I Think I've Just Been Offered a Job as a Drug Mule

Just got this unsolicited e-mail this morning, from an address that registered as both a man's name (Warren C.) and a female's (Rhoda V.):

Hello.
Our corporation is pleased to offer you a position.
Postal Agent will receive correspondence, sort it out and send the list of incoming correspondence to our office.
Minimum qualifications of employees consist of :
- Location: USA, all states- Ability to lift packages weighing up to 15 lbs.
Responsibilities:
- Check your e-mail box regularly for new tasks- Fulfill tasks given by the organization- Prepare reports for the organization
If you are interested, please reply to: [E-MAIL ADDRESS REDACTED]
Have a happy day.

Moving 15-pound packages? Location USA? Fulfilling tasks for the organization? Checking my e-mail for new tasks? Filing reports? That sounds exactly like what I want to do... if it sounded like anything at all.

Seriously, what the hell?

Rob

Who Is He?

He's not Joe Don Baker...

He's not Anthony Michael Hall...

He's not Phillip Seymour Hoffman...

He's not Lou Diamond Phillips...

He's Phillip Baker Hall!

Phillip Baker Hall!

PHILLIP BAKER HALL!!!

Rob

Ninja Pine

The other night, we took down our Christmas tree. It was a good tree, possibly my favorite of the ones we’ve put up since we moved in to our house seven years ago. A full body, and branches that could hold a lot of weight—perfect for some of our heavier ornaments, which meant they didn’t all get clustered at the one level of branches that were up to the task.

Anyway, the tree spent a night on the curb, and it has since been taken away. But before that happened, we needed to spend some time taking all the lights and ornaments down.

This isn’t as simple as it sounds. Because there’s one ornament—a little evergreen tree—that knows how to hide. That special place you put it when you’re trimming the tree, that you’re sure you’ll remember once January rolls around? Forget it; it’s gone. It swings from branch to branch like a little pine Tarzan, finding the perfect spot to hide. It’s the Moby Dick of Christmas tree ornaments, something you hunt for until it drives you mad. Hopping mad, if you’ve got a peg leg.

In a way, it’s the last tradition of Christmas season… a little game of hide and seek we play with the tree. Eventually, we find it, tucked under a branch, using a nearby jingle bell as a distraction. By that point, nearly all the ornaments are off, and the tree is free to go. But on its way out the door, the big tree leaves a thick layer of needles on the floor… just in case the little tree ornament wants to hide again.

Needless to say, we sweep those bad boys up right quick.

Rob

Happy New Year!

Don't start counting yet... there's 16020 seconds left to go in 2011, or thereabouts. But we here at Laughing at the Pieces (well, me here at Laughing at the Pieces) wishes you a 2012 with all the promise that a smoking baby in a top hat implies.

See you... in the future!

Rob

The Soap Opera I've Always Wanted

Cartoon Network's Adult Swim is currently airing the soap opera I've always dreamed of: The Heart, She Holler. The premise is fairly conventional: a family squabbles over the control of their dead father's estate... which is left to a son none of them knew he had until his death.

Of course, the son (Patton Oswalt) has been hidden in a windowless room for decades, never seeing light or hearing language. And his sisters are a scheming, hilariously (and hideously) oversexed moron (Kristen Schaal) and a crazed telekinetic who listens to the voices in her head (Heather Lawless). And the entire holler (The Heartshe Holler, of course) is populated with the finest assortment of mouthbreathers and knuckledraggers to ever escape from a Jeff Foxworthy routine.

There's freaks, and mayhem, and more Just Plain Wrong than you could bury in a steel drum in the backyard.  The entire miniseries airs its six 15-minute episodes all this week, and then repeats them next week. (Or, you can catch up on the Adult Swim website.) I hope you enjoy it as much as I do... because otherwise, you'll never forgive me for asking you to watch.

Here's a taste. A sick, crude, ridiculously gory taste.

I can guarantee you never saw that on Days of Our Lives.

Rob

I Write These Down So I Can Read Them Years Later and Blow My Mind

A brief description of a dream that I had the other night. I was down in Delaware, for a combination book fair and theater festival. Friends of mine from my college theater group were there -- Sharon, Bill, Karen, and Sharon's husband, Drew -- and we were all staying in various dorms. I was in a room with a cot squeezed between two twin beds, but I don't know who my roommates were.

Anyway, because this was Delaware, everyone spoke French. And I kept on having to go to the Delaware embassy to get my passport, because I had forgotten it, and just had an old, photocopied ID. I wouldn't be able to get back into New Jersey with that! So every day, I would float down to the embassy and ask if my passport had arrived.

