So here it is: I'm going to write a book, see?

It'll be about this guy who has this online "journal" that he fails to update for a while… for a LONG while.

Isn't that an awesome concept? Aren't you jealous that you didn't think of it first?

I think I have the basic concept mapped out, but I'll throw in a few elements to make SURE it sells:

1. First, the guy posts some stupid stuff.
2. Then, I'll insert something about a club of traveling pants.
3. Then, he'll post some more stupid stuff.
4. Next, he'll figure out the hidden mysteries of a major religion using some kind of code.
5. Some more stupid posts.
6. What follows here will probably mention Oprah and Dr. Phil.
7. A REALLY stupid post, where he tries to be funny about all the time he HASN'T posted.
8. Something about girls kissing, or boys, or whatever is more "in vogue" at the moment
(I'll leave this up to the editor).
9. A recipe for my mom's famous "Dutch Apple Wonder Cake."

After I make all this stuff up, I'll send it out as nonfiction. Woohoo! I'm off to look into purchasing a lime-green Mercedes!

...






(shhhh.... I'm trying to sneak back in after being gone a while...)





.

It has arrived. I put it off as long as I could: I waited for the next update, the next price drop. Finally, I could hold out no longer: my shiny black iPod rocks like bobby socks. I have the entire catalog of the Beatles, Rolling Stones, Pink Floyd, The Who. Wilco, They Might Be Giants, etc. at my fingertips.
( Read more... )

My newest procrastination plan involves complicated rationales for why I do what I do. My latest? The Idjot Email Project at http://robertfwalsh.com/IdjotEmailProject.html

(right-click and open it in a new window so you can close it in disgust)

This is based on The Lazlo Letters by Don Novello and on what Matthew St. Amand and Marty Barett did a few years ago. At some point I'm going to have to figure out how people do that trick with the stuff that doesn't show up until you comment, then a whole new article pops up. (I know, I'm confused, too)

Five Weird Things

Okay, I was "tagged" by two people for doing something called a "meme." I don't know what that means. I did, however, go back and get an idea that I was supposed to write 5 weird things about myself. That seems criminally short, considering I could write hundreds. I settled on these:

1. I can't stand sitting with my back to people. At happy hours or parties I'll arrive and grab a chair and shoe-horn it into a corner just so I can get my back to the wall. I think I was an outlaw in a previous life.

2. I develop ridiculous and unhealthy attachments to stupid things. I end up buying the ugliest Christmas tree on the lot every year because I worry it won't get bought (and because of A Charlie Brown Christmas). Kristen puts up with it like a champ, but we have to spend the rest of the season apologizing for it. I also have a tiny smiley face that fell off one of my student's papers that I put on my dashboard; now I press it back on firmly every time I get in the car. I'm rooting for it to hang on.

3. I'd be a vegetarian if not for the meat of the pig and hamburger. I hate every other type of meat, fish, and poultry. I really suck at restaurants (one more reason Kristen should be canonized).

4. I have a Go Go's "Beauty and the Beat" concert t-shirt that my brother got me when I was young. If there's a fire in my house, I'm going back in for it.

5. I go to movies to see the previews of the other movies. After those are over and the real movie begins, I feel a profound sense of disappointment. Previews never have slow parts of plot flaws, and I like the pretty music. I'm one, small step away from going Rainman…

That's right: not one, but TWO videos today! What better way to showcase my innate ability to put off that which is important than by making a two-part video about the books on my bookshelf?

Parts One and Two of the video reside here:
http://dropshots.com/day.php?userid=63001&cdate=20060213&cimg=0

Once you finish the first one, click on the little video icon to the right, or the tiny right-arrow.

Trust me: NO ONE can waste your time like I can waste your time...

The Opening Ceremonies of the 2006 Torino Winter Olympics


I don't have the time nor the energy to go into why the Olympics have lost their relevance. Why will more people watch Simon piss and bitch his way through American Idol than watch the celebration of the human spirit that the Olympics represent? Probably for the same reason more people watched Simon piss and bitch his way through American Idol than watched the Presidential Sate of the Union Address: none of them ever live up to expectations, but only Idol has someone calling them on it.

