opinions, a couple illnesses and most recently parenting.

I have evolved as a blogger. My first posts averaged about 150 words a piece and were basically just short blurbs about whatever thought ran through my head at the time. After reading other blogs I found that I enjoyed other people's writings more if they gave me more to read. As my sister once put it, short entries don't satiate one's voyeuristic tendencies quite enough. Now, I've run into some blogs that I think are too wordy for me, so I like to keep my entries such that they don't go beyond my childlike attention span. I now average around 900 words per entry.

I've also learned that blogs come and go with greater frequency than Atlanta nightclubs or cheap Mexican restaurants. For instance I used to link to fatasianbaby.com who has since gone belly-up. Well, I assume she didn't go belly-up, but once some of her family members found out about her online rants, she put the kibosh on her blog. Sad. This blogger has packed up and moved to a different corner of cyberspace twice now just since I started reading her a few months ago for similar reasons. The Soap in My Mouth blog referenced in my blogroll also mysteriously has disappeared. Where have all the bloggers gone . . . long time passing?

Lately I've been considering adding a podcast to my list of bloggy things. The only person I link to who does one is blackgayblogger.com and I have to confess that I don't listen regularly. I did listen to a few which I found interesting, but I just can't commit to listening to podcasts on a regular basis. I don't seek them out, probably because most of my cyber-time wasting is done at work, and somehow I think the bosslady would frown on me spending the corporate bandwidth listening to someone else's self-aggrandizing mp3s. But I truly am considering doing one of my own, so if you have any tips about podcasting you want to throw my way, please don't hesitate to do so.

I am proud to say that within the past year I have yet to litter my site with advertisements and frankly I don't foresee doing so anytime in the future. I even thought about coming up with a qualifier of no ads on your site in order for me to list you in my blogroll. So far I've opted not to impose such harsh restrictions not because I don't find cyber-commercials annoying -- I do -- but because some of my favorite reads have ads on their sites.

One site I find enjoyable is theendisnow.com, but I warn you that he's added personal ads to his site, such that when you visit the advertiser checks out the location of your internet provider and flashes up photos of local whores singles. And let me tell you there are some ugly-ass singles in my area. I guess I also don't understand the whole ad thing, especially when it comes to personal ads. Has anyone ever thought to themselves Gee, that guy who writes Nappy Diatribe sure is funny; I think I'll cruise for some tail.

Before I let you go, I have to share something else I've learned about blogging. I think I remember someone else mentioning this in one of their write-ups: Just because someone's family doesn't mean they care if you have a blog. This goes doubly for friends and coworkers. Personally, if I found out one of my friends had a blog, I would dive into that with reckless abandon on a daily basis, but whenever I tell people I write an online journal, they look at me like I just told them I have an extensive phonebook collection. I've quit trying to get people to read my stuff and instead just count on the fact that I'm basically writing for an array of faceless strangers.

Oh yeh, Peaster's mom, too. If you want to know why my wife and I call her that, click here.

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Welcome to my stuff 3

Hello and welcome to another exciting episode of Welcome to My Stuff™ . This is the time of the week when I take a snapshot of various belongings found throughout my home and share them with you, our home audience. Today's edition of Welcome to My Stuff™ is a very special one indeed because not only will I be showing you some of my stuff, I will specifically be showing you some brand new stuff. Everyone loves brand new stuff, right?

Nod heads in unison, please.

I really should have taken a before pitcure because this room looked totally different until just today. Our TV lounge once was home to a mammoth cherry wood corner cabinet that served as our entertainment center and a mammoth pressboard computer desk that served as our computer desk. The two items together took up a gigundous amount of space in this 11'x12' room, so much so that our sleeper sofa once pulled out would extend all the way to the edge of the desk and make late-night bathroom trips a real hassle for whatever guest slept closest to the window. What's more, the room was never completely put together. Since the baby came along we were forced to squeeze our guest room and a home office into one room. This made for a room full of mismatched bulky furniture and an ambience similar to that of the dorm of two heterosexual fraternity brothers.

