My dog has gas problems. As in: major gas problems. And the funny thing is, I think he’s rather embarrassed by it.

The Wife™ and I thought it was cute when we first got Jonas that he’d have tiny puppy burps that would ripple through his throat and take him by surprise. Often, these darling little gastrointestinal rumblings would even cause him to snort, sneeze or blink excessively immediately following expulsion. Cute. Because when you’re a puppy, even your belches are adorable.

There were even a few times that a rather unpleasant smell was detected and ultimately traced back to him. And there he’d sit, with his little sad puppy eyes, as if to say, “What? Me? I’m so sorry. But I’m far too innocent and endearing to be blamed. Please don’t frown at me big person.” We’d laugh at the thought of the dog passing gas because apparently our standards for humorous material have slid a few notches since marriage.

Since we’ve taken him off puppy food, a measure to curb The Wildness™, these unfortunate eructations have increased in frequency, volume and dramatic presentation. I’m confident that every judge on Dancing With the Stars would rate him a “perfect 10” each time. Then I imagine him doing a mini curtsy and exiting stage left, tipping his tiny top hat towards the audience. Nonetheless, our dog has a severe gas issue. And to The Internets I confess that I can take it no longer.

Yesterday, while standing in the kitchen preparing dinner, Jonas came trotting in. The Wife™ was away for the evening and he and I had ample time to romp it out and play fetch, joyfully wrestle and partake in our favorite game: “OK Seriously…Stop Biting Me! Jona—STOP OR I’LL DISEMBOWEL YOU!” What a great game.

So as I stood at the counter doing something human-like and me-centered (both things that His Highness™ detests as neither involve him), he began to get frustrated. I can only assume it was because I was not paying enough attention to his awesomeness. To fix this he takes off! Dashing through the kitchen, into the living room he dove into his crate head first (if he had done it ass-first then even I would have scored him a perfect 10). He emerged with his giant red Kong™ hanging from his mouth, as proud as if he had just caught a pigeon or completed a medium level of that Sodoku puzzle he’s been working on in his off-time. He pranced around the living room, strutting his stuff, just brimming with pride.

And as the spirit moved him, he came running back into the kitchen. Me, doing me-things and not him-things, still was not paying attention. So in an effort so filled with triumphant flair and panache, he raised his head (with the conical-shaped Kong™ still hanging out of his mouth) and proceeded to belch the loudest, most crude belch I’ve ever heard. The fact that he was using his Kong™ as a megaphone to amplify this act of glory made it all the more spectacular.

As I looked down at him in horror, he met my gaze with his own surprised expression. He looked left, raised an eyebrow, cast his eyes to the floor and dropped the Kong™. He then ran away in embarrassment at the atrociousness he had just committed.

Jonas spent the rest of the evening slinking around the house, avoiding me like a child who has disappointed their parent in some way. I guess he’s over it now, though, as this morning he gleefully produced a sound so foreign and heinous that—if dogs had pants—would make me question if he had just crapped them.

It was still funny too.

With some much-welcomed time off from work, I decided to use the holiday this past weekend to get some work done. The Wife™ and I have been slowly working our way through the house with paint brushes, ardently trying to undo what the previous, apparently color-challenged tenants had done. And though I hate painting more than having a hot poker shoved, well, anywhere, I decided we should knock out the family room, front hallway, stairwell and upstairs hall. In short, I was willing to surrender four and a half days of vacation time to doing that which I loath most. Happy holidays!

Wednesday afternoon, after changing the oil in my car (another totally awesome vacation-like activity?) I started the trim work. Having a week or two of wall prep already completed, I was resolved to get all the trimming done in order to paint on Thursday. And despite spilling an entire beer into the dog’s crate (you’re welcome Jonas!), everything was uneventful. I should have been wary.

As Thursday came and went, this trend of normalcy continued and by Thursday night we had a base coat on the entire living room (leaving the front hallway for me to do on Friday morning.) The Wife™ decided to partake in that Black Friday malarky, so Dogzilla and I hung out and sipped cosmos on the back deck avoided each other so I could get some painting done. For the first time ever, Jonas actually played in the yard by himself for three glorious, unbelievable hours. I should have known that I was in for something.