Be that as it may, I TiVo-ed the season finale of Arrested Development so that I could watch the entire two hours the next day, then fell asleep to the weirdness that is the Olympic opening ceremony. At first I was livid that Fox would sentence Development to wither on the vine like this, sending the last show out on a night traditionally dominated by the opening ceremonies. This passed quickly, however, as those same ceremonies lulled me effortlessly to sleep.

You'd think we'd be more interested in a show that required 6,100 volunteers and 10,000 hours of practice at an estimated cost of $34 million bucks. Instead, market analysts are projecting an average Neilsen rating of 12-14 a night. Hell, even Hee Haw or Temptation Island did better than that. Putting the Olympics up against Idol is like sending Bambi into the lion's den: it's hard to envision a happy ending.

Still, I'm a sucker for tradition. I grew up watching the Olympics because my dad was too cheap to spring for cable and Fox was nothing but an ugly gleam in Rupert Murdoch's all-seeing eye. So I had a few drinks with some friends after work, ate a nice meal, and plopped down in front of the tube to watch the "Rhythm, Passion and Speed'' that the producers promised.

What I saw was jarring, as if Frederico Fellini himself had risen from the grave to take one more stab at absurdism: skaters with rocket packs blasting fire whipping around the rink, grown men in little boy outfits playing the Alpen horn (those long "Reeeeeee-cooo-laaaaaaa" thingies) with little flag poles on them, dancing cow couples circled by models of cows on skates, Yoko Ono making a speech about peace before Peter Gabriel performed John Lennon's "Imagine," Susan Sarandon (huh?) carrying in the Olympic flag, dancers with bubbles stuck to their heads, dancing trees… It was the perfect dorm-room-with-a-bong video accompaniment.

I started going in and out of sleep as the long procession of around 80 countries we brought into the stadium. Americans entered to "Think'' by Aretha Franklin, an interesting choice considering the political climate. The choice for host Italy's delegation was (and I checked this to make sure it wasn't a dream) "YMCA'' by the Village People. I dare you to try to piece together that decision-making process. Tenor Luciano Pavarotti slathered the shoe polish on his hair and eyebrows for one last time to close out the ceremony with a rousing rendition of… something operatic with weird words and lots of drawn-out vowels.

It ended with a protracted series of explosions that seemed to make some of the athletes awfully nervous: do we really need fireworks at this month's #1 on the terrorist wishlist? The only thing missing: snow. Temperatures in the high 30s and low 40s this week melted everything, reducing Torino to man-made snow and passing out white parkas so it look "wintery" on camera.

Oh well, there's always Arrested Development waiting for me in my TiVo.

Silly Rabbit- Terror's for Kids!

I saw in the paper the other day that the U.S. Department of Homeland Security recently revealed a readiness program for terrorist attacks and other catastrophes that's aimed at the kids. It's called Ready Kids (http://www.ready.gov/kids/home.html), and it features the Mountain Lion Family (Rex, Purrcilla, Rory, and Hector- "a real smarty-pants… Rex's best friend and right-hand bird!") as they prepare for doomsday.

What better way to prepare our young for the dangers of runaway nukes, terrorist cells, or tomorrow's next flood than by … having them study mountain lions?

They even give us a little info on each character to help us survive the coming nuclear winter: Rex "loves making friends! He talks to everyone he meets and loves to learn all about them. Rex knows that everyone has a special story and something great to share." Wow- maybe we should walk up to the next mountain lion we see in our back yard and share a tale!

Purrcilla "loves drawing! She has passed on her love of drawing to her daughter. Purrcilla enjoys taking her box of pencils and paper outdoors to sketch scenes from nature. She loves the peace and quiet." Lucky for her, because they might be the only survivors- she'll finally get that peace and quiet she's been hoping for!

Rory "loves animals and drawing! She has been known to spend all day climbing trees and rocks, swimming, or hiking in the forest looking for unusual insects to draw! She has lots of pets, including an owl and fish!" Those pets who survive with her will make a great meal.

Last, but not least, is Hector: "When not exploring with Rex, Hector can usually be found on a limb trying to catch the attention of a pretty love bird." Hector's going to be plenty lonely in the coming months until the radiation levels die down enough to go back above-ground.

