A Bad Gumble

I was going to make this article available to less than half of the people, but decided against it.

I was able to watch my first NFL Network game broadcast this week, as I was at the in-laws' and they just got a new LCD TV and digital cable. Anne's worried that I might get TV envy. She doesn't have anything to worry about. At least not until after I get my laptop.

Anyway, there were a couple of things that I really enjoyed about the presentation that NFLN had: Chris Collinsworth is a very good color guy; the graphics that they had were nice and unobtrusive; and the HD looked fantastic. Okay, maybe a bit of TV envy. However, the biggest problem I had with the production is the play-by-play. Bryant Gumble is paid very well for his ability to use the English language in a clear and consise way, but I noticed many times where he was using the wrong words for things. After a failed third down conversion: "...and once again the Vikings will turn the ball over on downs." Actually, they're going to be punting. He also just doesn't have the voice for the gravitas of the NFL, deserved or not (it is just a game, after all). There's too much tenor in his voice for my tastes as a play-by-play man. Contrast that with his own brother, Greg. Granted, Greg has more years of being in the booth under his belt, but his voice is perfect for calling the game. From what I've seen of his games, he's accurate and consise.

Now, on to my biggest problem with the NFL Network: that it even exists. I don't like having a network that is completely owned by a sports league. I'm also not crazy about a team owning a network, but that, to me, is more acceptable than having a network owned by the league. The league is able to mandate that teams give an unprescedented level of access to the network so that they always have the best stories, the biggest stars while completely freezing out any sort of competition. Also, it worries me that this is a pre-cursor to having pay-per-view NFL games. Doing that would have the potential to kill the league. And if it ever came to having pay-per-view games, I hope that it would kill the league. I hope that there would be a revolt against the league. The frightening part is the potential of people to go along with the whole idea like the sheep that we seem to be to the big sports. For instance, where is the outcry that a convicted cheater is going the the Pro Bowl? Did Shawn Merriman have a great season? Absolutely. However, he was suspended four games this year for violating the substance abuse policy of the NFL by using steroids. And no one seems to care.

Here's my question: Will we care if we have to pay $50 to watch each game of our favorite team to a league that is already making money hand-over-fist?

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College Initiation

As has been previously stated, I prefer the professional football game to the one found in college. Also mentioned at the same time is that I have two friends, Meldy and Ike, who are very adamant college football fans. It's pretty much to the point where we agree to disagree even though secretly, everyone agrees that I'm right. It's just that I'm not one to gloat. At any rate, Meldy and Ike decided to take matters into their own hands to convince me that I was wrong. It's happened once before. Hey, I thought betamax was the wave of the future. Anyway, we picked a Saturday in which to make a trek to the local college team's stadium to watch a game. I was looking forward to it. No, honest. I like football. I like time with my friends. For me, it was a no-lose situation. For Ike and Meldy, however, there's a completely different story.

Ike and Meldy are very much into their team. They have numerous articles of clothing with the logos. They watch every game they possibly can on the television. Every year for their anniversary gift to each other, Meldy and his wife purchase season tickets to the football games. Ike feeds his Diet Pepsi addiction accompanied by a frosty logoed glass. I think you get my point. They're really, really into their team. I'm not so much into their team. I'm a transplant here and haven't "caught the fever." Maybe I will one day if my kids go to the local college, but hopefully that's quite a few years off. Ike and Meldy were emotionally invested in the game while I was just there to enjoy the game. Well, that and gorge myself on the food prior to the game. One of the aspects of the college game that I really do appreciate is tailgating. Ah, tailgating. Never before have I seen such a large group of people socializing while all dressed mostly the same. It's like going to a party and seeing every other woman there wearing the exact same dress that you are, but for some reason it only makes you more excited to be there. Seeing as how the majority of our readership is male, I'm sure all of you can relate.

Tailgating provided me with way too much food, quite a bit of caffeine, and the opportunity to witness (let me reiterate: witness) my first keg stand. And my second keg stand. And my third keg stand. And my forth keg stand. Then they started over again. I found it interesting that the girls participating in the keg stand rounds were, for one thing, able to continue standing (they might have crossed triple digits in weight and had consumed mass quantities) and, for another, not carded. If they were of legal drinking age, it was just barely. I have some pairs of pants that looked older than these girls. But I digress.

After a couple of hours of tailgating, it was time to head in to the game. We didn't actually sit in our seats the entire game. Instead, we stood up along the wall at the top of the stadium. The view was great. The wind was cutting. The nuts were hot and salty. Don't take my word for it, just ask the vendor. When a lady selling pop came by, my friends told me that for a dollar, the vendor would kiss you. The next time a vendor came by, I decided not to try it. I don't think I would have appreciated his stubble. Though it's made me realize that, for my wife's sake, I need to shave more often. The wind was blowing so hard that at one point one of the other spectators standing up against the wall had his hat fly off his head and over the afore-mentioned wall. He propped himself up a bit on the top of the seven-foot (or so) wall to look and see where it had landed. I couldn't resist. I walked over to him and said, "Dude, I'll hold your feet. You reach down and grab it." That earned me a high-five from his wife. At least, I think it was his wife.

The game was a lot of fun. It had been quite a while since I was able to go to a sporting event. The game would have been even more fun if not for Drunk Beligerant Guy. You know the type: spent way too much time with the girls who I'm sure were of drinking age (eye roll) doing keg stands before the game and somehow was able to stumble to his seat just in time to see his team do a dreaded "three and out" on their first offensive series. He then immediately starts to boo the team he came to watch and yells that they should put the backup quarterback in to play. Let me reiterate that it was after the first offensive series. You'd think he was a Vikings fan. Throughout the game, he made gestures at the refs and at the coaching staff of the team. Because from the field they can see DBG 50-some rows up. That's why they're paid the big bucks. As the game progressed (poorly for the home team, as it would turn out), DBG seemed to get more, well, B. The curse words became more common. At one point, a fifty-something lady turned around and asked him to be quiet. You can pretty much guess how that turned out.

After the game, it was essentially more of the same: food and fellowship. Something struck me as rather odd, though. It seemed to me that if the team would have won the game, a large portion of the attenders would have celebrated by cracking open a beer. As it was, people were drowning their sorrows and lamenting...with a beer. So the only real difference is the mood, not the actions. Just one of those things that I noticed.

So, besides Drunk Beligerant Guy, the game was a lot of fun. I wouldn't mind going to another one at some point. However, much to Ike's chagrin, it wasn't a transcendent experience for me. I still prefer the pro game while being able to appreciate and enjoy the college game and respect the fans. Especially those who must be a lot older than they look. They can hold their liquor. At least for the ten minutes I saw them.

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The Perils of the Geek and Tech Support

My father-in-law and I both have the same job title of Software Engineer. We both sit a computer for a large portion of the day and analyze algorithms and code, debugging problems or finding new and better ways to get the required jobs accomplished. However, there is a very large difference between him and me: I consider myself a professional geek while when he gets home he wants very little to do with the computer. At least he did before getting his new laptop, but that's another story. Anyway, since I'm a professional geek, I'm always trying to learn more about the latest in technology and what is coming up and how it will impact my life. I'm always drooling over the latest toys that are out of my price range. The FIL calls me when he has tech questions. This leads me to my current predicament.

As I type these words, the call counter on my cell phone has reached one hour and 20 minutes worth of call time; most of which has been spent on hold waiting for someone to pick up the phone and talk to me. The FIL thought it would be a good idea to save some money and switch his phone service to a VoIP (Voice over Internet Protocol) service. This is not, in and of itself, a bad idea. The quality of phone calls over the internet has been improving to the point where, if you have a good connection, it should be indistinguishable from a normal land line. However, instead of using the router which is provided by the VoIP service and pay a monthly rental charge, he decided to buy his very own router. Now, keep in mind that this router that he purchased says right on the box that it will work great with the specific service which he is using. As I'm sure you can imagine, this means that my in-laws have not been able to use anything other than a cell phone in their home for the last two weeks. This is where I come in. We're in town as a stop-over on the way to my families for the weekend. I decided that I would solve their problems. Mistake number one. After taking a look at the router configuration, I see that the router was not able to register with the VoIP service. Since the FIL said that he had to give them a MAC address (the address that's hard-coded into every piece of hardware that you use in a computer), I was fairly sure that he might have given them the wrong address. So, I decided to call technical support. Mistake number two. After a bit on hold, I talked to someone who was very obviously reading from a "choose your own adventure" tech support manual. He wasn't all that helpful. When I asked him for the MAC address that he had on file to use, he said that it was the one on the modem they sent to us. I informed him a couple of times that, in fact, it wasn't since the FIL had changed it. I asked him again for the MAC address that he had associated with this account. He put me on hold. Again. After a few minutes, he came back again and said that he didn't have that information. Would I mind being transferred to the department that has that information for me? I said no, I didn't mind. Mistake number three. This has caused my current predicament of waiting for them to pick up the phone while listening to a horrible recording of "Canon in D" by Johann Pachelbel. The recording was choppy and of horrendous sound quality. If the goal was to have hold music that would annoy customers to the point where they hang up in frustration, mission accomplished.

We are quickly approaching the two-hour barrier of being on the phone. I'm sure 3/4ths of that has been spent on hold. I have determined that if I end up going over my cell phone minutes on the month, I will be sending the VoIP company the bill for the overage.

After crossing the two hour barrier, feeling like the Enterprise crossing the "Great Barrier," I hung up. Oh wait, I forgot that Star Trek V never actually happened. (Apologies to Bill Simmons). I'll probably call them back on Skype or something that doesn't cost me any money once my core temperature lowers a bit. Just breathe, Jeff. Just breathe.