I was on such a roll after finishing another round of painting that I decided to up the ante and do wall prep work on the entire basement. I was flying. Spackling this. Sanding that. Moving furniture. I was a machine! Then I smelled the cooler.

I had forgotten that I had left some trisodium phosphate and sodium bicarbonate in water in a cooler to clean some empty beer bottles. And since I left it there for three weeks unattended, some mold had begun to grow. Not a problem. Remember? I was a machine!

I emptied the cooler and busted out the bleach. Grabbing a sponge I set to scrubbing the cooler clean. Perhaps it was the paint fumes. Maybe it was the fact that I was getting too big for my paint-stained britches. Whatever the case, I scrubbed a bit too vehemently and accidentally shot a stream of highly concentrated bleach directly into my left eye.

What happened next is not really known. I do slightly recall thrashing about the basement kitchenette like a neutered gorilla, making all the motions of wanting to scream but without producing actual sound. For a solid thirty seconds at least I was sure my days of being bi-ocular were done. I was sure that I had effectively burned my eye out.

Clearly God was smiting me for finishing the painting without incident.

In the end, I spent the better part of 15 minutes washing my left eye out with water from a shot glass (because my head is too large to fit under a faucet. Duh.). The ultimate victim in all of this was my productivity. No more painting that day. No more spackling. I spent Thanksgiving dinner #2 with a swollen eye and bruised ego.

And the worst part is that the entire time I thought Jonas was playing in the yard by himself, he was somehow stealing toys from other dogs through the fence line. I still haven’t figured out how he did it, but even this morning he produced Foreign Toy Numero Five out of thin air. Maybe I’ll pour some bleach on them and see if he likes them just as much.

When I was younger, I had no idea that Black Friday even existed. I guess it’s because my family wasn’t much into that pitched-fever shopping stuff. Hell, if you had asked me I would have likely thought it was some historical referrence from a social studies assignment that I had tuned out. Again with the dork thing…

1. This rug from Momeni - In slowly outfitting the living room with new digs, I’ve been searching for a good lookin’ rug. Too expensive for the possibility of doggie destruction, and not the right color. But nonetheless I think this is beautiful.
2. Hand-me downs - Some people have problems with adopting the used belongings of others. Not me (so long as it’s not toothbrushes or underwear). In the past two weeks we’ve inherited a couch, an oversized chair and a 33” TV. Our basement got a lot cooler at no extra charge.
3. This Ain’t A Scene, It’s An Arms Race - I’ve been obsessed with the new single from Fall Out Boy. This makes me 1) a preteen culture whore, 2) a mall-obsessed chick or 3) someone who can’t deny the guilty pleasures of pop-punk. It’s #3. I swear.
4. AOL Sessions Under Cover, Red Jumpsuit Apparatus - They cover that Staind song (rather convincingly too), but the ‘unplugged’ version of their hit Face Down is almost better than the original I think. No direct link because AOL is dumb, so you’ll have to click on the second song. [Thanks Andy]
5. Sierra Nevada Celebration Ale - Not a fan of the regular pale ale from SN, after reading good reviews of this I gave it a shot while painting on Wednesday. It’s actually a less-spiced version of the winter warmer that I just brewed, and perhaps with a smidge more hops. All in all a great holiday/Thanksgiving beer. Great, it’s only 8am and I’m already thinking about beer. Aye…

I hope everyone had a great Thanksgiving, and doesn’t get too swept up in the commerical BS of Black Friday. I know my house is half empty this morning because of it, but I likely won’t complain until I have to start painting. Until then I’ll just walk around the house in my boxers, getting weird looks from the dog, because damnit, it’s the day after Thanksgiving and that’s what this day is for.

I still talk to my parents, at least once a week (more often than not, though, it’s closer to two or three times). And while I’m sure there are many out there who might consider this an overbearing amount, it’s just natural for my particular situation. I have a good relationship with my parents and I enjoy talking to them. Most times.