The best part about these survivalists? Despite the lack of opposable thumbs, they're a mammalian Partridge Family: Rex plays the axe ("Rex made his own guitar from a hollow tree!"), Purrcilla sings ("With a voice that 'purrs,' melting the hearts of all who hear"), and Rory plays the drums ("she always jumps at the chance to play with her mom, dad, and friends"). Hector is too busy getting' busy with the love birds to joint the band, evidently.

And to think that in the Fifties they put out that ridiculous literature about hiding under your desk if an atomic bomb was dropped in the neighborhood. We've come a long way, baby!

All snideness aside, I do realize the importance of getting children to understand the basic tenets of emergency training, and the site does have some helpful information on the more mundane catastrophes (tornadoes, earthquake, flood, etc.). It's the little things that torpedo this campaign: the unfortunate choice of the "Mountain Lion Family" for starters. I guess the prospect of rallying survivors is easier to swallow when presented with sugar-coated animals rather than screaming babies. However, did anyone check to see that most mountain lion species are endangered, and some on the bridge of extinction due to habitat loss? If I want to learn how to survive disaster I'm going to follow the cockroaches: their plan works! I don't see them wasting time in rock bands.

I guess the most disturbing thing about the site is this tidbit: I am a graduate of Readiness U. I took the test after I read through the material on the site, and I made sure to get every answer wrong. I clicked on each of the three wrong choices for every question before finally settling on the right one (you had to do so in order to move on). For instance, I answered "My bug collection" when asked the most important thing to include in my emergency kit. My certificate (yes, I printed it out) says, "If there is an emergency, you will be ready! Excellent job!"

I could have saved them a lot of money. My brochure would have said, "Hi, kids! I'm Randy the Radiology Sickness Ranger! My time is short, so let's make this brief: keep bugging mommy and daddy about creating an emergency kit until you actually see the damn thing. Make sure they have developed a plan for you in case of an emergency. After that, live your life; no sense fearing what MIGHT happen at your age (that's mommy and daddy's job)! If, heaven forbid, something DOES happen, crawl under the desk and you'll be fine. Stay in school and stay off the drugs, kids!"

Even Rex can see the sense in that!

My niece called me up the other day to ask me to help her with a school project. She is the sweetest thing this side of the Olsen twins, and I couldn't say no. Her sixth grade class was compiling a short written history of the stories of their families. Coming from a family of seven kids (and therefore from an endless supply of stories), I was honored that she included me. I quickly agreed to help in any way I could.

Then I got the written instructions. Thermonuclear reactors require less documentation.

To make a long story short (and, trust me, it turned out to be a veeeeeeery long story), it ended up taking two days for me to finish my contribution. Eschewing sleep in order to complete my pieces before her deadline, I struggled under the pressure to "come through in the clutch." I wrote, then rewrote, then realized that I had to take out all the inappropriate references and allusions to the crimes of her father. In short, I had to do many of the things that James Frey should have done: spare her some of the more embarrassing details.

When, at last, I was able to send off two finished stories that adhered to the project requirements, I'd felt as if I'd just finished a book. I was free! I could actually turn back to the stack of student papers that rose from my desk like a flimsy paper finger pointing toward the sky…

Her next email started out thusly: "Dear Uncle Robby,
Thank you for sending me those two stories for my project. They were very funny. I have to have the next two by Tuesday."

This might be why I don't have kids. I love my nieces and nephews more than life itself, but I'm going to have to miss "Dancing With The Stars" in order to finish now.

My love has limits…

Sssshhh... you- come over here. Quick! I don't want anyone else to see you. I have to share this with someone, even though I'm not proud of it.

I've fallen in love with someone else. I wasn't looking for it, but it found me. In the words of Woody Allen: "The heart wants what it wants."

Before you judge me, look her over (click and paste the link below into your browser if it doesn't work, because I can't do no fancy linkin') and you'll see why I was lost from the start...

http://www.dropshots.com/day.php?userid=63001&cdate=20060122&ctime=115752

I know what you're doing, and I don't appreciate it.

You think this is funny? I know for a fact that you're not moving as fast as you should because there's no way I just checked my Inbox for the third time in ten minutes. That would be crazy; CRAZY, I say!