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It's Mostly the Most Wonderful Time

Before really getting into my article, I feel that a note of explanation about the theme for this week is warranted. Didn't notice the theme? It should be pretty close to the gigantic "Pluckytown" you see at the top. Go ahead and check, I can wait. And we're back! OK, let me preface my comments and even the topic by the fact that I love Christmas. I love getting together with my family. I love the food (w00t for lefsa!). I love playing cards (family tradition). I love singing the songs about Jesus' birth. I love exchanging gifts and the old jokes that we've recycled over 20+ years. However, with that said, there are still some things about the Christmas season (not necessarily Christmas itself) that I don't like. Hence the topic. Everyone square? Cool. Moving on.

This afternoon, my family (read: Anne) decided that it was time to put up the family Christmas tree. We purchased this tree when we were living in a very small apartment while in college. We purchased it with the thought that we'd be able to grow into it as we moved on with life and eventually moved into a house. We put the tree up in our living room. It consumed somewhere in the neighborhood of 85% of the available space. That's a slight hyperbole for those of you keeping score at home. The correct ratio is 16% room, 84% tree. After we put the tree up, we said, "Why did we get such a huge tree? It doesn't leave us any space!" We've said that every year since. Seven and counting. We moved it from apartment to apartment and then to house. It's still way too freakishly big. And that leads me to what I dislike most about the Christmas season. No, it's not my tree. It's not even putting up the tree (which I held off doing as long as I could). It's how much work Christmas has become. The tree has only become an example of this.

When I was a kid, I loved putting up the tree. I would look forward to it for weeks. My mom would normally add the stipulation that if we're going to put up the tree, we need to get the whole house cleaned up first. I would throw myself into the work with a vigor unlike anything that doesn't involve food (hint: that's a lot of vigor). We would haul the boxes up from the basement for the tree and organize the branches ("Mom! This one doesn't have a color!"), put up the tree, put on the lights and all of the decorations. Then we'd turn all the lights in the house off and cuddle up together and just look at it for a little while, each one of us absorbed in his or her own thoughts. Now it seems as though I'm not allowed time to think. We have a mad rush that occurs around this time of year. It kicks off with one of the busiest shopping days of the year on the day after Thanksgiving and continues straight on through to the poor, confused husbands in the convenience store on Christmas Eve wondering if their wife would prefer "Pine" or "New Car" for her brand new air freshener.

Then there's the stress of the logistics. Whose family are we going to be spending Christmas with? When are we going to be with the other side of the family? How are we going to pay for all of the Christmas gifts? What do we bring for Christmas dinner? Are we spoiling the kids with the amount of gifts that we're buying? Did we not get them enough? How many licks does it take to get to the Tootsie Roll center of a Tootsie Pop? These questions need to be answered.

I lament the loss of my childhood innocence. The only thing I had to worry about leading up to celebrating Christmas was how I was going to be able to survive waiting for Mom and Dad to finish milking before we could open gifts. Now there's so many things about which we need to think. I suppose, to a certain extent, this same loss of innocence extends out to every aspect of life as an adult. As children, we long to be "grown up" and knowledgeable about the world. Now that I am grown up, I long for the simpler days of my youth. Sometimes, it's just hard to please people. And by people I mean me. It's the Pandora's box syndrome. We want to know what's in the box. Now that we know what's in the box, we wish we could put it back again. Stupid human nature.

So, there you have it: What I dislike most about the Christmas season. Although really it's not a new problem. I mean, wanting to regain our innocence could be traced back to, oh, Adam. Good to know I'm not alone.

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Old Become New Again

When I was growing up, we didn't have cable TV. For one thing, it was the logistics of having a cable strung out to the middle of nowhere that I called home at the time. For another, it was the fact that my family, being small-time farmers, preferred not to have the extra expense of a monthly bill just so that we could watch even more television. I was one of those kids that would struggle to get out of bed every day for school. I'd barely get ready in time to catch the bus. However, my internal clock was so well-tuned that it would wake me before the crack of dawn on Saturday mornings to watch cartoons. I'm sure that I'll write more about that at another time. I was just wanting to make the point that we watched a lot of television. My dad especially watched a lot of TV, especially science fiction. If it was somehow related to the sci-fi genre, my dad was watching it. Star Trek, Babylon 5, Tripods, The Flash, Time Trax, Quantum Leap. He recorded as much as he could, and it wasn't much since we had limited channels. Dad also had horrible sleep apnea and would be up at very odd hours of the night. Occasionally, when I would have trouble sleeping, I'd head to the living room and find him watching some form of TV. Sometimes it was a movie. Sometimes it was a World War II documentary. Many times, though, it was science fiction. I would remember coming into the living room to the sounds of Kirk saying, "Space...the final frontier." At times, it would be at the end of one where all I'd catch is the "Oh, boy" before Sam leaped to someone else's rescue. I also remember a few times walking in to this very, very odd and haunting theme song. It was electronica music that had a very simple melody that would get stuck in my head. I would try to watch the show with Dad, but the special effects were horrendous, the scenery was obviously cardboard and all of the people spoke with really funny accents that made it hard for my poor American ears to understand and comprehend. I'd much rather watch Star Trek; big ships, phasers set to stun, and good, solid accents that were easy to understand. Except for Pavel. Never quite understood what he was trying to convey. I mean, all this other show had for a ship that I ever saw was a stupid telephone booth that said "Police" on it and had no windows. It just didn't make sense. Dad seemed to enjoy it for some reason, though.

And then, I grew up.

I came to learn that the show Dad was watching was Dr. Who. I also learned that it was the longest-running science fiction series in history. It started in the '60's and produced episodes on-and-off for decades. There would be times that I would be up late at night and an episode would be on. Every so often, I would try to watch one of these episodes, but it always felt like I was trying to catch up on who knows how many episodes. There were characters I didn't recognize and didn't understand why this one or that one would be evil but this other guy was good. I also never understood how you could have a series where the main character kept changing. Oh, it was always someone called "The Doctor," but his face was (from my perspective) constantly changing.

And then, I entered real life.

A friend of mine at work is a huge sci-fi fan. We talked a bit about Dr. Who and he let me in on the secret: The Doctor is an alien from an immortal race of time-travelers that have the ability to re-generate themselves if they receive some form of mortal harm. The regeneration process, however, changes them. It changes not only their faces, but their voices, mannerisms and even personality. And that was the genius of the creators of the show (or whoever thought of the concept). This is what allowed the show to go on for so long. If an actor got tired of playing the role, let him die in one episode, only to be regenerated in the next with a completely new actor playing the Doctor. Brilliant. My friend also told me that the BBC had started creating new episodes of the show that would be broadcast on the Sci-Fi Network, and, if I wanted him to, he would record the shows and burn disks for me to watch. I decided to give it a shot since this would be a new series, and I would have a very simple jumping-on point.

And now, I'm a fan.

We're into the second season (and second new Doctor) of Dr. Who now, and I've been loving it. The special effects are still nothing to brag about, and they still talk with the accents, but I can handle that, I think. The writing is fantastic. The acting is, for the most part, quite good. The stories have a way of making the aliens and the time travel and the robots touch your emotions in some way. There's the WWII bomb victim that's been resurrected by alien nano-machines and is walking around with a gas mask on asking in a haunting voice for "mummy." Chilling. There are the futuristic clock-work robots that dress as 18th century French courtesans with frozen porcelain doll faces. Creepy. The "last living human" that's been reduced to a brain in a jar and a face stretched within a frame and demanding to be "moisturized" all the time. Disgusting.

I get it now, Dad. Thanks.

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Thanksgiving, Surgery, and Carthage

Well, gentle reader, here I am again. Somewhat ironically, I missed being able to post an article on my own topic last week. Chronic laziness is indeed a joyous affliction. Even better is when chronic laziness is accompanied by raging apathy. That way it doesn't bother me in the least when my chronic laziness asserts itself. Sadly, this dear friend is nowhere to be found this week, so on to the matter at hand. Carthago delenda est!

With Thanksgiving rapidly approaching, most of us are thinking not so much about being thankful (Gratitude? What's that?) as about the turkey with which we are going to stuff our faces, the afternoon football tradition, and generally the semi-drugged stupor into which we will fall (following our consumption of the soporific turkey, of course). Why do the holidays always have to be about you? They should be about me. To that end, I am going to enthrall you with a marvelous tale...a tale of a fateful trip...that started from this tropic port aboard this tiny ship. Well, in all honesty, my tale has nothing to do with a trip...or a tiny ship. Rather, it has to do with one relatively recent occurrence in my family's life for which I have been exceedingly grateful, albeit inconsistently so. Last January, I was personally thankful that my infant son needed massive cranial remodeling surgery. Carthago delenda est!

Perhaps I should explain this statement, especially when one considers that cranial remodeling surgery basically consists of removing the skull of the patient (usually an infant or very young child), cutting it apart to allow its reshaping, and putting the newly remodeled cranial structure back into place, allowing it to once again do what it is skulls are supposed to do. Perhaps not. Perhaps this will be more effective if I simply leave it at that. I guess this is not an option. The voices are telling me that I need to explain. The voices cannot be denied. The voices are my close companions. The voices have spoken. That is all. Carthago delenda est!