Lately, in the course of discussing nieces and dogs, an inevitable amount of recollecting and storytelling has gone on between my mother and I. My mother is gracefully transitioning into the role of The Grandmother™ (with the dog, people. THE DOG.) and is partial to making parallels between my childhood and my adulthood. It’s spooky how mothers can do that.

Not intentional, nor intended to hurt, but several instances over the past few conversations have left me stunned. To her credit, she was simply relaying a moment in my personal history. What I remembered, however, was…well, nothing. I simply blocked out most of these instances from my past because they are an unflattering reveal into the self-centered nature of an adolescent.

If I were to sketch for you who I thought I was in high school, for the most part it would be positive. I didn’t drink, smoke or drug it up. My friends were good people and I worked hard at school and other activities. On the scorecard of teenagers, I’d sheepishly say I was above average in terms of what my parents had to endure. I would also readily admit, however, that I provided my fair share of bad attitudes, self-righteousness and good ol’ fashioned indifference to “those people who thought they knew what was best for me but actually didn’t.” But as a whole, I don’t entirely regret who I remember being all those years ago.

The true history of these years is kept by my parents, though. And what the record books say is quite a different story than what I have to tell. In no dramatic way, but in subtle, attitudinal differences these records conflict. My mother’s recalls instances of me being obnoxiously spoiled and bossy, expectant and unrealistic. I would have penned it as feeling the materialistic peer-pressures of fellow prep school classmates with well-to-do parents. In fact I would have likely patted myself on the back for not being even more of a begging jerk. Her versions and mine clash, and even don’t match at all on occasion. There are memories that I simply deleted because I simply didn’t take issue my behavior. This, my friends, is what appalls me.

We are the person that people perceive us to be, fortunate or unfortunate as that is. Even if we feel that who we are on the psychoanalytic inside differs from who people see us as, it is this outward character that gets measured by the rest of humanity. If I leave a party feeling as if I were engaging and entertaining, but others remember me as an aggrandizing conversation-whore, I’m sad to say I doubt I’ll be invited back again any time soon. I can cry in my beer, but them’s the facts.

In contrast, people do stereotype. Some are just flat out horrid at reading others. We can be misjudged and unfairly pigeonholed. But for the most part, the opinions and judgments of our closest friends and family should theoretically be able to serve as a fairly accurate mirror for who we are (at least on the outside).

And while the stories that my mother shares weigh heavily on me, they also motivate me to try and be better. Rather than wallow in self-pity about the injustice of “people not getting who I really am,” it’s yet another means to self-discovery and improvement. I suppose you could liken this opinion-polling to validating your XHTML and CSS code before publishing.

And now that said that publicly, I’ve let on that I really am just a big nerd. Note to self…

When I was younger, staying home from school sick was a luxury. Granted, I was a nerd who really didn’t like missing a day because of all that stress of being a day behind. So I usually went in sniffling just to not fall behind on those spelling worksheets. Because you know how much time those took to complete.

1. Beards - Not on women. On men. Or more specifically me. I may look like a complete goober with a beard, but you know what? It can’t be beat for cold weather. The warmth and protection from that nasty wind chill…it’s like having a soft scarf glued to your face! (except that you can still breath normally)
2. Tom Stone (photographer) - His work is incredible. Raw and moving, he captures more emotion in depth in people’s eyes than almost any other photographer I’ve seen. Absolutely brilliant (and sobering) work.
3. The History Channel - If you’re going to be stuck at home, sick and talkin’ miserable, you might as well have something decent to moan to on the TV. And the local selections of Judge Judy and The View only make me want to yarf more, not less. I feel like I learned more in the 6 hours of watching The History Channel yesterday than I did in 8 years of Social Studies classes combined. (BTW, Hermann Goering was a total assnose.)
4. Lasse Gjertsen’s second video, Amature - You might remember him as the kid that did the spastic ‘beatboxing’ a few months ago. This time he’s taken his frenzied editing style and turned it into an almost DJ Shadow-esque composition. Makes me smile.
5. Blackass, Tracy Morgan’s take on Jackass - I admit it, Tracy Morgan makes me laugh. This short but rather amusing video (taken from a Jimmy Kimmel show) is his rendition of a black man’s Jackass.

