Hey guys, what’s up? It seems that some of you have been very busy lately. Too busy. In fact, that’s why I’m writing to you.

Look, I know some of us go way back. Laptop? We’ve had some really fun times together. Remember me lugging you through the San Fransisco airport even though your lard-ass weighs 9lbs? No hard feelings! But seriously, we have to talk about this battery issue. I treat you well, keep your files ship-shape and you now refuse to hold a single minute of a charge? I didn’t chew you out when 25 minutes was the best I could get unplugged. But ZERO minutes? C’mon man, that’s just not right and you know it. Even iPod and Cell Phone are showing you up, and that’s not saying much. You know what notorious slackers they are.

Center Channel in the Home Theater, we were buds for like an entire year, what happened? It’s as if once we moved into the new house you got scared of the change and finally up and fuzzed out on me last month. Sure you’re under warranty, but still. That ain’t cool. You need to stop hanging out with those other sketchy, delinquent friends of yours. Tripath Amplifier and his sidekick Power Supply are no good (though admittedly better since Amp’s stint in rehab last week). As soon as you get fixed, part of you is grounded.

And Fridge…oh Fridge, seriously? Even though we just met in June, we welcomed you into our home like family. We cared for you and cleaned you often, kept you smelling nice and lookin’ sharp w/ that magnetic poetry. So what’s with the acting-out? We got you fixed this month and already I can tell you’re slipping back into old habits. Please Fridge, don’t crap out again. Your older brother in the basement doesn’t run as cool as you do and one more repair might make him keel over and everything would be spoiled. Just be cool about everything.

How could I forget Dog Cage and Electronic Dog Collar? You two, like Frick and Frack. Inseparable. You guys are like the two things that keep my sanity with Jonas. So what’s with this recent bullsh*t!? How the hell are you gonna go and be cracked in half, Cage, and you just fall off the dog entirely Collar? Both of you now require servicing, and if a warranty doesn’t cover BOTH of you, you don’t even want to know what I’ll do. Let’s just say it’ll be way more painful than enduring his flatulence problem.

And I know that we’ve had our issues recently (Water Heater, Roof, Air Conditioner, Lawn Mower — I’m speaking to all of you), but we’ve patched it up. We’re good now. You all cooperated with minimal damage to the wallet so all is forgiven. But everyone else take heed and see Garage Door as an example. If you refuse to play along nicely your ass stays broke as a damned joke. Got it?

And finally, Wife’s Car, I tread lightly with this request, though I’m entirely too serious: please cooperate. You’re showing signs of having a breakdown soon and we’re but one last payment away from being rid of your debt. We’re worked hard on this one so don’t let us down. I can very easily drain your oil and leave you high-n-dry on blocks in the yard. I do live in Kentucky after all.

So whatta ya say? Can we knock it off with the breaking and the busting and go back to when everyone just worked as they were supposed to? I don’t care if I didn’t name every one of you, or that all your friends are doing it. Say no to appliance-pressure. In my household you will perform as expected or else. And you don’t want to find out what the “else” is. I have an eBay account and I know how to use it.

Warm regards,
Brian

“So I had a really weird dream last night,” The Wife™ said as we pulled out of the neighborhood en route to the grocery store.

“Yea? Why was it so weird?”

“Well, you died. We were on vacation, at the beach.”

“Minus the death part, this sounds pretty awesome…”

“And you were in this band, with Ray and Seth.”

“Yea, so far this is a pretty great dream to me.”

“Well, your band wasn’t very good, and the Police were there”

“Wait, wait, wait. The three of us were in the Police? As in members of the band the Police?! ‘Cuz that would explain why it sucked—we were dragging them down.”

“No,” she said, “The police were there, I don’t know why. Then all of a sudden you set yourself on fire, and then set Ray on fire too. I think you died, but I was on a plane flying elsewhere. And then I was at this bar having dinner right after, eating a steak, and some guy asked where you were and I told him you had just died.”

[long pause]

“So, to recap, I was in a band that sucked, the non-musical police showed up, I proceed to set myself *and* my good friend on fire while sitting on the beach and you deal with all of this by hopping on a plane, going to a bar and enjoying a steak dinner while talking to another dude?”