Yes, it was that bad.

And then there was Ikea, and Ikea was good.

Actually we already had one piece from Ikea in the room. It seems like it was only a few months ago that my wife and I were flipping through the language-free pictograms that make up the Ikea assembly directions trying to figure out how to put together the mammoth computer desk, otherwise known as the Jerker. If you've been to an Ikea you know that all the individual pieces of furniture have cutesy little Swedish-sounding names like Hensvik, Markör, and Tweedle Deedle LinGenberry Küche. Ok, I'm just kidding about the Tweedle Deedle Lingenberry Küche, but that does sound like a dessert you could buy in the store's cafeteria. Anyway, the mammoth desk that was in the room was named Jerker.

On Meryl's first trip to Ikea we walked away with the three new pieces of furniture you see here, the tv stand, the bookshelves and the computer desk to the far right. Their names, by the way, are Lack, Expedit and Mikael respectively. I put the computer desk together myself but Elaine tackled the other two items pretty much on her own. Well, I had started the bookshelves by joining two incorrect pieces together, but she finished it in spite of my goof. Isn't she something!

We are definitely book and tchatchke people, so it was no problem finding things to fill the new shelves. It's a work in progress but we've gotten a good jump on things. If you look closely you should see the full PeeWee's Playhouse video series, a School House Rocks video, a shelf dedicated to travel guides, a trinket box with a gargoyle on top and a Smurf mug filled with pens and pencils.

There's no prize if you find them. I know some bloggers offer prizes for people who correctly answer trivia questions and other such nonsense. This isn't one of those blogs. Should you spot the hidden items in the photo, the reward you receive will simply be instrinsic. If on the other hand you're in the Atlanta area and you'd like to be able to say you own something once owned by Kevin of cocktailswithkevin.com, $50 and a pickup truck that can haul it away gets you the corner piece entertainment center or $25 gets you the Jerker with an additional shelf.

Where else can you get a Jerker for that incredibly low price?

You can't.

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Dove foundation seeks to eradicate quality soft-core porn

Last night I received a call from someone who identified herself as a representative from the Dove Foundation. Let me just say that this woman irritated me six ways til Sunday. For starters she opened up the conversation with "May I please speak to the lady of the house?"

Is it just me, or is the term lady of the house now somewhat patronizing and dated if not just plain sexist? The fact that she asked for the lady of the house is presumptuous for a couple of reasons. 1) She doesn't really know whether or not there is a female living in my home, and 2) Even if she did know I was married, how does she know my wife is a lady?

I still use the word "lady" in a limited number of circumstances. Colloquially I'll use the term with people I know to point out a woman who I find disagreeable for one reason or another. I might say the lady with the bad attitude or that blue-haired lady. In addition I might use the term where I deem it appropriate in a job title like lunchroom lady or spritzer lady. A girl can act like a little lady, and as far as more regal titles go, I won't begrudge you yours if you fancy yourself Lady Chatterly or Lady Godiva or even Lady Elaine Fairchild. Was she a lesbian puppet by the way? I'm just asking.

Aside from those examples however, lady is a term best left said in 1950s gangster movies. But this isn't a rant on proper use of the term lady, so I'm just going to move on. Move with me, won't you?

Back to my phone call . . .

When I told the woman from the Dove Foundation that the lady of the house was not available (a small lie) she quickly said that there was no message and that they'd try and call back later. This too is rude in my opinion because it presumes that I would have no interest in the same matters my wife would regarding whatever these people want to discuss. If it's feminine hygiene products I can understand that, but when I then told the woman there was no lady of the house, she proceeded with her spiel and it had nothing to do with feeling more confident.