When my son was born, following the current customary practice of modern medicine, he was given a complete physical. The results of that physical were less than perfect...at least from my frail perspective as an insignificant human. We learned that my son had three "soft" signs of chromosomal abnormality. Now, with only one of these signs, there was roughly a ten or fifteen percent chance that he did not have any such chromosomal issue. However, there were three. Our doctor informed us that tests were being run which would determine whether or not such abnormality was present. Thankfully (by which I mean, of course, "I've never been so frustrated and angry in my entire life"), we would only have to wait six to eight weeks for the results. No big deal, right? Of course not! Especially when our son later that day decided he would fail his hearing test as well. Oh, yeah. And then there was the teeny tiny little issue that decided to reveal itself a few days later--he had no "soft spot" on the top of his head and would likely need major cranial remodeling surgery. Carthago delenda est!

Needless to say, I'm sure, my wife and I were a little stressed out during this time. Now, don't get me wrong--I loved my son more than words can say...absolutely regardless of the results of the test. I'm not convinced I could have borne him having a chromosomal abnormality, however. I'm not that strong. Not even close. I have a very dear friend who has someone close to him/her with such a difficulty. I'm not certain whether or not I've every told him/her this, but I admire more than I can express both he/she and his/her family as they are confronted with the unique challenges this situation affords them. Even more, I am grateful for the lesson they have taught me personally--it's not an "affliction" or an "abnormality" in any sense that implies lesser status or value or worth or even ability to enjoy life. In my own experiences with the someone, I have equally been struck by that someone's pure joy in the simplest things of life and the child-like faith that has been evident to me on many an occasion. Does this mean there are no challenges? Of course not. But this does not mean that the quality of life or value of the individual is somehow lessened. If anything, I find that I am constantly taught things in a profound way by the someone, things that I may have never learned were it not for the unique circumstances of this situation. Now back to my point. It is incredibly easy for me to say this when it is not my family that is directly affected. It is a completely different matter for me when there is the possibility that my little son may be the one with a chromosomal abnormality. The waiting period revealed to me one thing above all else: I am weak. Far weaker than I would have thought. Again, does this mean that my love was somehow lessened by this? Absolutely not. Does it mean that I finally began to see new depths to my own depravity? You bet. Carthago delenda est!

As I'm sure you've gathered by now--at least the two of you that are still reading this--the test results came back completely normal. On top of that, my son passed his second hearing test (about four weeks after the first) with flying colors. The only thing remaining was the closed soft spot. As a matter of fact, this structural issue is what actually was causing the "soft" signs mentioned above. Rather than all three of the major issues with which we had initially been confronted, we were now faced with only one...and that one was eminently fixable. So, I was thankful...no, I am thankful that my infant son needed major cranial remodeling surgery. It was the only issue with which we were contending, and it was a "fixable" issue at that. This has to be one of the strangest things for which I am thankful. Carthago delenda est!

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Strange and Confused

I'm a reasonably intelligent person. I also like to think that I have a bit of creativity within me. However, I've never been very good at spur-of-the-moment creativity. I would have been horrible as a court bard. The king would say, "Sing me a song about hassenpheffer!" and then I would get pummeled by half-eaten turkey legs because I wasn't quick enough to come up with a word to rhyme with "rabbit." After all, any reference to "Charlie Babbit" would still have been several centuries off. If, however, I was allowed to take a bit of time for my composition, I would eventually come up with something ("dag nabbit!"). Such is the case with the topic of this week. Gudy sent us an email announcing the topic, and I spent the next few days allowing it to percolate in my head a bit. After all, we all can name things that we're thankful for, but what's the strangest thing for which I am thankful? I would go exploring down several different avenues of discussion. Some quite personal that I don't know I want to go down just yet and some that I know Anne would have a problem with. But I'm not mentioning either of those. It was starting to get to me. I mean, I had encountered writer's block before, but usually, the way my mind works, I'm able to get around it by coming up with some line to focus on or be driving towards. Then it hit me: my strange mind.

I've always known that I look at the world a little differently than most people around. Things will strike me funny for reasons that aren't apparent to anyone else in the general vicinity. There will also be times where something will strike me as interesting, and I internally take it on a very strange tangent. For instance, when I was in choir, we were singing some music where the bass cleft split into three parts, and we asked the director if he wanted us to have the tenors split and sing the top and the middle or if he wanted to have the basses split and sing the middle and the bottom notes. He thought about it for a minute and said, "I think we'll do a T-T-B di vici." The T-T-B di vici stuck with me. For some reason, an electric bass line started going through my head. You know the type: just a constant "Thump thump thump thump" that you'll find in pretty much any techno song in existence. Then I had a monotonic deep voice going over and over in my head: "T-T-B di vici...T-T-B di vici...T-T-B di vici...T-T-B di vici..." I went on to add in other parts all surrounding different directions that one finds in music such as "crescendo." It entertained me for days. No one else found it nearly as interesting, but I enjoyed it.

So, there you have it. The strangest thing for which I am thankful is my mind and how it works. It's allowed me to be entertained by things that are seemingly insignificant. It's allowed me to write a techno song that only entertains me. It's allowed me to come up with different ways to be romantic with my wife (though probably not as often as either of us would like). It's also allowed me to write different articles for this blog so that I have an outlet for creativity and you, hopefully, are being entertained by them as well.

Of course, with all of these things, it helps to be sleep-deprived.

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An Alien Among Us...

This week's topic, "Sci-Fi/Fantasy in Media Other than Movies or Books" affords me the perfect opportunity to address a growing concern of mine. I believe that one of the evening news anchors at a major station here in the Twin Cities could be an alien. Is it far-fetched? Yes. Is it out of the realm of possibility? Probably. Does it make for an entertaining column? I hope so.

Hear me out, though. First of all, to protect you readers from an evil alien plot, I'll henceforth refer to this person as "Jim" so that you are not aware of their actual name or gender. With that out of the way, I am going to address the three tests I have to reveal whether or not a person could potentially be an alien.

1.) If I met "Jim" in a dark alley at night, I would be afraid for myself. This may not seem like such a big deal, but let me explain further. I'm a rather large person at 6'3", 235 lbs. I'm not a giant, but I'm bigger than most people. As a result, not very many people intimidate me. The people that do either know kung-fu (Steven Seagal, Chuck Norris), or are crazy (Jose Canseco, Ron Artest, Yanni, Al Roker). But Jim just freaks me out. I avoid contact with Jim at all times. He gives me the chills.

2.) I have never seen the lower half of Jim's body. This is what starts to separate Jim from the other people I'm scared of. I've seen all of their legs. With Jim, anything is possible. Three legs, 9 tentacles, respulsorlifts that allow him to hover, tree roots...you get the picture. Jim is always behind that infernal anchor desk. Unlike the other anchors in the Cities, I have never seen Jim do a TV spot or promo that would cause him to stand up. He's hiding something behind that desk, and I don't think we'll like what we see if it ever gets revealed.

3.) Jim doesn't have a MySpace page. Aside from me, and a few of my friends, every person in the world has a MySpace page. And I know my friends are not aliens because I am either not afraid of them, I have seen their legs, or both. What is Jim hiding that he can't put it on a MySpace page? My guess, as stated above, is some evil alien plot or conspiracy to take over the world through news of the Upper Midwest.

So, if you find yourself watching the news in Minneapolis late at night, and an eerie power starts to try to take hold of you, turn your eyes away from Jim, and change the channel, at all costs. You safety and mine depends on it. Besides, you can always rest assured that there's a re-run of Seinfeld on just around the corner.

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Bring Your Dice!

When my wife, Anne, and I go to social events, I usually find myself telling some form of story. I can't help it; I got that from my dad along with a habit of staying up way too late for my sanity or good health. Oft times, however, many of these stories end abruptly and seemingly without a point. When this occurs, the people that we're with will usually look at Anne as if searching for an explanation of some sort. She usually gets a chuckle out of these looks because she has no idea what the point was either, but at least she's used to my method of story-telling. You'll understand this paragraph better by the end.

I've been friends with Gudy since somewhere around junior high/early high school. We soon found that we shared many similar interests including, it seemed, similar interests in certain females which, it occurs to me, is how we came to be introduced to each other. That's not what this story is about.

To a certain extent, I've come to be Gudy's sounding board. He has a fantastic imagination and is constantly coming up with ideas for stories or things he wants to try out or a new way of being able to anal-retentively micro manage something in regards to fantasy sports. The unfortunate part is that he often abandons the ideas. He's got a great imagination, but a poor attention span. That's not what this story is about either. It's all set-up. Bear with me, here.

One cold fall night, Gudy called me with another idea: Let's create our very own role-playing game. Wow. Did you hear that? That was the sound of dozens of browsers simultaneously closing. Never thought I'd be that affective. Oh well. Growing up in a very conservative household, I was never allowed to play a role-playing game like Dungeons and Dragons. However, they always intrigued me since one was gathering with a group of friends and, basically, writing their own stories set in a fantastical world where they could play characters in whatever manner they chose. They could be heroes or rogues. Catalysts or foils. Men or women. Bright or dim-witted. It was a fascinating concept to me. Creating our own would be a challenge, but fun. I was fresh off of reading the Tolkien novels and had a new passion for the fantasy realm. I was up to the challenge. So, after covering some of the basics (allowed races and classes along with attributes) I set about working on the mechanics. I wanted it to be simple, so instead of needing a large number of differently faceted dice, I went with using standard six-sided dice for everything. I also realized that I needed someone to play with since Gudy was a good four-and-a-half hour drive away. Well, four hours away for me at the time. It would be about five and a quarter for most rational humans. As luck would have it, Frederick III was living in the same town as me at the time, and he had previous experience with role-playing games. So, we set a day to get together and give it a shot. It went okay. F3 created an elven rouge (thief) named Glyndor that was quite anti-social. Therefore, I put him in a setting where he had to interact with people. I take evil glee where I can find it. F3's wife, Eleonor, was also there watching along, and like me, she had never played an RPG before, but she was intrigued.