“…yea. I was pretty upset…”

“Uh huh, sounds like you were all sorts of broken up. Apparently my level of importance in this relationship has slipped to being on-par with a nice slab of beef. Super.”

I am a creature of rather sad, pathetic habit. I’m routine-based and predictable and I fear change for the most part. But there is a growing list of things that I have developed of new routines I’d like to acquire. Absent are the expected “eat better,” “exercise more” or “have more fiber in your diet.” Instead, my list is full of stupid things such as “do a crossword puzzle every day,” “set aside time to pray/meditate/reflect” and “read the paper/watch the evening news.” Anyway, here’s this week’s FTILFF:

1. This American Life trailer - I’m excited that TAL is coming to television. I first learned about it from The Tale of Two Johns, a documentary about They Might Be Giants. The witty, eccentric radio program has some of the higher quality content out there. Sadly, I don’t get Showtime, but hopefully I’ll be able to catch it somehow. DVD?
2. This “Extra Life” comic - I confess to not normally finding “Extra Life” all that amusing. It must the the nerd humor in this one that slays me though. I got a nice chuckle this week from it (and secretly wish more designers would push for the 1024 layout).
3. Pulp Fiction in typography - “Say What Again” is a short motion graphics piece done by SCAD student Jarratt Moody in which he reinterprets the intonation of voices from the classic scene in Pulp fiction by translating it into typography. Beautiful, effective and a wonderful way to illustrate to those who “don’t get it” what the power of design can do. I live for stuff like this. [article]
4. Tuna steaks - With the Lenten season upon me now as a Catholic it’s back to certain days without meat. I decided to splurge this time and pick up some frozen tuna steaks from Costco (does this not tell you how wild’n’crazy I am?) and it’s nice to have “fresh” fish every once in awhile. Now let’s hope I don’t die of mercury poisoning as I already consume 5 cans of tuna fish and 5 cans of salmon a week. What the hell is mercury poisoning anyway?
5. This Icelandic horse photograph - Hell I didn’t even know they had horsies in Iceland. But not only is this photo ridiculously amusing to me, it’s stunning. Saturated and seemingly illustrative, I dig it.

So at the end of it, all I’ve really managed to develop is a list of things that justifies just how lame I am. While other people want to do more in life or to stay younger, apparently I’m trying to pretend like I’m a balding 50 year old man in house shoes. Note to self: add to the list, “wear house shoes at night—whatever they are.”

Why is it that the majority of cherished memories are those involving groups of people as opposed to those of singularity? Perhaps I’m wrong. Perhaps other people have favorite instances of years passed that involve just themselves. For me though, this conjecture still rings true. But why could this be? Am I simply too dependent on others for indelible happiness? Or is the act of “making memories” somehow linked to bonds between humans (meaning it takes two to make a meaningful tango)?

Looking back on the past few years (as I do, perhaps too often), I cannot seem to find one memory that excludes the presence of others. Sure, there are things I remember doing solo that make me nostalgic, such as walking the streets of London on a summer evening or sitting on the porch at sunset in Norwood, Ohio with no money for dinner but pipe in hand. However, these are not the same as what I would define “great memories” as being. They allow me to reminisce about the past, but are not the truly magnificent ones that I will remember vividly when I’m 80.

I might as well be splitting hairs by attempting to categorize classes of memories. I might even be full of hot air for thinking that the idea of this could be a generalization rather than something solely specific to me…maybe I’m just not adventurous by myself and thus am not creating lasting memories as such. Nonetheless, it’s still true. My best memories are all populated by my friends and by my wife (who is also included in the prior category). Time might even show that Jonas ends up in this tier of elite persons (but based on his behavior this morning, I see nothing of him worth remembering from February 20, 2007).

Something to mull about on a future commute to work, I suppose.

After a week of missed workouts and fubared home improvement projects, I was at wit’s end this morning. Jonas had puked in his cage and began barking pre 5 a.m. To top it all off, as I’m attempting to coax him into playing with a tennis ball instead of the shoe on my foot, I did something spectacular. Too bad I was grumpy and failed to find the humor in it.