She wasn't selling anything. Her call would take less than 45 seconds, and oh by the way a recent survey had shown that many Americans feel movie and television ratings have become more lenient while television programming has begun to include more and more gratuitous sex, violence and foul language; and barring closer monitoring of children's tv viewing would I agree that the solution was to tighten restrictions on tv and movie rating systems.

What a loaded and yet evasive question!

It's loaded because the actual wording and tone used by the caller suggested that the underlying question was Don't you love your children enough to want what's best for them? The evasiveness comes because the true and simplest answer to the question is embedded in the question itself with the directive to disregard that as a potential solution.

MONITORING WHAT YOUR CHILDREN WATCH ON TV IS THE SIMPLEST AND BEST SOLUTION FOR KEEPING YOUR CHILDREN FROM WHAT YOU REGARD TO BE TELE-FILTH.

Furthermore, complaining about the quality of tv programming is like complaining about the flavor of garbage. If you don't like it, why would you consume it? I'm not big on television myself, not because I find it overly raunchy or risque (I'm all for gratuitous sex) but because I find most of the programming out there to be simplistic and contrived. Cooking shows are bland. Sitcoms aren't funny and serial type shows just look like the same story rehashed over and over week after week. I mean really folks, how many sexual fetishist undergrounds can Grisham and Sara stumble into before audiences realize these are the same hackneyed stories they've seen before? Drugstore paperbacks are less formulaic.

So anyway, this volunteer from the Dove Foundation -- I think from now on I'll call her the Dove lady -- barely let me get the word no out of my mouth before she abruptly spoke over me saying at lightning speed, "Okay, thank you. Goodbye." How rude! I was going to tell her why I felt the way I did. You'd think if she were truly interested in my opinion she would have heard me out.

Oh no.

I was nothing more than a check mark on her tally sheet, and frankly, it wouldn't surprise me if she only tallies the answers she likes anyway.

I looked up the Dove Foundation on the innerweb to find out what exactly they're all about. You probably guessed already that they're a right-wing fundamentalist group that spends its time finding what they don't like about what's on tv and then trying to reach into your living room and decide what you should and shouldn't watch. If it were up to them television programming would consist of nothing more than animated vegetables telling us we need to accept Pat Robertson as our Lord and Savior.

Ditto for movies. While a blurb on their About Us page mentions they strive not to condemn filmmakers whose movies don't meet their standards but rather promote those who do, there is a section of their site dedicated strictly to reviews of movies currently running. They weren't great fans of Talladega Nights and you can just imagine what they said about Clerks 2. The reviewer even noted that in the newest Kevin Smith flick the f-word was used 116 times. Why do I think she somehow got off on counting these vulgarities? Dove-savvy movie goers will be glad to know however that there are no occult themes in the film.

I won't bombard you with a lecture on freedom of expression and how freedoms come with responsibilties of the self and not finger pointing at others. You probably already have your own views on censorship and hopefully you're secure enough in your beliefs that your opinion can't be swayed by some faceless yahoo and his blog. Just do me this one favor:

If someone from the Dove Foundation calls you up and speaks with you because you're the lady of the house, don't be a lady. Give her the what-for.

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Welcome to my stuff part deux

To those who have tuned in for another exciting episode of Welcome to My Stuff™ I'm glad you thought enough of the first installation to return. To those who checked out the first one, thought it sucked and inadvertently came back not realizing this is the day where I write about my stuff, I'm sorry. I'm not promising this will be any better than last week. To those who check my blog on a regular basis and would have double clicked me regardless of what I was raving about, I'm glad you're here too. If this is your first time on cocktailswithkevin.com, this is the day when I write about my stuff, such that it is. Enjoy.

Today's stuff sample comes from the bookshelves in our bedroom. These are bookshelves I built myself I might add and fitted them into an existing inlay in our bedroom wall. Hold off on singing my praises though because I'm certainly no Bob Vill. Standing eight feet tall and five feet wide these bookshelves are basically a crude attempt at carpentry by yours truly, the first and only attempt at woodworking I've really ever made. The center beam is made up of three 2X4's and fasteners secure seven rows of equally spaced shelves. Well, for the most part they're evenly spaced. One of the fasteners securing the upper-right shelf broke so the top shelf now just rests on the books of the shelf beneath it.

