I’m digging through an old online journal which I no longer maintain. I’m extracting the marrow from the bones.

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10 August 2004

This just in from USA Today:

“Just 1.48 people died in traffic accidents for every 100 million miles traveled in 2003, according to the government’s latest data.”

So, do not, I repeat, DO NOT, drive 100 million miles, or you will die 1.48 times, and that’s WAY more than you’re allowed to die.

Honestly, I have NO idea what these stats mean.

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22 August 2004

Every so often, I read reviews instead of write them. Ponder what I’ve missed, wondering what I should buy.

So, I’m working on a review of the Ms. Pac-Man controller from Jakks and TV Games, and it’s awesome, and I can’t get enough of it…. but I wanted to see what people had to say about one of the games on the controller, ‘Pole Position’. THIS ONE was noteable. Honestly, for whatever OCD reason, I’m on a search to find the name of the person who provided the sexy female voice for the game. Something about hearing a girl voice in a simplistic, 8-bit game is a turn on. But the review… see, it’s important to note that if you hit an obstacle, your car would explode and be ‘reseted’. This doesn’t present a problem within the game, though, since that word doesn’t exist.

It’s also important to note that the game has an excellent replay value, because you can play it until you are sick of it, at which point, presumably, it loses its replay value. Whenever that might be. A ‘pro’ of the game is that it ‘spends time’, while a ‘con’ is that it ‘uses up time’.

This is why I decided to start writing reviews. Because as long as anyone can post anything on the internet, I might as well at least use real words and make sentences that string together without immediately contradicting themselves. So, I write the reviews.

Reviews that in some way always involve my genitals.

Speaking of ‘pole position’….

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25 August 2004

So, I finally got to see Napoleon Dynamite, which I’ve been wanting to see for months. Somehow, my tiny town decided to run the film at the local mall.

I was kept from seeing the movie yesterday by a niece who had a complete freakout at the thought that I might be out of the house for something other than work, enjoying something for myself. When I got on line to buy a ticket to the 11:15 showing, she shrieked and stormed across the mall, not looking back, all tiny 4 years of her, arms crossed, one flip-flop on, the other left near the Fruit Smoothie stand. I had to chase her down and wrestle her, beneath the canopy of plastic palm trees, into some kind of coherence again. Needless to say that by the time I’d gotten a verbal explanation of her distress out of her, I felt far too bad about the possibility of abandoning her to go.

I snuck out of the house the following day, today, despite her insistances that she was going with me and waiting outside the theatre for two hours until the movie was over.

Maybe this isn’t an issue to anyone else, but the highly mirrored glass that protect ticket counters plays nasty tricks on my eyes. I have trouble seeing out of my left eye, sometimes. It’s a lazy eye when I allow it to be, and I always have to squint one eye closed in order to filter out the information overload that comes with walking around large or unfamiliar places. My brain just kinda chokes on everything and I have trouble processing it. Such is the case with the foot-thick mirrors that protect our ticket vendors like bluegreen, striped Popes, and the tiny speaker that one must crouch to speak through. I always strain to communicate and see the figure on the other side of the glass, mostly seeing my own face and lots of shiny silhouettes.

Well, I walked up to the ticket counter window and saw a lot of nothing inside, so I sidled over to the snack bar and asked, kindly, “Who do I speak to to get a ticket?”

I was greeted by a pear shaped man. Not only in body, but in head, with tiny pear-seed shaped eyes. Once I asked him this, well, I swear they flashed an unholy fire. He opened the ticket window door from his popcorn station and shook a quivering finger at the person who was now, quite obviously, sitting right at one half of the dual window. “HE’S SITTING RIGHT HERE!”, the Pear Man barked and stomped back to arranging JuJuBes into geometric perfection.

I apologized to the person at the window, some teenager, explaining that I just couldn’t see him through the reflective glass, and asked for my ticket. He didn’t seem to understand my visual plight. I was just another complete moron.

Once I got my ticket, I went pack to His Lord High Pearishness and apologized to him as well, saying that I just couldn’t see the gentleman. He grunted, but didn’t look up from fiddling with something just out of eyesight below the counter. I assume that he was impregnating the Reese’s Pieces or enjoying the warm butter machine.

I would have felt like a moron, which I undeniably was, if the Pear Man wasn’t doubly so. My slight visual error was akin to me personally assaulting him, somehow. How could I feel bad about myself when there was someone, right there, with a disposition so much more horrible than my own?

At least it wasn’t a cute girl that I was blundering in front of.

The movie played the digital TV promo reel, and at the end of it, looped the ‘your movie will start shortly’ screen until it ran out of loops and froze, since no one was around to switch the projector to the film promos. I was the only person in the whole theater, so, the resources that they were putting into this showing far outweighed the value of my 6.50 ticket. They didn’t care. If it weren’t for me, the projector operator would have had a 2-hour break. I could feel his spite flickering at me from between frames.

Because I was the only person in the theater, the maintenance guy found it perfectly okay to enter and exit the closet and jingle his keys at whatever intervals the key-jingling muse struck him.

At the end of it all, the movie was excellent. A Revenge of the Nerds without the cliches and overacting. All of the acting and dialogue was appropriately completely stiff. A subtle comedy dependent upon awkwardness. But damn… whoever was controlling the boom mic could have TRIED to keep it out of the picture, or they could have TRIED to edit it out later. No, the green orb dips into the screen on more than one occasion…

But it was a really, really great movie.

I shall have my revenge on Pear Man.

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26 August 2004

Because of the particular segment of the universe that I bring into the house, that involving dead bugs, comics, toys, games and art, my niece has picked up on a lot of this. She’s four years old, and insists upon repeated viewings of the Batman movies, most especially the one involving Poison Ivy.

Give her a break – she’s only four. She’s immune to the venom of Schumacher. In fact, much like his foul, couch-cushions-strapped-loosely-to-a-fat-g

uy Bane, it fuels her. Because she’s four.

She can name about 75% of all of the superheroes that exist in the universe, and she sure as hell knows everyone on every single trading card and HeroClix piece that I’ve given to her, and these number in the hundreds.

So, because of her preoccupation with superheroes (as a direct result of mine and the tall displays of toys that tower throughout the room), she does this THING in which she runs through the kitchen, in one door and out the other, making a circuit through the living room and dining room, past the stairs and ’round again, as Jesse Quick. As she goes through the kitchen, she yells, “I am Jesse Quick, and I [insert amazing nonsequitur here]!”

“I am Jesse Quick, and I have raspberry eyes!”

“I am Jesse Quick, and I fight the moon bugs!”

“I am Jesse Quick, and I wear underpants on my head!”

This evening, immediately after I had fished out a delicious sun-dried tomato out of the oily jar and was beginning to nibble on it, Raven began her ritual. A light flickered in her eyes as she raised her fist and began to run.

“I am Jesse Quick!”

…followed by a swift punch to my groin.

Raven didn’t miss a beat and kept on running, trampling a wide, plastic tray of cheapo Hot Wheels like some cracked-out Godzilla. I usually ignore and quickly divert the inevitable and inadvertent attacks on my groin. She’s at the height where the groin is the ideal, visible target. She doesn’t know the ramifications of the groin, but she knows that it’s there, a-ready for a smashin’.

I collapsed, red-faced onto a chair, after a choked-out ‘GUH!’ My mother collapsed for an entirely different reason, red-faced, choking, her face in her hands.

“I am Jesse Quick, and I just farted!”

Raven dashed through the kitchen. I recovered… but I have to question where I’d be if I never brought Jesse Quick into the house. A few sperm heavier, I venture.