1. This iPod skin by Aya Kato - I’ve bee an Aya Kato fan for a minute now and I really dig this iPod skin. Seeing as how the past year and a half has beat my 5th gen to hell and back, I should likely look into getting it a helmet. Methinks this is stylish enough.
2. Photography by Phillip Toledano - Though I had seen Mr. Toledano’s “Hope & Fear” series awhile ago, I never bothered to visit his portfolio because, well, his images were disturbing. This was unfortunate for me, because I was missing out on some of his other beautiful (and depressing) work. I quite enjoy the Cubelife series.
3. Barack Obama on 60 Minutes - CBS gets negative 2 points for hijacking your browser size with that video, but gains them back with a surprisingly enjoyable profile of Democratic Wunderkid Obama. Right or left, elephant or donkey, you can’t deny that the guy isn’t at least interesting to listen to. Too bad the interviewer registers high on the Scale-O-Dorkness.
4. Lowes - As much as I loathe big-box stores like Lowes or Home Depot, they are damned convenient. I wish for days of ma-and-pa stores again, but the McDonaldesque utility of these stores (and ubiquitous nature) makes my now weekly trips more tolerable. Sure, I’m handing over my retirement fund to them, but hey. They’ve got wire nuts AND mirrors at 9 in the evening, so I ain’t complain’.
5. Rolling Stone Magazine - I’ve been getting RS for several years now thanks to a generous birthday gift from my mother long ago. I confess to feeling relative apathy towards the publication as a whole. Most issues I read between 20-70% of the content because the rest just isn’t all that appealing to me (read: too tabloidish). However, this past issue was almost entirely enjoyable and held my attention for more than one evening. The “Guitar Gods” piece was shockingly readable, though next time leave out the gratuitous “legalize pot” piece, Jann. Save it for every third issue.

So I kick the tennis ball from our living room into the kitchen, but unfortunately did not account for the threshold strip separating the wood floor from the tile. This little curved piece of wood acted as the perfect launch pad, sending the tennis ball careening into the air. And, as my luck would have it this week, it managed to be spot-on just perfectly to hit the glass of liquid on the kitchen table (thus spilling it everywhere).

And wouldn’t you know that when I tried explaining this terrible awesomeness to The Wife™ a few minutes later, prefacing it with “I couldn’t do it again if I tried!” — Well, I did it again. Perfectly.

I’m going back to bed.

Really, we’re looking to stay in-house with this one, and technically Jonas isn’t qualified as an applicant (he lacks opposable thumbs, among other things). I hope the one I have in mind applies, and does not mind that I’m not a fan of Hallmark cards.

Last Thursday evening The Wife™ was attempting to help me hang the new chandelier in the dining room. The entire thing was a giant debacle that resulted in much cursing and yelling at one another. You might know this conversation, normal husband and wife talk such as:

The Wife™: “Well the directions say…”
Me: “I DON’T GIVE A DAMN WHAT THE FRIGGIN’ DIRECTIONS SAY, THAT WIRE IS NOT GOING IN THAT HOLE. PERIOD!”
The Wife™: “Well it says here…”
Me: “Don’t you even…”
The Wife™: “Hun, just look at this diagram, see…”
Me: “Woman, you better put down that sheet of paper before I set it on fire.”
The Wife™: “Fine! Burn the house down! You’re not allowed to re-purchase any audio equipment with the insurance money though, just so you’re aware!”

Clearly, you can see the level of incompetence that I’m working with. Directions? That’s hilarious. Apparently she hasn’t learned that those papers are mere suggestions.

Anyway, the entire time we’re bonding arguing, Jonas decides that his contribution would be to play the Crop Dusting Game, which involves him clandestinely swooping through the dining room on a routine circuit, dropping the most foul-smelling farts you’ve ever encountered. They were the kind that make your eyes water and activate the gag reflex simultaneously. The first pass, The Wife™ blamed me (what the hell?). But after the third, fourth and eleventybillionth time, we had caught on to his game, as the only time the dog could be bothered to not be in the same room as us, eating or messing with whatever we were trying to do, was when he had intestinal problems that even HE couldn’t stand to be around. And you know they must have been rank if the one who eats deer poop like they’re Andes Mints was running for shelter.