When you’re older, though, staying home from work sick just isn’t the same. Or at least in my house it’s not. I can obsessively work via email, the dog barks his head off, and I’m forced into hiding in the basement in order not to kill him. And there’s no one to make me soup, dammit. Can’t that dog learn to be useful? Either that or he’s got to start paying rent.

OK, I’m not sure which is more appropriate to quote in this instance, the esteemed Eminem or the Latin phrase “carpe diem” (of course made more famous in Dead Poets Society, the best movie ever). Either way, Jonas has indeed learned the concept of seizing this proverbial moment, and taking his one shot. Bastard.

We have a routine in the morning. Alarm goes off. I listen to the morning news, rise, dress and go downstairs to tend to His Royal Highness. While he demolishes his breakfast, I scramble to make coffee, check my email, make food and do anything else that might require more than a partial sense of attention…all in about 3.8 seconds. I’m pretty sure at this point he just opens his throat over his dish, inhales, and then closes his mouth with a snort…much like hovering a strong shop vac over a pile of saw dust or something. Gone in 60 seconds my ass.

Any way, the period after Food Inhalation is a complete free-for-all. Some mornings I have more stuff to do. Some mornings he does as well. If he’s bored of his toys, he might waltz around the back yard (ha! right!), or do laps around the house with the TV remotes in his jowls, or generally just sit and bite the crap out of my pants until I pay him due attention. This morning, he was eerily well-behaved. I should have figured he was cookin’ something up in that maniacal little brain of his.

The problem was that I had forgotten to bring down my briefcase. I was wearing a brown-based outfit, and thus needed my canvas messenger bag instead of my black leather one. Not wanting to risk a fashion faux pas, I decided to chance going back upstairs to retrieve it. Leaving him unattended. Which is something we don’t do BECAUSE HE MIGHT HOT WIRE THE CAR AND DRIVE TO MEXICO.

He followed me to the foot of the stairs, and as I climbed over the baby gate, I gave him first a Sit, then a Stay command. He obeyed. I ascended the stairs, and at the top, turned around to find him still just blinking at me. No joke people, I put one foot inside the door, swiped the bag off the floor (all without moving my other leg) and was immediately back in position. The entire process took about 0 seconds. However, in this period of time, he managed to un-stay, un-sit, bolt into the kitchen, paw-up onto the counter in the EXACT spot where we keep a bowl of generic cheerios (for training treats), flip the bowl over and successfully spill the goods. I raced down the stairs, knowing (but not yet knowing) he had done something, only to find him trying to suck the grout off the tile floor in hopes that there was one last Generic O in hiding that he hadn’t yet devoured. (As if 32 oz of those nasty-ass things weren’t enough. I’m telling you, they could choke a horse.)

What struck me here was not the insufferably bad behavior of our dog, but rather the thought process that ran through his tiny head. “Human gone! Fast! Food place! VICTORY!” And when it was over? He simply looked up at me and without any prompting walked directly into his crate and sat down, gleefully accepting his incarceration.

All the dog trainers in the world can tell me that canines have no ability to reason, to rationalize, or weigh options. My dog, however, is living, barking proof that they can and do. He had one opportunity, one shot to seize everything he ever wanted. And he chose to not let it slip. And in the process, he solidified my fears that he’s possibly even smarter than either of us and one day might just learn how to hot wire that car.

I’m alerting the Mexican police today. Just a precaution, of course.

There’s not much to know about the world of men’s shoes except that it sucks.

I like shoes. Probably more than the average guy. I enjoy a quick look-around at shoe stores whenever I get the chance. And the problem is that it really is just a quick look. You see, the modern, chain-based men’s shoe department consists of approximately six shoes, repeated and remixed a zillion times. Let’s see what we’ve got:

The I Can’t Quit the ’80s Boardroom Classic Loafer - Seriously, the dudes from LA Law played this out. Next to the wingtip, sometimes I feel like this is all that’s out there for men’s dress shoes. I don’t want loafers. If I did, I’d try squeezing into the pair I wore when I was five (and even then thought was totally lame).