I know. It's bootleg.

While the bookshelves were my crude attempt at carpentry, the stuffed animal on the right is my crude attempt at stitchery. His name in case you were wondering is Little Piggy, and he was modeled after a character of the same name in a book entitled Benny's Had Enough by Barbro Lindgren, Olof Landstrom, and Elisabeth Kallick Dyssegaard. Well, actually the tri-named Elisabeth was simply the translator who transcribed the book into English from it's original Swedish. The first two people are the real authors.

My wife and I loved the story and so as a Christmas gift I decided to try my hand at fastening a homemade Little Piggy out of some cloth and cotton batting. I'm clueless as to how to work a sewing machine, but Wal-Mart sold a handheld job for under $20, so I figured out how to use that and I managed to cut out my pieces and stitch the thing together in an afternoon. Normally I don't think people are really big on receiving homemade gifts, but my wife was teary-eyed when she pulled it out of her stocking. Gotta love those Swedes for coming up with such a great story and helping me come up with a unique gift idea.

The little demon spawn in the picture next to Little Piggy is me some 30 years ago. Ten years after that picture was taken I would begin trying numerous times to duplicate that toddler blonde hair color but each time would be to no avail. I've also never since looked so good in a Winnie the Pooh turtleneck.

Other photos on the shelf include my wife and I on one of our European sojourns and my cat Ambrose. The cat by the way was also named after a character in a children's book, Solomon the Rusty Nail, by William Steig. If you've got kids and you've never read them a William Steig book, you owe it to your kids to do so. The photo that's blocked out by the camera flash's reflection is of my family blowing bubbles at my sister and her then-new husband shortly after their wedding ceremony. Were you better able to see the photo, you'd see one of my last attempts at trying to capture that aforementioned toddler blonde hair color. A bad attempt, I might add.

I gotta warn you that I'm already having difficulty trying to figure out what stuff merits mention in future editions of Welcome to My Stuff™. I wouldn't have thought this would be so challenging. Next week don't be surprised if you see images of my sock drawer. Also note that I had planned to make this a regular Monday thing.

Told you I wasn't good at long-term commitment with this sort of thing.

It's not you. It's me.

No, really.

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Worthless memos in the workplace

A coworker just passed me a memo. The company I work for, especially my department, loves to send memos. All the fellow drones and I could wallpaper our cubes three times over with the memos we get and still have some left over to line our cats' litter boxes with at home. This is a Fortune 500 company with computer terminals on every desk and a high speed internet connection that's ideal for blogging and yet they still pass out the latest nebulous information on 8 1/2 X 11" sheets of paper.

Not only do most of the memos have absolutely nothing to do with my position or anyyone else in my department's position, they're just some of the driest and most mind-numbingly boring write-ups you could possibly read. As a result we don't really read them so much as we fake-read them and either toss them over to the next cube or, in my case, toss it into the trash.

So what sort of pressing news from the higherups has landed in my cube, you may ask? The first paragraph looks a little something like this:

Subject: Revised Vulnerability Assessment Procedures

XYZ's Vulnerability Assessment Procedures have been revised. These procedures detail XYZ's process for assessing network-based infrastructure for security vulnerabilities. Assessments performed include the following: Web vulnerabilities, external and internal network vulnerabilities, telephony vulnerabilities and third-party vulnerabilties. This document in its entirety can be found on the coporate intranet site at www.xyz.com/Pointless Policies & Forms/Misinformation Security.

There, aren't you glad I shared?

If you walked by my work station and saw this memo sitting atop my desk you might think my work duties include hiding weapons of mass destruction or at the very least warding off corporate espionage. But no, I am a mere worker bee who, aside from helping John Q. Public over the phone, spends most of his time reading blogs or just wandering the cube farm asking Have you seen my stapler?