So there we were, me trapped on a ladder trying not to electrocute myself, The Wife™ franticly waving directions like she’s trying to fly away and Jonas slinking around the room with an unmistakable look of guilt on his face. All of us engulfed in a cloud of dog farts that smelled of rotten vegetables and wet donkeys.

Normal Rockwell would be so proud of this modern American family.

Some weeks just aren’t yours for the taking. And I realize that. It still doesn’t comfort you when the sky is in the process of falling down around you, though. Maybe your Tupperware of tuna fish flips over onto your office carpet. Don’t worry, it’s an easy few days of unpleasant smells. Dog rips a hole in a priceless wool sweater you bought in Ireland? It’s just a sweater, nothing more. Your new refrigerator kicks the bucket? There’s a warranty. Even when the simple task of removing a ceiling fan to install a chandelier turns into the third World War over a stripped screw, it can be solved with patience and a $50 Dremel. Granted I had to beat up a hobo to get that $50, but still…

1. Patrick Stumph from Fall Out Boy - Dude can write a melody. FOB’s new album, Infinity On High came out this week and above everything else about the disc, Stumph’s ability to craft infectious melody lines shines through most. I may quibble about production, mastering or other things, but the shy song-writer behind the mic really does understand what it takes to write a catchy song. The vocal melody from Thriller has been on repeat in my head, even while sleeping, since Monday.
2. An 85mm lens (1.4 or 1.8 please) - The 85mm range is perfect for doing portrait work in photography. This week I’ve been obsessed with it, and my wallet aches for thought of indulging in one. For now, I have to settle with my kit lens. But some day…some day…
3. The Folding Chair - If I had one of these things, I would get zero work done because I’d be playing it all damn day. This must be one of the most useful (and cool) recent developments in furniture design. Now if only Ikea would make one. And then if Ikea would open a store near me.
4. Exercise in the morning - Although I was stiff as hell, and although it took our refrigerator breaking to necessitate it, I got my daily run in this morning. In the amount of time it takes me to get dressed and commute to work I knocked it out. I’m done for the day, and you have no idea how great that feels. Until I think about doing it again tomorrow.
5. A Dremel - I resisted getting one for awhile, because it’s another tool for me to play with pay for. But when a stripped screw forced drastic measures (greater than hanging from the ceiling plate to pop it out), I broke down and bought one for the cutting wheel. Tomorrow I’m polishing the dog’s nose with the buffer wheel.

And while the past seven days haven’t been the kindest, I have absolutely no room to air grievances. In the bitter cold front that has stalled over the Midwest, I still have a house, warm (holey) clothes and a car with a functioning heater. I deserve none of it. So if the worst I get handed is a handful of stupid inconveniences that make me whimper, I should be so lucky. Now about that hobo…

Monday was the the day after the Super Bowl. It is a day that, selfishly, I wish was a non-work day. Not because of hangovers, but because I end up staying up later than usual, much later than I would like. I didn’t even know by the time we returned home who had even won the game. THAT is how little I really give a damn about football.

Monday was also the day that I decided to give myself a much-needed respite from running. I had been ignoring some nagging pains for a few weeks, and frankly I just didn’t have the mental energy to get on that treadmill. I decided instead to get an early jump on (yet more) working around the basement. Since Christmas I’ve been slowly prepping, repairing and removing things from our finished lower level in anticipation of painting and partially remodeling the bathroom. This extra hour and a half was a nice windfall on such a bitterly cold afternoon.

After changing my clothes, I headed down the steps in hopes of getting two particular tasks completed before dinner. The Wife™ was working late again so I had a smidgen more time than usual. I turned on the television for a little background noise and set to removing a large, very stubborn vanity mirror.

Part way into my work, I thought I heard a noise upstairs. Not enough to shake the ceiling, but enough that I thought I could detect it above the volume of E!’s shockingly intriguing story about “cursed” lottery winners. No worries. I’m sure the noise was just God telling me to turn off E!, as it tends to makes baby angels cry. I continued grunting and pulling on the mirror.