So, it came to pass that in these simpler times (read: Only three children between both families as opposed to the seven for which we currently account) we all sat down and played an RPG together. Surprizingly, we were able to get Anne to play as well. It's surprising because, outside of Tolkien, Anne has essentially no interest in the fantasy realm whatsoever. She was willing to give it a shot because of the social aspect of things. We were having friends over and interacting. As the mother of a small child, she would take all of the grown-up conversation that she could at that point. Eleonor played a Dwarven Paladin named Dis (pronounced "deece"), and Anne played a human Paladin named Lidian. Anne got into the role-playing aspect the least of any of us, and her character was mainly relegated to just being muscle. Over the course of the next few months, we would get together and play a few times. It ended up being not nearly as much as we would have like to. After all, 3/4ths of us were in college at the time, and both couples had fairly new babies. We had a few adventures, though. I forced the two characters whose races had a deep-seated hatred for one another (Dis and Glyndor) fall in love (evil glee); Glyndor was poisoned at one point by some caustic berries, and every time he'd get them washed off, something would happen where he'd be splattered with them anew (evil glee); I had a villain for them to fight that I really liked and thought was quite menacing (a goblin named Ahab based on the old song "Ahab the Arab" which, looking back on it, could be considered quite racist). There was betrayal, revelation, and violence. Time marched forward, and we ended up moving away from the city. It was at a point in the story where we were just about to have some really interesting things happen. I had some pretty major plot points that were going to be revealed to the others really soon.

In the course of my lifetime, I've left dozens, perhaps hundreds of stories seemingly hanging, and for the most part, it doesn't bother me. Either I said what I wanted to say on the topic or, in mid-story, my brain finally catches up with my tongue, and I realize that the story isn't going to say what I want it to say, and it'd be best to bail at that point. I regret not finishing this story, though. Part of it is a point of pride. I want to share my cleverness with the others. I wanted to see their faces when I revealed the plot points that were intended to surprise them. There just wasn't enough time to get all of the stories told before life caught up with us. Maybe some day, I'll use this forum to get the story told in a short form over the course of a few posts, but that might be boring for the others who read this site. All six of you. At any rate, for now, the stories will just have to remain in my head, waiting for their time in which they will be revealed.

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Lost in Translation

Hello all. In explanation of this post, we here at Pluckytown have started a new program in which we have three themed weeks a month, and each one of the main contributors here gets to pick a theme for their week. This week's theme, brought to you by Kamp, is the "Longevity of Music." Now it's up to the other two of us to write something in line with that guidepost. Of all the things for me to focus on, I have chosen to take a look at nursery rhymes. Well, nursery rhyme, in this case, since all I'm going to be talking about is Little Boy Blue. This has a tune, so it qualifies as music. Onward.

Nursery Rhymes have seemingly been around forever. If you think about how they have existed, it makes sense. We were taught them as children by our parents, who in turn were taught them as children by their parents, and so on and so forth. They had to originate somewhere, and my guess is that most of them came somewhere out of the Middle Ages or 1800s. As usual, I have no research to support this. As usual, this piece is so ridiculous, it doesn't matter.

If we assume that the average nursery rhyme is more than 5 score old, then we can infer that some of the meaning of the original quip has been lost as language has evolved and been refined. This is where Little Boy Blue comes in. I'm sure that at some point, the moral of the story had something to do with working hard and not being lazy, but I have a hard time seeing that now. Here's the lyrics for those of you who are memorically challenged:

Little Boy Blue come blow your horn,
The sheep's in the meadow,
The cow's in the corn.
Where is the boy who looks after the sheep?
He's under the haystack,
Fast asleep.

Let's break this down from top to bottom.

Little Boy Blue come blow your horn,
The sheep's in the meadow,
The cows in the corn.

As one who has a little bit of experience in this department, let me enlighten you a bit on why this doesn't make sense to me. I spent part of my formative years on a hobby farm in eastern North Dakota. We did not plant, grow, and harvest crops, but we dabbled in livestock, including, but not limited to, sheep and chickens. Sheep especially do not like loud, sudden noises. If you don't want to take my word for it, spend some time trying to track down comedian Ken Davis' story about Herman the Sheep. It's time well spent.

Now, if we read farther down into the rhyme, we are told that the sheep are in the meadow, and the cows are in the corn. I am assuming that these are places the animals should not be, otherwise notifying the caretaker of said animals would be completely unnecessary.

So, I guess my point here is that a sudden blast on a trumpet probably isn't going to have the desired outcome of rounding up the animals. It seems like a case of the manager not really having any idea of what his employee's job really entails, or how he should go about doing it. Seems to me a common occurrence today.

Where is the boy who looks after the sheep?
He's under the haystack,
Fast asleep.

Once again, I will draw from my farm experience on this one. I can tell you that if you can see part of Little Boy Blue under a haystack, and he's motionless, he's not sleeping. He's dead. I used to have to stack bales of hay on the farm. These are roughly 3 ft long, by 2 ft wide, by 2 ft high, or so. It's been a while. And I'd estimate each one weighs in the neighborhood of 30-45 lbs. Now a haystack probably can generate more than a few of these bales. We're talking multiple hundreds of pounds here. To have ended up underneath a haystack, Little Boy Blue is either the victim of a terrible accident, or an horrific murder.

So, in summation, we have a case of an employee being ordered to do a task that doesn't make any sense whatsoever, and he couldn't complete it anyway, cause he's dead.

And we teach our children this stuff.

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The Sacred and the Energizer Bunny

Well, gentle reader, after a one week hiatus I am back. Believe me, the one week was a good thing. You thought the LGDs were bad? Well, you've never seen anything like last week. Anyway, rather than entertain you with an exciting and graphic recounting of my marvelous exploits of a week past, I am instead this week going to bore you with something much more interesting to me personally. Of course, I mean this statement seriously only if it will improve my standing in the...fragrant...manure pile of your opinion. If not, I was being sarcastic. England prevails.

Of course, the subject to which I am referring is sacred music (i.e., church music). I find it fascinating that the ability to survive 20 or 30 years in the music industry--as has Weird Al, for example--is relatively rare and is therefore something of an attraction in and of itself. They just keep going...and going...and going...and going. I mean, did I go to an Aerosmith concert several years ago because they are the epitome of musical talent? Of course not--at least, that's my story, and I'm sticking to it. I first of all wanted to see them live because they've become something of a legend in the music industry, with a career that at that time spanned the better part of three decades (not quite as long as the equally geriatric Rolling Stones or Ozzy Osbourne). Secondly, I was curious to see how long Steve Tyler could hop around the stage until he fell and couldn't get up. Finally there's something about going to a concert at which you will see more above-middle-aged people trying to convince themselves and everyone around that they're really seventeen than you'll see actual seventeen-year-olds that just appeals to the people-watching side of me (some would say the "peeping" side of me, but we won't go there), that this side of me finds uncontrollably hilarious in a sad, pathetic, what-a-sorry-state-the-world-is-in sort of way. You know what I mean, gentle reader. Something like you find at an Ozzy concert or (truly sadly) at an Eric Clapton concert. What was my point? Ah, yes. That longevity in the modern music industry is measured in terms of years or decades I find completely fascinating, especially when it is compared to longevity in sacred music, which is rather measured in terms of centuries...or even millenia. England prevails.

Take, for example, the Gloria in excelsis Deo, which is still used in the Roman Catholic mass (and in the services of some other Christian denominations) and whose first line has been famously appropriated for use in the Christmas carol "Angels We Have Heard on High." (Just draw out the gloria and move up and down the musical ladder a few times, and you'll remember why this phrase seems so familiar.) I have actually heard one individual claim that this song can be traced back into the first century and is therefore quite possibly the very song actually heard by the shepherds "keeping watch over their flock by night." (Luke 2:8 [NASB]) While this is a rather far-fetched claim for which there is little or no evidence, there is no doubt that the song (again, still in use today) indeed can be traced back in some form to the ancient world--probably the third or fourth century. Of course, taken as it is from the Vulgate version of Luke 2:14 ("gloria in altissimis Deo"), though substituting excelsis for altissimis, there is some sense in which one can say that this hymn can be traced back to that of the angels--just not quite in the manner meant by the individual mentioned above. England prevails.

Just as impressive is the realization that several hymns currently in use by various denominations--enough in use that they can actually be found in the hymnals of those denominations--were actually composed originally by St Ambrose of Milan, the bishop through whose ministry the great St Augustine came to the faith. While many of the hymns that were attributed to him in an earlier age are now generally (and correctly) regarded as being inauthentically Ambrosian (though often still of an equally venerable age), at least four are undoubtedly authentically Ambrosian. One of these, Jam surgit hora tertia, can still be found in Episcopalian hymnals. Nearer and dearer to my own heart, however, as my chosen name should reveal, is Veni redemptor gentium, which was actually translated (and used) by the great reformer Martin Luther as "Nun Komm, der Heiden Heiland." It remains a hymn in use today, particularly in the Advent season of the church, and has been rendered into English as "Savior of the Nations, Come." Amazing, isn't it, to think that when this hymn is raised up in praise, the modern congregation is actively sharing in the worship of saints gone centuries before. For me, personally, there are few things that drive home so thoroughly the unity of the body of Christ (e.g., 1 Cor. 12:12ff). England prevails.