How could an agent possibly reply to a question that I just posed a mere four minutes ago? It's ridiculous, and yet… nope, still nothing there.

No, it's obvious that you are messing with my head. You do it when I post something on LJ, too- I keep checking back for replies only to find that it's only been up for only two minutes. How can this be?

I think you save up the time that you steal from me at night, when I wake up feeling so tired. Then you slip it in when I'm waiting for something, making it take forever. I'm on to you now.

It wasn't always this way. Before I started writing, I had a perfectly acceptable relationship with you. I still remember the day I picked you out: you were so shiny with a hint of green, such a vast improvement over the glaring red numbers that roused me from my slumber for years before. I reveled in your dual alarm settings and your "Sounds of the Forest" sleep feature.

Now you mock me with each submission I send, grinning your digital indifference every time I scurry back to my Outlook Express to check for acceptance.

"Back already?" you seem to say, snuggled in between a lamp and the TiVo remote on my nightstand. Lately you've developed a French accent in my head.

I check again: No New Messages. Maybe it's broken: I close out of it and open it again. No New Messages. My eye is drawn to you as you crawl to 6:03.

Oh, I know what you're up to, all right. And as soon as I finish rebooting my computer to make sure that the mail is coming through properly, I'm coming after you next…

Why do I blog? Because I'm not afraid to talk about our toilet seat.

I'm not leery of offending anyone's sensibilities by admitting that we never replaced the seat when we first moved in four years ago. Nope. We scrubbed that sucker with some ammonia and then subjected our most holy of holies to whatever remained. I put more thought into the reading material that sits on top of it than I did the idea that using someone else's toilet seat might be utterly disgusting.

I'm not averse to sharing that it cracked about eight months ago, snapping like a pretzel rod right in the middle of David Egger's A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius. Some might be too embarrassed to write that they didn't rush out to replace the seat at this point. Not me. I waited until the other side cracked as well, just as I was starting James Frey's My Friend Leonard.



I know of many people who would rather die than disclose that they merely maneuvered the broken part of the seat back into place for a few days rather than brave Home Depot for its replacement in the middle of the week. They would never reveal the sense of danger, the teeth-chattering fear one must live with every time one reaches a little too far for the toilet paper.

I'd have to look long and hard for anyone else to own up to the fact that they finally broke down and bought that new toilet seat (ooooh, wood grain) a week ago, but that it still sits in a corner of the bathroom, entombed in cellophane wrapping.

Most importantly, I'm not afraid to say that Mrs. Walsh is the coolest thing since sno-cones because she hasn't killed me yet. We share more than the pointy, jagged dimples on our heinders after using this toilet; we share the utter exhaustion of teachers who'll put up with almost anything after a long week in front of middle schoolers.

So, why do I blog? Because where else can I expound upon my fearlessness about my toilet seat?

Shame.

TiVo has exposed us again; it's brought us to a new low. We feel dirty, embarrassed.

The first time it happened was a few years ago during the World Series. Manny Ramirez was up at bat, the count was 3-2, and all the people we'd invited over for the party had their eyes glued to the TV. The pitcher reared back, poised to deliver the pitch that could change the game when… South Park came on.

The very reason we got TiVo in the first place, the Season Pass feature that lets you record an entire season of a show with one click, was the cause of our Shakespearean downfall.

"What the hell is this?" demanded one irate Boston fan. "Turn the game back on!"

"You wanted to watch a cartoon instead of the game?" another asked.

"I think he's taping the whole season," whispered another.

I jumped up and struggled with the remote, trying to get to the screen that would let me stop taping and return to the game. In the process I had to go to the Now Playing screen, where everything we'd taped was displayed for all to see.

Have you ever invited people up into your bedroom to look at your underwear drawer? Probably (hopefully?) not, but giving outsiders a chance to peek into your TV world has the same effect. There are things in there you need but don't discuss openly: most of it is drab, strictly functional. However, you might have a few "frillies" in there as well, a little something to kickstart the 'ol adrenaline.