That's right: because I didn't have my passport, I could fly. My understanding is, once I got my passport, I'd have to walk around like everyone else. But as it was, I was learning to fly, more of a floaty bobbing in air than anything directed, often overshooting the balcony I was trying to land on and setting down on the one above or below. And then having to use the stairs.

So I get back from my trip to the embassy, and float into my room, and everyone is there, having beers because it's 11am and I just missed the last performance of their play. So we had a little cast party in my borrowed dorm.

I don't have the slightest idea what any of this means, particularly since we were speaking French. When in Delaware, after all...

Rob

Bet You Can't Digest 'Em All!

Artist Sarah Becan is serving up some good eating at Know Your Pokécuts of Meat.

Rob

Lady Sabre: Ineffin' Good.

I don't read a lot of webcomics. Which is odd, because if I ever manage to break into comics myself, it'll most likely be by writing one on the web, so I owe it to myself to become more familiar with the form and format. I've read a few off and on -- The Foglios' Girl Genius, Rich Burlew's Order of the Stick -- but haven't looked at either for a while.

But I've just read the first two chapters of Greg Rucka & Rich Burchett's Lady Sabre and the Pirates of the Ineffable Aether, and it's firing on all cylinders for me. I like the creators, and was looking forward to it when it was announced, but I wanted to let it get some story underway before I jumped on. Well, things are moving. The first two chapters are complete, and now... well, I don't think the two-pages-a-week pace will be fast enough for me. (Here's a link to the archive, which will start you out at the first page of Chapter 1.)

It's great stuff... somehow mixing steampunk sky pirates and the Old West. I'm in.

And that reminds me: I'm WAY behind on Mike Norton's BattlePug.

Rob

Nickel-Plated Retirement Plan

So the Washington Post reported today that 40 House Republicans signed a letter telling the Supercomittee that it might be okay to raise taxes just a teensy bit. Which is interesting news, in that it might signal the first cracks in Grover Norquist's anti-tax stranglehold on the GOP. But what I found most entertaining was this quote, from Republican congressman Steven C. LaTourette, who claimed that it was fear of Norquistian repercussions that prevented a considerable number of other House Republicans from signing up, too:


Rep. Steven C. LaTourette (R-Ohio) said if he had a nickel for every one of the Republicans who said they supported the letter’s goal but feared how Norquist would react, “I’d be rich and retired, and we’d have 200 signatures on the letter.”

See, this is why we can't let Republicans control the economy. 200 signatures minus the 40 already there is 160. In nickles, that's 8 bucks. Which is enough for a rich, happy retirement, apparently. Or coffee and a muffin.


Rob

Know your Skookum from your Yayaya-ash

For your amazement and edification, a list of the many different Native American names for Sasquatch.

There will be a quiz.

Rob

Signal From Space

I noticed that Forbidden Planet was on TCM today, and remembered that it was Steve Friedman's favorite movie. I used to listen to Friedman's Mr. Movie radio show on 1210AM late at nights, driving home after a weekend with Kathy. The long gaps for commercials would drive me crazy, but in the days before podcasts, it was a radio talk show I found interesting and engaging, and it kept me awake and on the road when I needed it. Steve was an old-time movie fan, and I'd be lying if I said I always agreed with his opinions, particularly about newer films. But he kept me listening, and kept me interested, and I always learned something about some older movie or star that I hadn't known before.

So when I saw the listing for Forbidden Planet, I looked him up, to see if he was still doing his late-night program. Sadly, he passed away in 2009, shortly after recording a show. Though I'm out of broadcast range, Philadelphia radio (not to mention the many stations he was syndicated on) is a little less colorful without him, I'm sure.

Anyway, the news, old though it was, and his love for the film, finally inspired me to watch Forbidden Planet today. And it's a fine movie, full of mystery, adventure, and grand, bold ideas. (Plus, it has an awesome robot in Robbie and a gorgeous actress in Anne Francis, both of whom I'm sure Steve appreciated.) I'm glad I finally saw it; I can't believe it took me so long.

Thanks, Steve.

Rob

Herman Cain: The Truth Is, Out There

In his latest (and to my eyes, hilarious) ad, Herman Cain seems to be targeting the X-Files audience.

Check it out. Make sure you go all the way to the end.