What is the point of all of this, you ask, gentle reader? There is no point. Oh, wait. Yes, there is. In the first place, it is that music is indeed a powerful force that can be very effectively used both to edify and to destroy. In part, this is because music endures in a way that most other things cannot. In part, this is because music reaches so many--even the illiterate, the unread, the uncultured, the mentally challenged, the infant share in it and are impacted by it in ways that are often impossible to gauge. Indeed, studies have been done on people with such diseases as Alzheimer's, and music is the one thing that remains longer than any other memory or ability. People who don't even remember their own names, much less the names of their children or other loved ones, still are able to flawlessly sing songs learned early in life, songs that range from simple tunes (such as "Happy Birthday") to much more complex songs (such as "Amazing Grace"). Music (the tune and the content) sticks, both in terms of time (longevity) and in terms of individual memory. England prevails.

The second point follows from the first. Because of this remarkable endurance, music can be one of the most effective teaching tools that can be employed. (Along these lines, note how difficult it can be to recite the ABCs without singing the song, or at least following its rhythm.) At this point, more than any other, does one see the necessity that music--particularly in settings such as church, but really in any instructional setting--be chosen with extreme care. While care can and should be exercised regarding the style, regarding the musical elements (tune, etc.) of those songs employed in the worship service, of much greater import is it that care must be taken regarding the content of the music so employed. Far more effective than the spoken or the written word in communicating a message is the sung word. Poor content in music spreads false teaching far more rapidly and thoroughly than many other means. Conversely, good content in music bolsters good teaching far more effectively than many other means. So, take care, gentle reader, regarding the music you play for (or in the presence of) your children. Take care, gentle reader, regarding the music that you sing in church. Take care, gentle reader, regarding the music that you play for yourself. England prevails.

Now I'm going to go study and, while studying, listen to some Rob Zombie. Gentle reader, England prevails.

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Wierd Al...or Rodney Dangerfield?

Back in the summer before my eighth grade year, I was a kid going to summer camp. This would be the year that I would have a crush on a girl named Michelle, learn how to really play foosball, and have a councilor named Russ to whom we'd show our respect by thumping our chest whenever we'd greet him, much to his chagrin. It was also the year that I met the guy who would be my best friend throughout high school and most of college. His name was A.J., and like me, he was a bit of an odd duck. A.J. was the guy who taught me how foosball was to be played. He's also the guy who first introduced me to the music of Weird Al Yankovic. Well, at least he introduced me to the lyrics of Weird Al. We couldn't have any sort of CD or tape player at this camp, but that's all another story. A.J. taught me all of the lyrics to "I Love Rocky Road", Al's parody of the "I Love Rock 'N Roll" made famous in America by Joan Jett. I loved this concept: take a song that everyone knows and change the lyrics so that it's funny. It's simple but beautiful, and Al was able to pull it off fantastically. Later that summer, I bought my first CD player from Sears off the clearance rack. The first CD that I bought to play in it was, for some inexplicable reason, Aerosmith's Greatest Hits, but the second CD was Weird Al's Food Album. I listened to that CD as much as I could. It contained many of Al's early hits that involved some form of food or food product: "Fat", "Eat It", "Spam", "Addicted to Spuds", and "I Love Rocky Road". I had found one of my favorite artists. Little did I know that my love of his music would last as long as it has. Here I am, over a decade later, and I'm still buying new music from Al. I'm watching his latest music video several times a week. I'm also having to make the same defense of his music now that I had to make then to people. There seems to be an attitude held by people outside of Al's fan-base that Al is really little more than a "hack." That he's someone who mooches off of the hard work of others and makes money just by changing some lyrics and putting out a CD. Nothing could be further from the truth.

First of all, when an artist is able to have a career that spans four decades (so far), he must be doing something right. Al's parodies first started appearing on Dr. Demento's show in the late '70's before Al put out a CD. The amazing thing, though, is the fact that even though Al's been around this long with so many recognizable songs (for his lyrics, not just the music) he's only recently had a top-ten hit with "White and Nerdy". Al has been working hard putting out an album every couple of years along with regularly touring. One year, for my birthday, my brother purchased tickets for us to go see Al when he was coming to a town near us. This was during his "Touring With Scissors" tour. If there was one thing that I took out of that whole experience, it was that Al puts on an amazing show. It would have been nigh-impossible to leave the arena that night without a smile on your face. One of the reasons that Al has had such a long career is that he's a fantastic entertainer. However, he, along with his band, are also fantastic musicians.

I know what some of you are saying right now: "Weird Al is a musician? You've got to be kidding me! What did I do with my chips?" Sorry, we got some run-over with your off-topic thoughts. Anyway, the answer to your questions are "Yes" and "On top of the refrigerator," respectively. I know that for many of Al's song's he's "merely" copying the musical styling that someone has already done. One would think that all of the hard work is done. However, look a little bit deeper. For his parodies, Al and the band are mimicking a huge variety of musical styles. They do different types of rap (M.C. Hammer, emminem, Chamillionaire), classic rock (Joan Jett), boy band (N*Sync), grunge (Nirvana), hip hop (Puff Daddy, or whatever he's calling himself these days), and bad '80's music (New Kids, Gerardo, Milli Vanilli) straight-up rock (Aerosmith, Presidents of the United States of America), and iconic (U2, Billy Joel, Bob Dylan). To be able to play in the styles of such a wide variety of artists requires a musical dexterity from all of the members of the band from the vocalist to the drummer.

I have talked with some people in the past who rail against Weird Al because he's "stealing music." Nothing could be further from the truth. I'll let Al's website do the talking for this question:

Al does get permission from the original writers of the songs that he parodies. While the law supports his ability to parody without permission, he feels it's important to maintain the relationships that he's built with artists and writers over the years.

The Fair Use Act allows for a copyright-holder's work to be parodied without asking for permission, but Al asks anyway. That's because he's such a nice young man.

I know this probably didn't convince many people to give Al the respect that he deserves, but I thought it important to make the points that I made. His longevity in the music business is testament to his genius. He's lasted over thirty years in the music business, and he'll probably continue to be popular (with at least a certain segment of the music audience) for many years to come. I'm not expecting people to become huge Al fans out of this, but you could at least give him a shot. All I'm asking is that you try.

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An Open Letter to Our Nation's Politicians

Dear idiots:

Could you please stop it? No, seriously, cut it out. I'm so sick and tired of seeing ad after ad on my TV blasting one candidate after another. I'm tired of the different voices that they use: the "I can't believe this candidate is so silly to think we won't notice all of his faults" voice; the "If I talk to you very slowly, perhaps you'll get the gravity of what I'm saying to you about how evil this person and their ideas are" voice; and, my personal favorite, the "If we speak to you [you] with an over-lapping echo [echo] in every sentence [sentence] - or perhaps every noun [noun] - we [we] will get our point [point] across." The last one is best accomplished with a deep male voice echoed by a female voice on the alto side of pitch, for those of you aspiring ad executives in the audience [audience]. Sorry. I got caught up in the ad.

Stop all of these ads that say nothing about you and only bad things about your opponent. It seems as though every ad for an incumbent is talking about how you've "gone Washington." This makes me wonder how people in Seattle respond to this. ("Add the 'D.C.'! Add the 'D.C.'!") Simultaniously, I wonder what the ads in the District of Columbia say about the incumbents. ("Looks like Bill Doberman has gone mid-west!") I don't care what your opinion of your opponent is. I want to know where you stand on issues. That's really it. The best part about it is when an attack ad is chastising the opposing candidate for running attack ads. It's like two dogs chasing each others' tails. You know one of them will eventually "win," but both end up looking completely foolish in the process.

The only thing, in my opinion that these ads actually accomplish is completely demotivating the moderates from voting so that the entire election will not be decided by the voice of the majority, but by the voice of which side has more zealots. Or at the very least, more zealous cheaters. Is that what we want the country to become? Everyone complains about the corruption in Washington ("Add the 'D.C.'! Add the 'D.C.'!"), but no one seems to want to do anything about it. The American public doesn't want to vote. I believe that it's due in part to these ads that make all of you look evil, but there's no one who's not evil on the ballot.

One of the things that I've noticed about these ads is that they're really starting to target one of the main voting demographics: the elderly. So many of the ads are talking about how their Social Security will be threatened by this candidate or that one, or that they won't be able to get their medications, or that immigrants will help the terrorists keep them from being able to watch Wheel of Fortune.

Part of the problem with all of you candidates, for whatever office, is that you want to be there. You want to be part of the culture that is constantly giving yourselves pay raises. It doesn't matter on which side of the aisle you're found. One side had a president that lied to the American people and literally made the statement, "It depends on what the meaning of the word 'is' is." The other side is currently dealing with a scandal about a congressman propositioning former congressional pages. The fact of the matter is that you want to be there. I want one of you to run a campaign in which you say some positive things about your opponent and have the guts to have your ads focus only on your qualifications, what you bring to the table and where you stand on the issues. Even if I disagree with you on the issues, at least you'd have my respect, which is significantly more than any of the present-day candidates have.

Here's my solution: Until such time as I am old enough to run for president (slogan: "Hey, he's better than what we've got. We hope."), I'm going to be voting randomly for candidates. This way, while we will still have people who want to be in office, at least you will be randomly selected. Am I serious about this? No, but it helped to vent a bit.

So, there you have it. This is my letter, my plea, my challenge to you, the politicians of this nation: run a positive campaign. Stop deluging us with ads, especially the silly echo [echo] commercials [commercials].