Our Season Pass contains Survivor, The Daily Show, Curb Your Enthusiasm, and even a little Charlie Rose. These are everyday, mom-and-pop shows. Dig a little deeper in the drawer, however, and you hit Victoria's dirty little secrets: The Family Guy, The Biggest Loser, Breaking Bonaduce, Wondershowzen, The New Gilligan's Island, Amish in the City, etc. We're not proud, but there you have it. Sometimes, we need to feel dirty, and so we'll watch repeat episodes of Gene Simmon's Rock School or Growing Up Gotti.

"Is that a whole season's worth of Hogan Knows Best?" my father in law asks me as I fumble through the Now Playing screen.

I know the worst is yet to come, because I have to scroll down to the S for South Park, and I know that my wife's Lifetime Original Movies addiction is going to rear its ugly head. We're not into smutty movies, but you'd never know it to look at the Lifetime movies on our Now Playing screen. The titles read like three-word pornography: Crimes of Passion, A Dangerous Affair, A Lover's Revenge, Seduced and Betrayed, Sex Lies & Obsession, Sin and Redemption, The Lover Awaits, etc.

"What is Sins Against Decency?" asks the ten year-old son of one of my neighbors before his mother's hand covers his mouth.

"No, it's not… it's a movie, but it's… it's not what it looks like," I say, punching at the remote control in full panic. "See? It's TV-14."

The damage done, I finally get the TiVo back to the game. The inning's over now, and evidently Manny didn't come through. I walk red-faced back to the couch, glaring at my wife, while the commercials chatter in the background.

"Anyone else need a beer?" I ask, voice cracking. No one responds, their eyes cast downward.

As I pull another Amstel out of the refrigerator, I overhear one of my friends whisper, "Amish in the City? Who takes the time to program in an opportunity to watch Amish people?"

Who indeed? Damn you, TiVo… damn you to hell.

I was never in the "It's not New Year's Eve without watching Dick Clark" camp. His deal with the devil left me feeling creepy: how the hell can anyone look that young for that long? Last night that changed, however, as Dick Clark showed his human side. Returning from a major stroke, he wasn't doing much Rockin' but he was inspirational (can we ask for anything better to start off a new year?) as he hosted the festivities from Times Square.



It was calming to see the ABC cameras cut to him after yet another overly-enthusiastic explosion from Ryan Seacrest, his cohost. You could almost hear the effort Dick spent the previous year practicing his final countdown, and it's the first time I've ever looked forward to tv coverage of this event.

His replacement from last year, Regis Philbin, evidently caught the bug: he ended up hosting his own gig on Fox. Still, the star of the show was America's own Corpse Bride, Mariah Carey.



She's looking very... zoftig. It seems after her latest career rebirth (she was the year's top seller in 2005) she finally got permission to eat again.

Still, that deal with the devil comes at a great cost: Dick's return meant someone else had to go... YOU'RE MY BOY, BLUE! Rest in peace, Patrick Cranshaw (1920 - 2006)

I get squirelly when I'm bored... as I wait for our New Year's party to begin (or at least until I'm asked to start vacuuming), I thought up this little activity: write a letter to New Year's Day. Here's mine (and yes, it's fictional!!!!!). Anyone else game?

AN OPEN LETTER TO NEW YEAR'S DAY

First of all, let me apologize for my behavior last night. I know that blaming the tequila is the easy way out, and you deserve better. Because Dr. Phil has taught me to live by design as opposed to living reactively, I want to take a moment to thank you for all that you've done for me.

As you know, this time of year really takes its toll. No sooner am I done polishing off the last of the turkey salad and apologizing for the striptease with Aunt Flora's girdle (I know that blaming Jack Daniels is the easy way out) than Christmas rears its ugly head (Christmas, or Challeleawah, or Kwanzai, or whatever those people call it that don't believe in God but still like the egg nog and presents).

December is a month crammed with agonizing questions: which presents should I re-gift and for whom; when's the last day I can order something from Amazon and still have it by Christmas Day; how can I outdo the Stemperelli's and their stupid manger scene/Christmas light extravaganza? Who cares if I can't technically "afford" the electric bill from all my inflatable Santas that light up my front lawn in Wal-Mart glory? The Stemperelli's don't have a Santa, not even one of those small ones they could put next to the crib. I know that blaming the bathtub gin isn't enough to explain why I supposedly set fire to Joseph and one of the donkeys last year, but I maintain it was an accident in light of the fact that I can't remember it. (Get it? The pun? Who says bathtub gin rots your brain?)