This was the third memo I received today, and one more found its way into my in-box just in the time it's taken me to type this out. Meanwhile another memo is going around asking people to donate either money or school supplies for needy children. Am I the only one who sees the hypocrisy in all this? Maybe if the corporate bigwigs would put the kibash on all this paper squandering there'd be a few extra shekels to go into the little crayonless kids coffers. I swear, this company gives a new meaning to the words wastepaper basket.

You know, that reminds me. I need to take all my old scattered paperwork and dump it in the bin to be shredded. Yes, we actually pay a document disposal company who comes around, collects the top secret trash from the specially appropriated locked bins and shreds it on site. The bins are located right next to the large boxes labeled STYROFOAM PELLETS, DISPOSABLE DIAPERS AND OTHER NON-BIODEGRADABLES. Those I think they just throw into the nearest estuary.

Oh well, at least I'm up to date on the web and telephony security vulnerabilities.

Origami, anyone?

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Poltergeist activity in my home?

This morning I got up to retrieve my 12-week-old daughter from her crib and noticed that she was laying perpendicular to how her mother and I had put her to bed. Each night after diapering, feeding and reading we strap her in her Cradle Me Blanket by Baby Boo. It's basically a receiving blanket with some flaps that fold over her tummy and keep her feeling snug thanks to the power of Velcro technology. I usually leave her little arms free to move around, but my wife will strap her arms down to her sides claiming she likes that best. There's a foamy plastic insert inside it that adds stability and makes it easier to pick her up and pass her around. My sister-in-law calls the device a straight jacket.

I wouldn't say it's as confining as a straight jacket (I don't know from experience; I'm just guessing) but it would take some effort on the part of an infant to wriggle out of it. Yet that is exactly what my infant daughter did during the night. The weird thing was she didn't seem to disturb the boo one bit. It was positioned in the same spot with the flaps still secure. Even odder was that the bottom half of the blanket was folded up under the rest of the thing. How she managed this I have no clue.

Strangely enough I was also awakened in the night by my wife's Palm Pilot beeping. It wasn't the alarm sound it was making. It was the sound that alerts the user to the fact someone is trying to beam something to the unit, something that's only doable if the sender is within a few feet away. The sound would chime. Then three or four minutes would pass, and it would do it again. The interval between beeps was long enough that I'd think maybe I'd heard it for the last time as a fluke and not get up, yet they were close enough together that I couldn't get back to sleep. I finally went and got it and grumpily shoved it under our bed.

Did I mention the cat was acting strangely -- well, more strangely than usual.

What's with this weirdness?

Could it be a ghost?

I know fascination with the supernatural has somewhat fallen out of fashion. A favorite movie of mine is Beetlejuice and at one point in the movie Otho, the plus-sized nelly interior decorator, says, "I was once one of New York's leading paranormal researchers . . . until the bottom dropped out in '72." Sure ghosts are passé, but is it at all coincidental that now that we've got a baby in the house AND we strap her into something manufactured by Baby BOO, we get some odd poltergeist activity going on?

I know some people get freaked out over the clown doll in that movie, and yes, he ranks up there in clown creepiness with the clown from It and Pogo a.k.a. John Wayne Gacy. But what I found even creepier was the look on actor Craig T. Nelson's face when he's screaming to the real estate developer, "YOU ONLY MOVED THE HEADSTONES!!!!" And then there's those skeletons popping up out of the muddy hole where the pool's gonna go. Yuck. Though really nothing in that movie beats the creepiness of the closing theme music. Just thinking about it gives me the shivers.

Carol Anne's ghost friend wasn't all that scary if you ask me. So he stacked some chairs and lured her into the television set. Big deal. They got her back. Now I'll tell you who had an effed up spook for a playmate was that girl from Amityville Horror. Amy, I think was her character's name, and her demon pig-eyed pal she called Jody. That was an otherworldly friend I wouldn't mess with.