Seriously, how often do we see cigarettes on TV these days? Sinister cigarette-smoking man hearts Herman Cain while leading Scully and Mulder on a wild goose chase for evidence of aliens and government involvement in otherworldly whatnot.  A bold choice, which by the end, even Cain finds funny. He just stares and stares at the camera, daring you to call his bluff, until he cracks a smile.

The best part is, whenever Mark Block (cigarette-smoking man, but not this one) makes an assertion about Herman Cain, he shakes his head "no." Even he doesn't believe it, it seems, but hey, he needs the paycheck. Have you seen what a carton of Luckies goes for these days?

Rob

Water Weasel

This blog isn't going to turn into all ferrets, all the time, but I wanted to get this down. I had a dream about Gus last night. He was swimming, in a big pool where people were gathering to see some sort of music festival. I swam over to Kathy and asked where he was, and she pointed at a white streak under the water, some distance away. "There he is," she said. "He's fine."

I swam over, and he was playing under the water, doing flips and curling around like a miniature otter. He looked so much bigger under the water. And having the time of his life.

Rob

Mister Gus

Our good buddy—Gus, Mister Gus, Guster, the Bumble, Sweet Kisses—is gone.

This little white ferret lived a good life with us, entering our house with his three pals, Blink, the Dude, and She-Devil, eventually outlasting them all. For the last year or so of his life, he was a solo ferret, and a very good one. Being a ferret was what he loved, and he did it with pride.

Of course, he was a little OCD. That comes from being a ferret, I think. (I was going to say "anal," but that just brought memories of this.) There were a number of items that he obsessed about. He had a toy shaped like a jack that he tried to pull into a hanging hammock tube. He’d carry it in his teeth from the bottom of the cage to the top, rest it on the platform, climb into the tube and pull it. It was too big to get in, but he spent a lot of time trying. (And at one point, he even succeeded, bringing the jack through a slit at the top! A proud day.)

Then there were the jingle balls. They needed to go in the corner, in a little nook between the CD racks. We could shake the little balls and send them rolling around the room, and he’d unfailingly bring them to where he could keep an eye on them.

But his greatest accomplishment was Sweet Kisses. For Valentine’s Day, Kathy gave me a blue heart-shaped pillow that said “Sweet Kisses” on it, like one of those conversation hearts. Gus took a liking to it. (Or maybe it was hate. Who can tell?) Every day, he’d climb up onto the sofa, find the Sweet Kisses pillow and grab it in his teeth, and then jump down to the floor. Now, while it doesn’t weigh as much, the pillow is about his size. So when he would leap into the air, it was always a surprise how he’d land. Sometimes he’d land like he intended, four feet on the ground and Sweet Kisses in front of him. Other times he’d land directly on the pillow and bounce off. More often, his momentum would take him over Sweet Kisses, flipping him upside down onto the floor once the pillow hit the ground. Regardless, he’d still have that pillow in his teeth. He’d give it a shake or two, then let it go. Once it was on the floor, he could ignore it. (He did try to drag it into a corner once or twice, but the geography was a little too tight for success, and he gave up. Maybe he’d learned his lesson from the jack toy.)

These things could give us endless entertainment. He wasn’t much of a snuggler, but every now and then, if we were lucky, he would give us little kisses—particularly if Kathy had just eaten chocolate or if I’d just had a beer. And then he’d run off to fall asleep in a fleece in the corner, or behind the TV, or pretty much anywhere. He’d mastered sleep.

We miss him something terrible. There hasn’t been a day I’ve woken up since he died that I hadn’t had to work to pull myself out of bed, aware that I wouldn’t be able to get a hug from Gus once I made it downstairs. Just the same, I’m glad we had so much time with him… most likely, extra time. Last year he was pretty sick. He’d lost all the hair on his body (only his head was spared), due to symptoms from insulinoma. I worried about him every day. But our vet gave him an experimental treatment, an implant that would treat the disease. Soon, Gus was starting to grow hair again, and was certainly feeling better, too.

He had a theme song, of course:

Mister Gus! Mister Gus!

I don’t wanna cause a fuss!

But you’re so cute! You’re so cute!

In your little ferret suit!

You’re so nice! You’re so nice!

I’ll freeze you in a block of ice!

And thaw you out when it’s time!

You’ll see the future, blow your mind!

Mister GUUUUS!

(This was usually sung in several verses, some in Spanglish--“en tu pequeno ferret suit”--some with a Transylvanian accent, and so on. I’m not sure if he ever got the Captain America allusion.)