Sincerely,

Jeff Kamp
Registered Voter

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Sleepus Interruptus

It had the beginnings of such a good night's sleep. We had gone to bed at ten. I had actually gone to bed at the same time as my wife, which has been a rarity since the baby was born. We talked for a bit. We cuddled for a while, and then I rolled over and went to sleep. Let me tell you, I went out cold. I was dead to the world. I don't think I was even having a dream at all. It would have been so fantastic to wake up with about eight ours of sleep under my eyelids. However, it was not to be. Around three a.m. I heard some people talking outside. Now, one would think that when you're outside in the wee hours in a neighborhood that's quiet, you would talk fairly quietly as well. They weren't. They were talking in their normal voices, chatting away. And we do live in a quiet neighborhood, except for the occasional toilet-papering across the street, lover's quarrel next door or the birthday party involving explosives across the yard. Being the non-confrontational guy that I am, I was hoping they were just walking by and things would quiet down again so I could get back to being dead to the world. They didn't move on. In fact, I heard a dog out there with them too. Another noise to annoy. I thought about all of the things that I should say: "Hey guys, some of us have to work in the morning." or the ever popular "Shut it!" I got out of bed, fumbled my glasses into place and looked out of the blinds. It wasn't just Mr. Random Person and friend. It was a couple of police officers. Their car was parked across my driveway. The lights weren't on, we had heard no sirens, but they were there with a German Shepherd. My wife made the comment that it was the second time they had been outside our window and earlier they had mentioned something about "checking around some houses." Normally, I'm not a very nervous person, but when I start thinking about the possibility of my home being invaded, I start asking quite a few questions:

"Did I shut the garage door after getting back from Un-named Fastfood Place?"

"The backdoor was locked, right?"

"I know I shut the window in front before heading to bed, but did I shut the one on the side of the house?"

"Did I leave the iron on?"

So, there I lay, asking these questions and straining my ears to hear anything that might possibly be out of order while cursing the likes of Pearl Jam and Nirvana for making me listen to their music so loudly that my hearing is shot. Regretting the fact that I didn't have any sort of heavy object with which to thwack an intruder. Finally, after an hour, I went downstairs and I read for a bit (after checking to make sure everything was in order). A half hour after that, it was, as it usually is about that time, 4:30. I figured it was time for me to try falling asleep again, the night's potential for good sleep already ruined. The story really ends uninterestingly, as most of mine do. Hey, I've made it nearly 30 years without having an interesting ending. Why start now? I got up, showered, ate my bowl of cereal, and I'm heading off to work in a minute. Maybe I'll swing by someplace and buy a bat. A bat just right for thwacking.

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Da Mihi Somnum

Once again, gentle reader, it is time for our weekly (or, with me at the helm, sometimes weekly) convivium. This week, I find myself in deep contemplation over the most fascinating effects of extreme sleep deprivation. I have come to know (in that intimate sense implied, for example, in the Authorized Version's use of the verb to know--that is, to come to know something on a deeply personal level through one's own experience of something) that one does not actually see everything that is present in the world around us unless one's senses have been enhanced by the natural processes of sleep deprivation. This is the case even with those things that directly affect our own selves. It is only as sleep deprivation truly begins to take hold that we begin to experience full reality. Allow me to explain, although Gilligan was an idiot.

I was forced (at gunpoint) last night to remain functioning far later into the night than has become customary for my ancient self, for I had tests to grade. I therefore didn't actually arrive home from my second round at the office until after 3:30 a.m. Now, in and of itself, this is not a particularly remarkable occurrence; however, this occurrence was not "in and of itself." It should have been. It could have been (at least on some ideal little world existing nowhere but in my mind). But it wasn't. As a matter of fact, after I got home last night, I had to (by which I mean "chose to") stay up until after 5:30 in the morning due to the fact that my youngest son decided it was a most smashingly marvelous night in which to lie awake all night long regaling the household and, indeed, the entire metropolitan area with the melodious rhythms of his piercing scream. I don't think I've ever heard such a broad octaval range reached by any one person since the days of Pavoratti. Oh, wait. Pavoratti is still around. Hey, maybe it's not all bad after all. Maybe I've got the next Pavoratti on my hands here. I could live with that (provided, of course, that my son remembered the horrifying nights endured by his loving parents with large cash settlements). As I was saying, my son decided 3:30 a.m. was the most perfectly suited time in which to exercise his young lungs. Since my wife deals with the little stinker all day, and since I generally sleep like the dead and so she deals with him all night, and (truth be told) since the night was pretty well shot anyway as I had to be getting up by about 5 a.m., I most generously offered to take him out of the bedroom so my wife could pretend to sleep. What a great guy. Sometimes I even amaze myself. Webster is like that, too.

Well, when I had been pacing with the little fire siren for about forty-five minutes, I believe I finally entered the state of genuine conscious awareness of all levels of reality (or at least of one extra level of reality). What prompted this little realization, you ask? At the very least, I'm sure that you now wish that you had thought to ask it. Kicking yourself now, aren't you? Anyway, what prompted this realization was the fact that for the first time in my life I saw Them. Well, They had to have at least been related to Them; maybe They were Him or Us, but at the least there was some connection there. I've seen my track record with statements like this, and I figure I'm about due for a hit one of these days, so I'll stick by my deduction. For the sake of convenience, and since no one in the office here has successfully managed (or even attempted...or even cared) to contradict my initial analysis, I will call them Little Green Devils. No, that's too long. I'll call them LGD (as in Mr. T). No, italicizing is too difficult. I'll call them simply "LGD." I wonder how many pseudo-grammarians are going to wade into this discussion in an effort to correct my punctuation and formatting. Probably none, considering I am slowly becoming more and more convinced that I am the only one foolish enough to actually stoop to reading my material. That's o.k., though. I'm not bitter. I'll just crawl back to my cry-hole for another round. Thanks a lot. Now I have to take a break. Maybe the A-Team can fill some space here.

Well, last night, as I was saying, I saw LGD for the first time, and man, were they uuuuuuggggggggglllllllllllllllllyyyyyyyyyy. Squat little bodies, pointed green ears, sickeningly luminescent yellow saliva, long red fangs, hairy prickles in the oddest places, black eye whites and hot pink irises. You name it, and if it's ugly, they had it. Worst of all were the thick, cracked fingernails--long and sharp, too. Something like Lloyd Christmas's toenails in Dumb and Dumber. When LGD started pouring out of the walls (literally--they came out a liquid and then solidified on the floor) and streaming towards me and my son, who was still doing his best imitation of an infant banshee, I realized it was time to take matters into my own hands. Luckily, I always keep two swords strapped to my back. Equally luckily, my wife had just shaved my head that morning, so I looked sexy, too. Equally equally luckily, my son, who is after all nine months, like all babies of his age, is fully capable of holding onto a rapidly twirling, dodging, dipping, slashing, parrying, sweeping, vacuuming, dusting, toilet cleaning maniac all by his little lonesome self. Oh, and he provided the John Williams soundtrack to the whole affair. Never have I moved so well or so fast. LGDs started losing limbs and heads left and right. They are vicious little devils (no pun intended) and put up a good fight...but not good enough for one who has earned the heron-marked blade. That was for you, Kamp. I grunted as only Monica Seles can. That helped. I know it did. At least it distracted them. In less than five seconds, I was sweating more than most people sweat in a year. The curse of being me, I guess. In less than five minutes, I had the LGD on the run. Good thing my family has me to protect them, I guess. I actually managed to escape the whole fight with only one small wound on my shin, delivered by the jagged fangs of one of the LGD, I'm sure. Or maybe it was when I cracked my shin on the end table. I forget, so I'll go with the more glorious story. Regardless, victory was mine. Barney Fife was always one of my favorites.

Just think: without sleep deprivation, this whole sinister world would have continued to go unnoticed. Maybe now the school will understand why I have to have swords strapped to my back. Maybe now I will begin to get some respect. Maybe now people will believe me when I talk about LGD. Maybe pigs will soon fly. Maybe I'll finally figure out how they became the Brady Bunch. Hey, it's possible.

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Common Akwardness

There is a guy at my work who for the duration of this article will remain nameless. Why don't I want to mention his name? Well, it's partially due to wanting to allow him to remain anonymous since he didn't ask to be written about. I respect anyone's desire to remain anonymous as much as they can. It's also mainly due to the fact that I don't know his name. This is the crux of my current issue. Somehow, in the two years that I've worked at my current place of employment, we've gotten into the habit, when we pass each other in the hall, to nod a greeting and say, "Hey." This isn't in and of itself a bad thing. It would seem to be common courtesy to greet someone that you know. The problem, however, is the fact that I don't know this gentleman as evidenced by the fact that I couldn't tell you his name if you offered me a million dollars and a trip to the San Diego Comic Con. It's gotten to the point where it's just rather awkward for me. I don't know him, yet I feel obligated to greet him. I'm not sure what to do at this point. It would be very rude to always look like I'm deep in thought and just avoid eye contact. I can't just avoid the guy in the hall all the time. He has the cubical next to a guy on my team with whom I collaborate quite frequently. I've thought about going up to him one day and just introducing myself. "Hi. My name is Jeff and we've been nodding to each other for months now, and I thought we should probably get to know each others' names." Really, when it comes right down to it, I don't have the guts to do something like that. I don't know why. Maybe it's the fact that I'm a very shy man. I'll wait a moment while those of you who know me stop laughing. Done? Okay.