The All-Inclusive Yet All-Uninspiring Shoe - You’ve seen it a million times. It’s the Dave Matthews Band of shoes. Not dressy, not classy, not casual or even remotely decent looking. You, my friend, are the Tony Danza of the footwear world.

The Boot for the Inner Fratelli In You - I think you’d have to either be one of the Italian brothers from The Goonies or some guy with lots of chest hair who wears their dress shirts unbuttoned like so in order to pull this off. Burt Reynold’s might own this shoe. Maybe it’s just me. But I’d kick my own ass if I tried to pull this one off.

The I Listen to Jimmy Buffet and Think About A Boat I Don’t Own Deck Shoe - Yea, I get it. You’d prefer to fish and drink Bud Light than work that 9-5. This little piece of soled heaven can stay “your shoe.” But for those of use who like to wear socks with our shoes, this is not an option. Or for those of us with dignity.

The I Can’t Believe You Can Wear That With a Straight Face Man Sandal - No. Just…no.

The Not Bad If I Was Rock Climbing in the Office Shoe - I might be able to rock something like this if I weren’t wearing khakis. Or dress pants of any kind. Maybe shorts? Forget it, I don’t wear shorts and I’m not mountain biking in the Moab. I’m just sitting at my desk trying to look normal. We were so close with this one…

Perhaps my expectations are too high. Or maybe I am expecting too much out of non-boutique type shops. I do know, however, that I could likely navigate blind through any DSW, Off Broadway or other shoe store with sub $80 footwear and tell you exactly where each of these six styles are. The only time I’d get thrown off is if they put some of those awesome Teva sandals in there. ‘Cuz I can totally still rock them like it’s 1993. Right?

Ugh…

At the start of every month, I inevitably blurt out, “I can’t believe it’s already almost ______ (insert closest holiday).” I feel foolish (and repetitive) for doing so, but I can’t help it. I genuinely am astonished that time has flown by so quickly. Last night, it was thankfully someone other than myself to break out November’s installment with, “Gosh, I can’t believe Thanksgiving is only two weeks away!” Indeed.

1. Beck’s performance on SNL - Always the oddball. His new album is better than I expected, but this live performance is a better reminder that the man does things his own way, unconventional or not. When’s the last time you saw a major recording artist do a live percussion/Stomp-esque performance on live TV?.
2. This plasma TV from Panasonic - I don’t understand why, because I hate TV, but the aesthetics of flatscreen sets are just so overwhelmingly damned sexy. If I were to be carelessly irresponsible and want to blow $1300, I’d get this one. But who am I kidding? Something else in the house will break this weekend, I’m sure.
3. Winning something random - I didn’t even know that The Wife™ knew what Myspace was, yet she won some Myspace survey run by a local ad agency. The prize? Pizza for a year or $500. She picked the latter. I know I married this one for a reason.
4. Arie Spears of Mad TV doing rap impressions - I always found his Shaq impersonation to be spot on (and hilarious), but some of these are just jaw-dropping. I would totally prank call people, like every minute of the day, if I had this talent. Totally.
5. Slow-cooking chili - I spent much of last Sunday cooking up a batch of Barbara Britton’s 1989 award-winning chili. It cooked for about 3 hours in the dutch oven, and let me tell you that this is a far cry from normal heat-n-serve chili. The complexity of flavors was astounding, and makes any other chili recipe I’ve concocted look trite. And to think that other recipes were way more involved. I think I’m obsessed now…

Thankfully, this year our house is further removed from the bustle of the mall-district, and holiday shopping time won’t be as aggravating. I am however worried that we won’t be able to put a Christmas tree up this year because SOMEONE won’t leave it alone and stop biting off branches. And I mean the dog, not The Wife™.

Since moving into the new house in June, The Wife™ and I have experienced an inordinate amount of home repairs, broken items and failing stuff. Still bitter over the heat pump that we replaced at the end of last winter in our previous house, mentally I don’t think we had recovered enough to take on this new bundle of problems.