As I checked my cell phone clock a few times, I was pleased at how much I was getting accomplished. I was able to get the blasted mirror out, as well as assemble a set of workshop lights to assist me in removing the hideous backstage theater lights above the sink. I hate electrical work (because I’m far too stupid to really understand what I’m doing), but this not a difficult task, and I was able to finish without much cursing.

Having accomplished more than I had hoped, I decided to pack it up for the day and head upstairs to make dinner. The Wife™ was sure to be home soon and I needed to prepare my lunch for the following day as well. I was ascending the stairs when I heard it again…another crash…this time much louder. My mind immediately scanned for possible solutions: cold-creaking of a settling house? something falling off the kitchen counter? garden gnomes come to life to seek revenge? The smallest possibility of all was that someone had entered our home.

In a fashion surprisingly confident and devoid of fear (not how I had always pictured myself handing this situation at all) I went upstairs. As I opened the basement door, I was hit with a gust of frigid winter air, an obvious bad sign. Immediately my eyes went to the back door and noticed that instead of being in the expected state of CLOSED, it was defying me with being WIDE-THE-HELL-OPEN. “Well, isn’t that odd,” I thought, “quite odd indeed, as I surely don’t recall thinking that today was the day to air our the living room.”

Before I could even entertain the notion of finding the closest baseball bat, axe or bazooka to protect myself, the situation unraveled in full: Jonas.

Our dog, who had been spending the previous hour trotting around the backyard and snuffling in the snow had decided that it was time for him to be inside inflicting his awesomeness on other, warmer things. He had spotted some of his toys (resting nicely on the wood floor just beyond the glass door), and must have wanted inside to play. Somehow, some way, our dog pushed our back door open with the mightiest of mighty pushes, and as he came bouncing up to me with his Kong in mouth, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen my dog so innocently happy. He greeted me, tail wagging ferociously, as if to say, “Hello! You’ve come to play too? Look how much fun I’m having!”

It all makes sense now. No trespassing, no thieves inappropriately violating our private world. It was instead just our dog (with the possibility of newly-acquired opposable thumbs?) simply opening the back door like any human would in order to be reunited with his play things. He chewed nothing that didn’t belong to him and only pulled my briefcase off the counter in order to sniff it (noise #1). The rest of the time he spent throwing and chasing his toys, hurting nothing.

Tonight we work on the concept of “Politely Closing A Door Behind Oneself” as well as “How Dad Needs to Lock the Back Door From Now On.” I’m also keeping an eye on the car keys, just in case he feels froggy and decides to finally take that trip to Mexico.

James Joyce was Irish. Some might argue he was the most influental Irishman that ever lived. He is without a doubt a genius, and I recognize this fact. I just can’t read a damned thing he writes.

After a honeymoon in Ireland, I was smitten with my family’s heritage. I had finally connected visuals with the stories I had been told by my grandparents and parents. The landscape and the people had come alive for me. Understandably, I proceeded to dive into more things Irish as a result. I picked up a copy of Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man and got reasonably far into it. It was not the easiest read, but certainly easier to digest than Beowolf in it’s native Old English (thanks Doc!). I only abandoned it because it was woefully overdue at the library and my new life with The Wife™ swept me into a period of non-reading. This dry-spell lasted more than six months, at the end of which I had lost interest in it.

Recently, after bemoaning the sad state of my new local library, I decided to try Joyce’s masterpiece. Ulysses is widely considered the most successful 20th century novel and a shining example of modernist literature. Some editions publish at over 1,000 pages with a staggering vocabulary of 30,000 words (250,000 in total). It was a mountain to be climbed, and I (with my newly-found desire to read) had my hiking gear on.

The book is already back on the shelf.

I’m quite embarrassed to admit that Ulysses kicked my ass. Hard. I pushed and plowed through the first howevermany pages. I’m a fast reader, but I was discouraged by my slowed progress. I try not to think of myself as an illiterate halfwit, but after this defeat I’m forced to reassess that evaluation.

Joyce’s genius isn’t in question. Just as I can watch videos of Hendrix play the guitar, devoid of any real knowledge of guitar playing myself, I can see the man doing magical things. I am left awestruck. I can watch The Wife™ solve word puzzles within seconds of looking at them, only to have my mouth agape at the skill with which it took to complete. The presence or lack of genius is not the problem. It’s a difference of stylistic preference, perhaps.