Your arrival is truly a blessing to us all, and not just because it marks the day the Stemperelli's pack up their manger scene, allowing me to unplug Santa's soul-crushing electric bill. No, you afford us the opportunity to take the rest of the week off to watch some football, bring the empties out to the curb, and hide the matches. You give us time for the montages of the famous people who died the previous year, and the hope that Dick Clark will one day be among them. Most importantly, you give us the one night where everyone else has to apologize for their actions after a long, debaucherous night of drinking.

And I don't let them take the easy way out.

God bless you, New Year's Day!

P.S. If you happen to know what I did with my pants last night, would you be a dove and let me know?

I found this test on lindsey_leavitt's blog and thought that I'd give it a whirl..

the Cutting Edge (57% dark, 50% spontaneous, 36% vulgar)

your humor style: CLEAN | SPONTANEOUS | DARK Your humor's mostly innocent and off-the-cuff, but somehow there's something slightly menacing about you. Part of your humor is making people a little uncomfortable, even if the things you say aren't themselves confrontational. You probably have a very dry delivery, or are seriously over-the-top. Your type is the most likely to appreciate a good insult and/or broken bone and/or very very fat person dancing. PEOPLE LIKE YOU: David Letterman - John Belushi The 3-Variable Funny Test! - it rules - If you're interested, try my latest: The Terrorism Test

My test tracked 3 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender: You scored higher than 66% on darkness You scored higher than 61% on spontaneity You scored higher than 48% on vulgarity

Link: The 3 Variable Funny Test written by jason_bateman on Ok Cupid, home of the 32-Type Dating Test

Marianne Faithfull was born on this day in 1946. I saw it on CNN, and I knew the name but not what she was famous for. Rather than correct the student papers in front of me, I went online and checked out born-today.com. Here is the text of her entry:

"Maybe the most that you can expect from a relationship that goes bad is to come out of it with a few good songs.
Marianne Faithfull
(12/29/1946 – )
English singer (had relationships with Mick Jagger, Keith Richards, and Brian Jones)"




Her biography is defined by her boyfriends, which seemed to consist of... The Rolling Stones. Even the dead one. Where has Charlie Watts been?

I learned from Matt St. Amand that Michael Vale, the actor best known for his portrayal of a sleepy-eyed Dunkin' Donuts baker who said "Time to make the doughnuts," has died. He was 83. The guy died of complications from diabetes...

Good luck on those New Year's diets, folks!!

I feel as if someone just carved me hollow and let the wind whistle around a bit... James Frey's A Million Little Pieces is a haunting read! Each turn of the page is like picking shards of broken glass out of the carpet: dangerous but oddly satisfying in the end. Once I got past the lack of punctuation and dialogue attribution, the book captivated me; I dropped everything these last few days just to find out what happened to the poor guy. Now I have to fight my wife for the sequel that she just got last night.

NOTE: One place I COULDN'T go to find out additional information on Frey was Oprah's book club page, where I'll have to sign up for her main members section before I even try to sign up for the book club "exclusive video." No wonder this is one of the richest women in history: she's constantly having her target demographic fill out forms detailing their personal preferences! Smart cookie...

It's happened again: I'm back down to one friend.

Every time Dad moved I'd be back to square one, trying desperately to fit in and make a few friends before the next birthday party invites went out. Now I'm the new kid in this online community, and something called "lj_maintenance" is my only friend. I don't think LJ wanted to be friends with me, either. Its mom probably made LJ come up and play with me the way my mom always made me play with the new kids in the neighborhood.

"Go over there and introduce yourself," she'd say, shuffling me out the door.

"But I don't wanna," I'd reply.

"You get over there right now mister or I'll GIVE you something you don't want to do!"

Am I now the weird new kid, the one that picks his nose and saves it on the side of his shoe? The one with the bad breath and the pink football helmet? Is LJ secretly dreading the fact that it has to list me as a friend?

I see the way LJ looks at me, smug and superior and full of disdain. I don't need your pity, lj_maintenance, I don't need your charity.

Still, if you have a birthday party coming up, know that I tend to give fantastic presents. Really. I'd be an asset.