I’ve been cranky most of the summer, like an old man who’s routine of Red Lobster and Wheel of Fortune has been disregarded, because of this ever-growing list. Within a few weeks of moving in, we learned that the garage door was having issues. And by issues I mean it wouldn’t open or close automatically. So if we were grading this appliance I would give it a doubtful “D” solely based on the fact that the physical door was still present, but it’s initiative to do what it should is non-existent.

We went through months of “fixing” it ourselves only to find it still broken. Finally, on our one year anniversary we were given the news that the opener and all the accompanying hardware had failed and needed replacing. Approximate cost: $too much. We now operate it by hand each morning and evening, and our neighbors can suck it because AT LEAST WE PARK IN THE GARAGE LIKE NORMAL PEOPLE AND NOT ON THE FRONT LAWN. Hilljacks.

Next to go berserk was the air conditioning, followed by the heat, and then a mysterious leak in our roof which caused two water/mold spots on two separate ceilings. Oh, and the lawn mower which is not ours but has been in our care for several years decided that it wanted a new shiny carburetor this past week. That was $157-worth of fun. I almost forgot about that one.

My point here is that, as anyone will tell you, homeownership sucks. It’s really terrible. We have carried a balance of at least three things in the house that are actively in need of professional repair since we moved in. Once one gets crossed off the list, something else breaks, if not for any reason other than to complete the Circle of Wallet Pain and thus restore balance to the universe. I sense we’re not alone in this phenomenon either. Houses just break.

But what I’ve found over the past few months is that if the repairman or service center employee is genuinely friendly or helpful, all the bottled up rage and spite bubbling inside me in the form of an ulcer is immediately quelled. I’m not angry anymore if I’m treated well, or if I don’t feel like I’m being swindled.

Today, a roofer came out to look at the house. I knew the basics of what was going on but lacked a sizable ladder to get up to the topmost section of the roof to have a look-see. For several weeks I’ve been seething because The Wife™ called for an appointment, and we’ve been jerked around since. Not returning calls and not making a customer a priority is righteous ground for me to get out my soapbox and stand tall. I was within seconds of taking my business elsewhere, forgetting the glowing recommendation that led us to this company in the first place.

The gentleman that showed up at 8:15 this a.m. couldn’t have been nicer if he tried. From that point on, they get an A+ in my book (with an extra gold star to boot!). It was a fast trip from anger to praise. And the lawnmower repair shop? A similar experience yesterday. Though I was handing over an unfortunate sum of money for something that should not have broken down, I left with a feeling of “well, it happens,” as opposed to, “those asshats probably just spit in the gas tank, changed a spark plug and charged me for two hours of service!”

Good customer service meets the emotional level of the customer, soothes it, and is honest about the outcome. If the customer is irate, indifference is the last thing a service professional should convey (but most often does). Apathy would only breed more anger in the customer, and lessen the chances of return business.

As the contractor pulled out of the driveway today, he stopped to ask if we wanted him to repair the ceilings as well. I kindly declined as I can handle that myself, but was left with the idea that I might just give them a call to do some advanced electrical work in the kitchen.

After all, a good service person is hard to come by these days, you know?

There are far too many people in my life who care too much about what they think is the state of my conscience. I’ve heard more than a handful of comments in the past two months, and the entire situation has me thinking. “There’s that good ol’ Catholic guilt!” Said in jest, said in fun and assuredly with no malice. Perhaps, but nonetheless, not a phrase that should be used in such wanton and careless abandon. Because, frankly, it just isn’t true.

I do not operate off of guilt. This is for certain. And anyone who truly knows me should realize this. However, more than a few friends, coworkers, and mild acquaintances have amused themselves with comments about my faith being responsible for my actions. Or perhaps more simply, to them the antiquated and much maligned “scare tactics” of the pre-Vatican II church, guilt and fear, are the motivating forces in my life.

If I choose not to overindulge in something, if I decide to question a team decision on the job, if I opt to live with my in-laws before marriage: according to these folks, all of these decisions are based on a deeply rooted, implanted sense of wrongdoing. Never once is the concept of personal responsibility seen as a rationale.

If I feel that questioning copyright infringement is right and dutiful on a job, why is it instead seen as playing the role of the office Debbie Downer? If I want to wait an extra few weeks to live with my best friend of seven years simply because I think it’s right for us? Again, branded with a G.