This last month or so, he started to lose strength in his hind legs. It went from a little wobble now and then to him not being able to count on them at all in a matter of weeks. We were giving him medicine to deal with the problem, but it wasn’t helping. And eventually, Gus decided he’d had enough. He started refusing all food, like it was medicine. We used a syringe to get some food into him for a little while, but eventually decided that he knew his body best, and was making a deliberate decision.

Oh, hell. All pet stories end the same, if you go on long enough. You don’t need to hear this, and I don’t want to tell anymore. What matters is this little fuzzy, fussy white guy brought a lot of love into our life, and I still can’t believe he’s gone.

Rob

Bicycle! Bicycle! Bicycle!

Thought I’d take a moment to write about the Twin LightsRide, the 30-mile bike ride I did on Sunday. It was in three 10-mile stretches, broken up by two rest stops. (There’s also a 55- and a 100-mile ride; Kathy – Superwoman – did the 55-mile trip, splitting off from my route after the first rest stop and rejoining it before the second (or fifth, from her point of view), about an hour and change after me.

It was a great, exhilarating feeling. I’d done some riding around town – usually 2.5-mile jaunts to the coffee shop, followed by a similar ride back to the house, but I’d lately been doing a 10-mile loop. Which is great – it gave me the confidence to know I could do each individual leg of the ride. Plus, I went to Montreal with Kathy and rode in the Tour du Nuit, a 20-km night ride around the city. It’s approximately 13 miles, but with the ride to and from our hotel, it was closer to 18.

Kathy told me to ride at my own pace, or a little slower than my own pace. But to be honest, I don’t do this enough to know what my own comfortable pace is. I know that I’m more comfortable with someone either far in front of me or no one in front of me at all… but that’s about it. I don’t want to have to brake for people, so I’ll pass them if I can. But I’m not very fast, and there aren’t a whole lot of people I need to pass. I mostly want to do it at the beginning of the uphills. I’m a big guy, and momentum is all I’ve got going for me, so I hate to slow down more than gravity makes me when I’m climbing.

On the second leg, I passed what seemed to be a squirrel-car-bike collision. A cyclist was lying down, catching his breath in the road, in front of a stopped car. A crowd was already gathered around him, so there wasn’t anything I could do to help. But as I rode past, I noticed a (newly?) dead squirrel right in my path. I wonder if the cyclist tried to avoid it, or collided with it, and swerved into the road. I hope the rider is okay.

There was also a woman in green I thought might be gaslighting me. The first time I passed her by the side of the road, she just nodded and said, “Good job.” But then I saw her – or her twin sister – cheering riders on later on along the route. I thought, “I’m going crazy,” and then I thought: “No… she wants me to think I’m going crazy.” Then I saw her again at the second rest stop, and then she walked up again and stood under a tree I’d decided to rest under after (well, almost after) a long climb. She mentioned the she had a car, which gave her an unfair advantage in the mobility department.

One other notable & surprising experience: I think I’m my own worst wingman. At the second rest stop, I wound up chatting with a woman about my age, maybe a couple years younger. She mentions that she’s planning to tack another 7 miles to her ride and head up to Sandy Hook, where the nude beach is, and maybe go for a swim. She brings this up several times. I bring my wife up a couple times, too, but the beach conversation continues. (We talked about other things, too, though, and enjoyed dipping marshmallows & bananas into the chocolate fountain at the rest stop. Word has it that the fountain was purchased by a local guy for his son’s bar mitzvah, and since he has it, he trots it out for every occasion he can.)

Anyway, nude beach. (It’s perfectly acceptable etiquette to picture someone nude once they start mentioning going to a nude beach that afternoon, by the way. It’s also perfectly acceptable not to, if you’d really rather not. But I was happy to.) I have mentioned Kathy a couple of times, and I’m wearing my ring, but at one point I mention that she’s actually doing the ride, but the 55-mile version. And suddenly, we’re a lot less chummy. There’s apparently a difference between a wife at home somewhere and a wife elsewhere on the ride. Oh, well.

Regardless of the lack of nude beach activity, it was a great day. The weather held out (weather reports the night before called for a 60% chance of rain). There were two, maybe three, big uphills on the final leg, and one exhilarating downhill where I rode faster than I ever have before. On the last uphill, I found myself musing on the importance of punctuation. For a while, I was panting to myself, “Climb this fucker,” over and over again… until it slowly transformed into more explicit personal instructions: “Climb this, fucker.” Commas are powerful things. In the end, though, I climbed every hill on the bike. Didn’t walk an inch.

I’m looking forward to doing it again next year.

Rob