It actually is true that I am rather reserved in certain circumstances. For instance, whenever I call in to a radio show (it's happened twice), I get very nervous. It's not that I can't speak in public; I actually consider myself a rather good public speaker. For some reason, in that specific case, I get nervous. Such is the case with my nameless co-worker. I'm not able to bring myself just to go beyond our awkward "comfort zone" of nodding and saying "Hey." I wonder if he feels the same way. I wonder if he's sitting somewhere writing a blog posting about the idiot at his work who hasn't said anything more than "Hey" for months, and he's dying a bit inside each day because no one will go beyond the monosyllabic with him. Just to reach out and be a friend. His mood today: melancholy.

I probably should just go for it and introduce myself, but I fall back on and take comfort in the fact that he hasn't yet either. Why does common courtesy have to be so uncomfortable? *Sigh*

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Choices

Well, gentle reader, after a two-week hiatus, caused largely by my own inability to manage time effectively (Yes, it's true. I know you're thinking "But Mr. Frederick, sir, how is it possible that you are not magnificent at everything to which you put your mind?" Of course, the answer to that is that I am great at everything to which I put my mind. I simply did not adequately bring that tremendous ability to bear in the recent situation...), I am back. "At last," I can hear you saying. "I don't know how my life could have continued without being able to waste hours of my time reading Frederick's drivel. So, what does he have for me this week?" I'm glad you asked that question.

Every day, we all make countless choices that impact our days (and sometimes our lives) to a greater or lesser extent. Clearly, some of these choices are completely irrelevant to most of the people around us, while others are not. A prime example of the former is the choice most of us must make relatively early in the morning--for some, before we break the night's fast, while for others it is after that breaking. Of course, I am referring to whether or not we take a shower on a given day. Obviously, this choice affects no one but ourselves. This is clearly exemplified by the "gentleman" who decided to sit two seats behind me on the city bus the other day. He was dressed in a suit and tie and was carrying a briefcase; further he was reading the Wall Street Journal. A businessman? Most likely. Apparently, this particular individual was a member of that social strata that feels it is historically, culturally, legally, and biblically required to think less of anyone not so stratified. Equally apparently, the particular social strata to which he belonged--and, perhaps more importantly, his job--required that he not shower in the morning. What was it that enabled me to deduce this particular truth, you ask? Well, apart from the fact that he was so...odiferous that he nearly blew my socks off my feet when he walked past...nothing. Oh, wait. There was something else, although I didn't realize it until I had once again regained consciousness. When my mental faculties were once again working at something vaguely resembling normal (by which I mean that I was mentally capable of once again doing anything, provided the anything in question was focusing on the powerful stench emanating from some as yet "unidentified source" in some "vague locale" behind me), I became aware of a periodically repeating sound that reminded me for some weird (It's more than strange...it's weeeeiiiiird.) reason of someone fighting a doomed battle to keep his (or, in this case, her) last meal in a place where it could at least pretend to nourish the body. So I guess there were two reasons for my deductions regarding the gentleman's morning routine.

Well, as I'm sure you'd like to know, my tremendous mental capabilities finally arrived at the conclusion that, in addition to earning incalculable infrequent shower miles, this gentleman must also enjoy frequently inviting the oh-so-scrumptious caloric companion that I like to call sauerkraut to his repasts. I mean, really, who wouldn't love adding mostly rotten cabbage to one's meals? In a stroke of sheer genius, I grounded this deduction upon the fact that the toxic fumes which were so close to repeatedly robbing me of conscious thought--not to mention the minor luxury generally dubbed "breathable air"--were remarkably similar in their odiferous characteristics to that stagnant pile of rotting vegetable. Indeed, I believe the United States military could have employed this individual as a WMD (or "Weapon of Mass Destruction" for those of you who have been living in a dark and lonely cave for the last few years). I happen to know for a personal fact that the currently reigning king of the flies regards this gentleman as a national treasure, since he and his immediate environment--that is, any place within a three-and-one-half mile radius of him--provides his people with bountiful housing and economic opportunities. And these opportunities show no signs of evaporating any time soon. Clearly, showering is a choice which affects only the individual in question.

What is the point of all of this, you ask? Why do you care about a random individual to whose presence I have been subjected on only one occasion? Well, at least why do you care other than the fact that it was I who was affected? The point is, quite simply, this: the choices we make very often both shape and define who we are; what is more, the choices we make very often have a lasting impact, whether positive or negative, on others, and especially on those who are near and dear to our hearts. How often do I catch myself making hubristically selfish choices about how to spend my time--even choices that are ostensibly for the well-being of my family? How often am I "too tired" or "too busy" to spend time with my kids? How often do I begrudge the time I spend with my family, frustrated that I am not during that time working towards occupational advancement (ostensibly to benefit my family)? How often is that time spent with only half of my mind on the "here-and-now" (o.k., o.k.--a quarter of it, since only half is in general use anyway)? How often do I do these things, and then say that they are done "for the good of the family"? How often "must" and do I justify what I am currently doing, when it steals more time from my family than I will ever be able to redeem? Far more often than I would care to admit. At what point do the activities of daily life--even the necessary and good activities--at what point do these activities need to be put aside in order to do what is truly important? Why can I not get it through my fat-coated brain that family is more important than anything but God, even if it means that certain aspects of my "real" life suffer? Why is it that I so often seem to think that I am the most important being in the universe? Wretched man that I am! Who will set me free from the body of this death? (Rom. 7:24 [NASB])

With my penchant for screwing things up...and overreacting to minor situations...and being an all-around poophead, perhaps it is better that my kids don't see me any more than they do. Regardless, it doesn't change the fact that I have few regrets so great as the fact that I have yet to see a first step, I have yet to hear a first word, I have yet to...well, I have yet to experience much of what makes life with young children that time of life that is among the best we can ever experience. And, God help me, all of which I sometimes seem capable is to screw up their young selves. Oh, wretched man, indeed. Where is the hope? Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord! (Rom. 7:25 [NASB]) Thanks be to Him, both for the salvation He has wrought for and in me and for His care for my children and my wife. There is no one more capable.

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So, It's a Date?

Trust me, the title will make sense in a little bit.

Knowing what I do about the computer industry (being a professional geek and all), I know that one shouldn't necessarily fall into the trap of always waiting for the "next big thing" before making a computer purchase. After all, there's always something that will be coming soon that will make what you currently have obsolete. As Weird Al said, "You say your laptops a week old? Well, that's great if you could use a nice heavy paper weight." And sometimes, it feels like this simply because the hardware improvements are coming so fast that what you get today does become old news in a big hurry. That's just the nature of the beast. That being said, I shall now start to rant.

As I've mentioned previously, my next computer is most likely going to be a Mac. More specifically, I'm going to get a MacBook laptop. I'm hoping to be able to save up enough for the MacBook Pro, but I think I'm starting to see that as being out of reach for me. I think I'm okay with that, but haven't completely decided yet. I'll let you know. Part of the reason that I'm able to be so serious about actually getting a laptop at some point in the foreseeable future is that my wife said I can. The trade-off is that I can't complain about her getting a dog when she wants to. A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.

There are a couple of things that I want to have happen before I actually take the plunge and purchase my long-anticipated new computer. For one, I want to wait until the latest version of Apple's OS X (Leopard) is released. That way I have the latest and greatest software on the computer instead of having an upgrade cost not long after purchasing the computer. Also, there's the fact that the new version of the operating system will have cool features like virtual desktops. I became addicted to having multiple virtual desktops while I was going to school and used Linux for the first time. I'm something of a windows (notice the lower-case "w") pack-rat in the sense that I really don't like to close a window that I have open. As such, I usually end up with way more windows on my screen than I probably need. The virtual desktops allow me to have different tasks allocated to different work spaces. In one I have my email program running. In another, I have my web browser, and in a third I have all the windows I need for writing the program on which I'm working. It's a feature that I think I'll appreciate in Leopard. The other upgrade that I'm waiting for is for the MacBooks to go to the latest Intel chip, the Core 2 Duo. The Core's are supposed to be one of the biggest upgrades in performance that people have seen in a while in a chip. Another big plus is that, supposedly, their heat output is much lower. This is important since excessive heat can really kill the length of your CPU's life--and there's also the fact that one of the biggest complaints people have had about the new MacBooks is that the bottoms get very, very hot. This makes having a cooler-running chip very nice. So, that's what I'm waiting on.

Now, however, we come to the problem: I have no idea how long I'm going to have to wait. Apple put the Core 2's into the iMac line fairly soon after the new chips were available for shipping. Still no word on getting them into the laptops. You know that they will be going into the laptops, but we have no idea as to when this will occur. This is also the problem with the latest version of OS X. It's very hard to plan for a purchase when you have no idea when the thing you want to purchase will be available from the manufacturer. Apple seems to want to have a gigantic pomp and circumstance surrounding every announcement, no matter how minor. It has to be some large event for everyone to "ooh" and "aah" over and, seemingly, boost Steve Jobs's ego. Also, so Jobs can turn around with that special twinkle in his eye and say, "One more thing" before revealing some other little tidbit of information. They seem to forget that people (well, people as in me) don't care how the information is presented, just that we have something to look forward to. Every year, I know when I'm going to have a birthday. Every year, I know when Christmas is going to arrive. I may not know the exact particulars of what I'm going to get for each, but I know the when aspect. This is what annoys me with how Apple handles their information. All we know about the new version of OS X is that it will come sometime in the "Spring." That's it. Meanwhile, we don't even know that much about the new chips being placed in the MacBooks. As far as I have seen, Mac has said nothing about it. I don't care if I know all of the particulars concerning about how the MacBooks will preform with the new chips. I just need to know that it'll be better and when I can expect it. I don't need to know everything about all of the new features of Leopard. I just need to know when I will be able to get it. Is that so much to ask?