The misuse of the concept of guilt is something that has burned me for years. Personal responsibility, right action and moral/ethical/spiritual duty can (and should) be a perfectly valid reason for action. Carelessly assigning guilt to an action not only serves to devalue what has been done, but also strips the action of any true definition. Saying that I simply felt Catholic Guilt about living with my fiance before marriage is a slap in the face because it projects the theory that I gave no thought to it besides letting the moral brainwashing of my religion take hold. What is lost when my friends or coworkers joke about me acting out of guilt is the actual struggle and difficulty that occurs both during and after the decision making process. So instead of being a goodie-goodie zombie (what I’m stereotyped as being), I’m actually laboring over what to do. I wish it actually were as easy at it appears, you know, with ignorance being bliss and all…

I don’t claim to be good. Far from it, in fact (I can hear the collective laughter of my parents, friends and wife right now). But part of the reason I started writing here, years ago, was to record areas of my life in order to examine them and learn from them, so as to do right the second time around. I think it’s too easy to fit people into molds and blurt out cliches and canned jokes in representation of these stereotypes. So the next time we make a joke about a Christian feeling guilty, don’t just assume it’s guilt. Guilt would be the easy way out.

Every year that Halloween rolls around and I’m not in the northern part of the country, I inevitably say the same thing. Someone here in the “south” will moan about it being too cold for tricking or treating and the old man in me has to throw in the obligatory comment, “Well when I grew up, all of our costumes had to be designed around the possible last-minute addition of a snow suit.” Most times I think they don’t believe me when I say that.

1. Nas: Hip Hop is Dead (streaming mp3) - I love me some Nas, but lately he’s fallen off. His last album really disappointed me, and with an album titled Hip Hop Is Dead you really need to deliver. The two tracks that I’ve heard are outstanding, and bonus points for sampling the Incredible Bongo Band’s Apache.
2. Firefox 2.0 - The speed upgrade alone is worth the download, but there are also some other good tweaks and tune-ups. A great browser gets even better with age…that’s how it should be.
3. The Former Congressman Chuck - A staple on Dooce.com, Heather & Jon’s dog is not on the most patient thing ever, he’s also possibly the most photogenic dog. His Halloween costume(s) this year rule.
4. Big football games - I can’t deny that there’s something exciting about working at a big sports school. And while I’m not a football fan (we knew that though, right?), last night’s victory over undefeated West Virginia was exciting. Maybe it’s the cold autumn air that is making me like odd things.
5. Odd little facts [via] - This kinda stuff always intrigues me. I assume it’s all true. It is on the Internets afterall.

And next year, unless it’s 80 degree on Halloween night, I’ll make the same stupid comment like a bitter old coot. I guess I am a bit jaded, but how can I not be? Ninjas and pirates DON’T WEAR SNOW SUITS MOM.

Riding in the car with coworkers the other day, Fiona Apple’s Never is a Promise rang through the speakers. Appropriate for the cold, rainy weather outside, it was a welcomed tune as it had been awhile since I had heard it. And as the song climaxed emotionally, my brain suddenly inserted a blip, a jarring audio artifact, even though no one else heard it.

And no, I’m not on medication (nor should I be).

The reason for this oddity is that the only copy of the song that I’ve ever had was on a mix CD that someone made for me, years ago, that I’ve almost worn out. And the glitch in the song on that copy is permanently burned into my brain to the point where I now hear the ghost of it even when the defect is not there.

I’ve noticed this not-so-phenomenal phenomenon before, with playlists or mix discs. If obsessively listening to the same tracks in a particular order, when you hear a single track on the originating album your brain expects to hear the next song on the mix CD, not the next song on the album. It really isn’t a spectacular event, and nothing that modern science couldn’t explain in a sentence or two about brain patterns and aural recognition, I’m sure.

What I’m curious about is how far this extends into the rest of one’s life. When listening, do we subconsciously insert alternate words, thus hearing something different than what is spoken? Does this ghost patterning extend to what we see visually?

Maybe it’s a simpleminded thought…