You figure it was Jody who killed that priest in the beginning and slammed the window sill down on the brother's fingers. The creepiest part though was when the mom walks in and finds Amy sitting across from a seemingly vacant rocking chair that's actually rocking. When the mom asks who the little girl was talking to, she says it's her new friend Jody. Then with this spine-chilling smile on her face the little girl says, "She's nice." Yeah, sure, nice like the lowest circle of Hell from whence she came.

My wife and I haven't really had the chance yet to teach our daughter about stranger danger, so I can only hope that if she does choose to have a spectral friend, she chooses wisely. Somebody who could walk through walls would be a neat friend to have. That stacking chairs thing like in the Poltergeist movie would be cool too I guess, but if a ghost is going to rearrange my furniture I'd prefer he have a little more knowledge of Feng Shui. That business of saying things like get out in that demonic whispery voice would not be tolerated. Unless maybe he could do it on cue, like when campaigners and proselytizers come to the door.

Then it would be okay.

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Name a place where you're often kept awake by someone's incessant talking?

Beginning this morning at 6:30 AM people started landing on cocktailswithkevin.com after googling -- get this -- Name a place where you're often kept awake by someone's incessant talking. I mean people from all over the United States, everywhere from Houston Texas to Sacramento California, to Birmingham Alabama to Joliet Illinois. It wasn't just a slew of people all at once either. They came in scattered numbers throughout the day into the evening. How freaking bizarre is that?

I'm guessing there was some sort of trivia question either on the radio or some TV show. Or is it featured in a commercial? What gives?

I can't help but picture Richard Dawson leaning in close to some suburban bimbo with home-highlighted hair¹ and saying to her almost under his breath, "Now if you get this one right, your family goes on to the bonus round; but if not, the Schlebotniks take the lead. Now . . . name a place where you're often kept awake by someone's incessant talking?"

If she's like half the dimwits they ever had as contestants on that show, she'd wrinkle up her nose in cluelessness and say something like, "Ummm . . . a Port-A-John?"

SURVEY SAYS !!!???!!!??!

And then, as though what happens next should be any surprise to anyone with half the intelligence of a tire iron, three large X's would appear on the screen and that familiar game show buzzer would bark out confirming this yokel's unforgivable ignorance for both the studio and home audiences. She would leave the podium and return to her family's side where they would applaud her dumbness and tell her it was a good try. Dumbasses.

Anyway, I feel bad for these internet pilgrims who click on my site thinking I have the answer they've been seeking. People, there are many answers to life's most probing questions that can be found in the pages of cocktailswithkevin.com, so much so that you might consider looking deep into your heart and making a tax-deductible donation.

Just kidding.

It wouldn't really be tax deductible.

Anyway, the answer to this most recently asked probing question could not be found here. Until now.

I did finally in my searching locate a site that listed several suggestions for this sixty-four thousand dollar question. Rather than list the site (because it's far inferior to mine) I'll just hit the highlighted answers. Some people said things like English class, a hospital or at church. I think the most popular answer and one that someone further noted was an answer to a radio trivia question (albeit in Australia and not the U.S.) was an airplane.

That makes sense. Even if the woman one row back isn't talking directly to you when she's asking a row-mate how long he was in Papua New Guinea, if he drank the water, or whether he's accepted Kevin as his lord and savior, you can't avoid hearing the conversation. And if it's the redeye flight you're on, you're sure to be kept from those few desperately sought-after moments of semi-sleep by this nervous Nelly first-time flyer's incessant talking.

So, for those kids in the back of the room who weren't paying attention, the answer's airplane.

Now for the next question: Who would actually drive the Chevy to the levy if they already knew that the levy was dry?

Show your work.

1. I wish I could take credit for this "home-highlighted hair" reference, but I actually stole it from faggotyassfaggot.com. Those funny gays!

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