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Indisputable Visual Evidence

We are currently four weeks into this bright NFL season. That means some of the teams are 1/4 of the way through their seasons if they haven't had a bye week already (if they had, it's completely ridiculous, but that's just me). Now looks like a good time to review my preseason predictions, and find out just how much of a load of hoohah they really are. If you want to read the original articles, here they are: AFC, NFC, Postseason.

AFC East (My Predictions)

1. Miami
2. New England
3. NY Jets
4. Buffalo

AFC East (Actual)

1. New England (3-1)
2. Buffalo (2-2)
3. NY Jets (2-2)
4. Miami (1-3)

New England once again is proving detractors wrong and showing that they can win football games even without the presence of actual talent on their team. If you were wondering what that sound was, it's Bill Belichek's ego growing. So far, I'm way off on Miami, as apparently Nick Saban has been bit by the stupid bug, and decided that throwing almost 75% of the time with a shaky QB is way better than utilizing your running game, which features one of the ten best backs in the game. Buffalo and the Jets look feisty, which I correctly predicted.

AFC North (My Predictions)

1. Baltimore
2. Pittsburgh
3. Cincinnati
4. Cleveland

AFC North (Actual)

1. Baltimore (4-0)
2. Cincinnati (3-1)
3. Pittsburgh (1-2)
4. Cleveland (1-3)

I'm feeling pretty good about the Baltimore pick right now. Pittsburgh looks dead in the water, and will be if they don't get Roethlisberger on track. Cincinnati is probably better than I gave them credit for, but they looked absolutely terrible against the Pats last weekend, so they may be cracking.

AFC South (My Predictions)

1. Indianapolis
2. Jacksonville
3. Tennessee
4. Houston

AFC South (Actual)

1. Indianapolis (4-0)
2. Jacksonville (2-2)
3. Houston (1-3)
4. Tennessee (0-4)

I pretty much have this one nailed so far, although in everyone else's defense, this might be the easiest division in the league to pick. Some things I'd like to point out: I said that the Jags would have a tendency to put up too many brain farts to take the division, and that's exactly what they've done in their two losses so far, losing to the Colts and Redskins in what were very winnable games. I realize that I have Houston and Tennessee flip-flopped, but if Vince Young starts to mature, he could win some games for the Titans Michael Vick style, while the Texans really have no hope if David Carr suddenly stops doing his Jim Kelly impersonation.

AFC West (My Predictions)

1. San Diego
2. Denver
3. Kansas City
4. Oakland

AFC West (Actual)

1. Denver (2-1)
2. San Diego (2-1)
3. Kansas City (1-2)
4. Oakland (0-3)

I'm happy with the way this has gone so far, as well. Jake Plummer hasn't been as terrible as I may or may not have predicted him to be, but he hasn't been good enough to stop the Jay Cutler rumblings in Denver yet. If Marty Schottenheimer ever gives Phillip Rivers the reins in San Diego, the Bolts will be very good. Randy Moss has already quit on Art Shell.

NFC East (My Predictions)

1. NY Giants
2. Dallas
3. Washington
4. Philadelphia

NFC East (Actual)

1. Philadelphia (3-1)
2. Dallas (2-1)
3. Washington (2-2)
4. NY Giants (1-2)

So far, I was way off on the Eagles. Donovan McNabb has looked terrific. Donte Stallworth has been what the Eagles have been missing at receiver for the last few years. Brian Westbrook has been amazing when healthy. The defense has been better than advertised. I'm not trying to puff myself up, but if any two of those above statements stop working for Philly, they are done. They already showed that they can lose a winnable game with that horrific collapse in New York. I'm not ready to anoint them NFC Champs just yet.

NFC North (My Predictions)

1. Detroit
2. Minnesota
3. Chicago
4. Green Bay

NFC North (Actual)

1. Chicago (4-0)
2. Minnesota (2-2)
3. Green Bay (1-3)
4. Detroit (0-4)

Yep. 'Nuff said. Ouch. Since the Bears are the new media darlings in the NFL, that pretty much guarantees that they won't be in the Super Bowl. Here's why: Rex Grossman is bound to get hurt sooner or later. Brian Griese has no chance at playing anywhere near the level Rex has all season, and they didn't really get their running game going until week 4 against the Seahawks. This team is primed to fall apart at some point or other, and I'm going to stick to my guns with them. I freely admit that I was completely wrong about Detroit. Kitna looks like nothing more than a caretaker QB, and that defense has been awful.

NFC South (My Predictions)

1. Tampa Bay
2. Carolina
3. Atlanta
4. New Orleans

NFC South (Actual)

1. Atlanta (3-1)
2. New Orleans (3-1)
3. Carolina (2-2)
4. Tampa Bay (0-3)

So far, not so good on this one. The Falcons still might be an 8-8 team, but that doesn't look like it'll be a major problem in this division. New Orleans has come out of nowhere, and that's even without a really substantial contribution by Reggie Bush. Once he takes off, this team could be really fun to watch. I feel bad for Tampa Bay--losing a QB like Chris Simms is never easy. Not to say that Simms was a world-beater when he was in there, because they were playing poorly with him in the lineup, but he was the team leader and now they have Bruce Gradkowski starting.

NFC West (My Predictions)

1. Seattle
2. St. Louis
3. Arizona
4. San Francisco

NFC West (Actual)

1. Seattle (3-1)
2. St. Louis (3-1)
3. Arizona (1-3)
4. San Francisco (1-3)

Woo Hoo! Don't see the order changing much during the season, just the records. The Cards and Niners could be rotating all year long, as Matt Leinert deals with not having an O-Line and Frank Gore deals with not being able to hold infants because the parents are afraid he'll drop them.

Well, that's about it. I'm gonna stay the course on these picks, because unlike ESPN, I believe that there are still 13 weeks of football left, and that's plenty of time for teams to screw up a good thing and to improve upon a bad thing. Unless you're Detroit. Then you're done.

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Drama Do and Drama Don't

At the time of this writing, my lovely wife and I just finished watching the second episode of Heroes. My opinion of the show is still a bit up in the air. Either I'm going to love it because it's taken the concept of ordinary people gaining extraordinary powers from the pages of the comic book and brought it into the realm of the serialized television show, or I'm going to hate it because they've presented it in such a way as to make it unacceptable to my wife and therefore I won't be able to watch it either. Such is life. However, that's not the reason for this article. One thing I realized as we were watching the show is that I seem to know a lot more about what to do in certain situations than any character I've ever seen in a dramatic TV show. I find myself talking to the TV screen telling the character exactly what they should and should not do. I'm always right, but they never listen. Therefore, I'm going to do every dramatic television show and movie character a huge favor and provide them with a small set of do's and don'ts as it applies to their "everyday" life.

• Do carry an extra set of clothes. Most likely, you're going to be kidnapped or have to hide in a sewer or something along those lines and you'll want to have a dry/clean set in the near future. Trust me on this. This also reminds me that you might be gone for a while, so be sure to feed the cat/dog/fish/younger sibling.
  
• Don't have loud, bright or sparkly clothing as either your primary or secondary set of clothing. As stated above, you'll most likely have to be hiding at some point. This means that you won't want people to see you. Sparkles might look fantastic when you're out with your friends in the sunshine, but they're a severe fashion faux pas when you're huddling in the closet.
• Do have a fully-charged cell phone with you at all times. You'll need to call someone at a climatic moment and you'll want to make sure that your phone has enough juice to make that call. The phone would preferably be one that people can home in on through some form of GPS system. Unless the people who are after you are the government or some form of shadow agency. In that case, this becomes a don't.
• Don't pick up a gun that you've found lying on the ground. Especially if it's right next to a fresh pool of blood. Picking up the gun means that within seconds, law-enforcement officials will come crashing through the door and see you with a gun next to or near a dead body. This is never a good thing. You do, however, have the defense to fall back on of being able to test and see if you've fired a gun recently (leaves some powder on your hand). That won't work if a buddy asked you to go skeet shooting with him earlier in the day. This, by the way, is also a tell-tale sign that your friend is the one that did it.
• Do stay with the group. Granted, this is mainly a piece of advice for a character in a horror/slasher flick, but it works here too. If you're always with the group, then you always have an alibi for your whereabouts.
• Don't make a video about your emerging powers, cool treasure find or scientific discovery. That's just asking for the tape to fall into the wrong hands and you'll find yourself in a world of trouble.
• Do ask for a lawyer. You're going to say something stupid. It always happens. Just ask for a lawyer right away because they know when not to say something. Which is most of the time, really.
• Don't pretend to be someone that you're really not. They're going to ask you for the password/fingerprint/secret blend of herbs and spices and you're not going to know. It might get you out of hot water for a few minutes, but in the long run, you'll just make everything that much more painful for you.
• Do check the safety on the gun before making your presence known to the bad guy. This is especially true if you're a novice with the gun. They're going to say that the safety's on and you're going to look and they'll dodge behind a loved one unless you make sure to check it first. Don't say I didn't warn you.
• Don't believe that they're not going to hurt you. That's pretty much guaranteeing that they are going to hurt you. It's like the Opposite Zone in Calvin Ball for these people.

So, there you have it - my list of do's and don'ts if you happen to find yourself as a character in some form of dramatic media. I can't say that it's a complete list or, for that matter, an accurate list, but it's the list that I pulled out of my butt. Hope you enjoyed it. The list, not my butt.

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