luxopolis

After being resoundingly chastised by legions (2) of fans, I'm back to tell my tales of adventure, peril, and hardship in the great outdoors. Jeff "Burger Chef and" Nelson and I went camping in the largely uncharted Babler State Park. Stopped at WalMart to aquire a tent ($25, 7x9, folds up to the size of a Tote umbrella, and weighs less than my mug of soda (as opposed to the family tent of my youth: maybe 7x7, folds up to the size of a casket, and weighs enough to bend light waves)).

In an effort to make Babler more "wildernessy" they've eschewed the traditional signs-with-actual-english-words-on-them-that-tell-you-where-things-are-in-the-park in favor of graphic-picture-icon-symbols that cleverly convey your stupidity at not being able to divine that the picture of the man with three arms who appears to be eating a large triangle as concentric wavy lines emanate from his anus means "this way to the showers".

We spent some time hunting (sticks, if you must know), then purchased some bundles of firewood wrapped in cellophane with convenient carrying handles from the campground host who "camped" in an RV that's slightly smaller than my house and had a satellite dish on a tripod hooked up to it. My machete (WalMart, $6) made short work of the cellophane and soon, thanks to a miniature starter log (WalMart, ¢.33), we had a magnificent fire.

Dinner consisted of survival rations: a giant pot of what was perhaps the best soup I've ever tasted with the possible exception of the last time Jeff made soup. Minestrone soup with salami, zucchini, beans, macaroni, God only knows what else. Homemade wheat bread with butter toasted on the fire. Would we survive the night? Only time would tell.

Awoke to perfect weather. No dew. Maybe 55 degrees. A slight breeze rustling the dry leaves. More fire.

Then, breakfast: thick sliced potatoes grilled with butter, thick-sliced pepper bacon, scrambled eggs with mushrooms, diced artichoke bottoms, and fresh grated parmesan cheese. All cooked on the fire.

We broke camp and went our separate ways. We had survived our battle with nature. Now, would we be able to take the weight off?

...for every time I said to myself "You know, someday they're going to invent life-saving underwear".

"I don't write about sports much for much the same reason my dog doesn't play the piano. It's not that I am completely ill-equipped or untrainable in this regard, but even my best effort would only impress those with very low expectations." Jonah Goldberg

...for every time I said to myself "You know, one day monkeys will be moving robots with their thoughts."

I've recently acquired a knotted coarse wire (.020) angle grinder cup brush to attach to my drill. I'm hoping it will allow me to get some old paint off the front porch. If I manage to get it out of the package I'll let you know how it works.

...of, say, socks. A long aisle in a department store that stretches nearly a block. Filled with socks. I've already determined that I am in the "mens" sock aisle so I can safely choose a pair that won't cause gender confusion. I took a good long look once and for the life of me I couldn't tell a difference between the men's and the women's but it's best not to tamper with these things. So now I begin the process of deciding which socks I shall buy. Sports socks are down there, dress socks are down here, so I can eliminate half the aisle just like that. 100% cotton versus a polyethylvinylpropolene (sp?) blend? Cotton please. Odor control? Let's try out-of-control odor this time. Stripes at the top? What do I look like, a pansy?

And so it goes, subset within subset, chipping away at the inventory as I narrow down my choices by brand, size, price, etc. until I discover where they've put the socks that are just right for me: right here in the only friggin' empty area in the whole friggin' aisle. Now replace socks with jeans, cat litter, cereal, diced tomatoes, toner cartridges, whatever, and that's what it's like for me every. single. time.

"Oh, we don't have those."

"I can see that. But you do sell them?"

"Oh yes!"

"They're just not in the store?"

"Exactly!"

"When should I check back?"

Federally mandated retailer response: "We get a truck every night." They always say it like it's a mystery. They've never seen one. They have no idea what may be on it. They're pretty sure they're driven by elves. Or maybe ninjas. They no longer have a voice in determining inventory. That's taken care of by HAL at the corporate headquarters in Topekanome. It's best not to tamper with these things.

"Australian brothels are stocking up on whips and karaoke machines in anticipation of a boom in business generated by this month's Rugby World Cup, a sex industry spokesman revealed." from Yahoo News

but don't read this one at work.

"A study in Wisconsin showed that the kind of male face a woman finds attractive can differ depending on where she is in her menstrual cycle. For instance, if she is ovulating, she is attracted to a man with rugged masculine features. And if she is menstruating, she is more prone to be attracted to a man with scissors shoved in his temple and a bat jammed up his rear while he is on fire. Further studies are expected."

and the ultimate battle

EIB

(actually you can just remain seated) but go view the new LOTR Return of the King trailer posthaste. (requires Quicktime)

Bill Whittle has a new essay up. As always, he needs an editor. As always, he's about 96% spot on. As always, it's a must-read. But bring a sack lunch. As always, it's looooong.

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