For those that have never indulged, Joyce’s writing employs what is considered the stream-of-consciousness technique. It’s choppy. Incomplete sentences. Verbal dialog—of which there is no shortage—is not denoted by standard quotation marks. Simple m-dahses are used instead. Paragraphs float in and out of English, French, Latin and Gaelic. His humor and wit (which is again quite apparent) is so erudite that I was not privy to one of the best aspects of the novel. And in the middle of 15 pages of ramblings that leave me re-reading everything twice, he’ll plunk down the most coherent, beautiful prose, alluring and intoxicating. The problem is, it’s less than 250 words, and then it’s back to confusing the piss out of me.

I’ve never been bested by a book. I’m ashamed to have been defeated by something that once was required reading for teenagers. But I suppose I’m in a place in my life where conquering a difficult piece of literature means less to me than enjoying what I’m reading. And for the week and half that I spent trying to jumpstart my interest in it, very little of that time was enjoyable. I need to learn to let my pride go in instances like this. It’s a valuable lesson for myself, albeit a sore one.

Who knows, maybe I’ll pick it up again down the road. I really would like to finish it. I just need a more devoted span of attention, something I cannot seem to find at this current point.

His hand turned the page over. He leaned back and went on again, having just remembered. Of him that walked the waves. Here also over these craven hearts his shadow lies and on the scoffer’s heart and lips and on mine. It lies upon their eager faces who offered him a coin of the tribute. To Caesar what is Caesar’s, to God what is God’s. A long look from dark eyes, a riddling sentence to be woven and woven on the church’s looms. Ay.

RIDDLE ME, RIDDLE ME, RANDY RO. MY FATHER GAVE ME SEEDS TO SOW.

Talbot slid his closed book into his satchel.

FTILFF numero cincuenta y cinco, yes ma’am. Oh, I’m sorry. Did I impress you with my Español? I thought I might. I’m quite the linguista—that’s ‘liniguist’ in Italian, you know. Let us not allow my babelfishing to make your heart pitter-patter too much. We wouldn’t want to have to call in a cardiopulmonolo…wait? Seriously? Cardiopulmmonologist doesn’t translate? What the hell!? Curse you BabelFish!

1. Reggie Watts, Out of Control - This has been sitting in my del.icio.us account all week. I found it on Monday and it makes me smile every time. Part beatboxing, part soul-funk, part hiphop. Dude uses a simple four-track to loop his own voice to create a song that is entirely catchy. Think St. Germain meets Rahzel.
2. Days that you wake up in a good mood for no apparent reason - I would say, on average, I am granted maybe 6 of these per year. Immediately upon waking I realize that I am already rather happy—or at least not sad—and have a non-crushed sense of hope about the day. In all seriousness, there are few more precious gifts out there for me.
3. The Hasselblad - The world’s first 48mm digital single lens reflex camera. With resolutions of 22-39 megapixels this badboy is a hoss. Granted, it takes a long-ass time to write a photo (1.4s) and granted it costs $25k. But still. Geek lust! Geek lust!
4. Greg Graffin, Sorrow (Acoustic) - The esteemed Mike Kohlbecker pointed me in the direction of this Bad Religion frontman’s solo project. In this video [thx, Andy] he plays a live acoustic version of an old BR song that I think rivals, if not outshines, the original. Beautiful. Plus Greg is totally that one detective from Law & Order SVU.
5. This write-on-wall-with-chalk calendar for your office - Yes, Martha Stewart Living, so go ahead and laugh now. But you can’t deny that this is a cool-ass idea (and implementation). You’d need to have a heckuva lot of patience, but in the end I think it’d be worth it. I’ll probably just paint the office plain charcoal gray instead.

Mon chat a le syndrome irritable d’entrailles. Quel dommage! This means “my cat has irritable bowel syndrome, what a pity!” in French. I don’t have a cat. Nor could I translate that on my own, except for the last part. Then there’s the fact that it doesn’t really make any damn sense. Nonetheless! Perchance I may have impressed you with my linguistic acrobatics today.

Or at least persuaded you that I need medication? *le sigh*