CoffeyGrind

Yule be sorry...

2011-12-21T12:00:00Z

It's the most wonderful time of the year.

Time to empty your bank account to purchase expensive gifts for children who don't appreciate or deserve them. Time to gather with your loved ones and try to consume more than your own weight in food. Time for me to make fun of some traditional Christmas songs!

When I listen to the radio, I frequently have a dialog with the person singing (see this entry). Some of these exchanges can get pretty heated. I often wonder what the people around me think about the strange man driving on the LIE, yelling at his radio. In any case, although I usually have problems with the lyrics in popular music... Christmas music is not immune...

I'll start with a true classic which Bing Crosby made famous:

"I'll Be Home For Christmas"

Bing: I'll be home for Christmas.
Me: Wonderful news!
Bing: You can count on me.
Me: I had no doubt.
Bing: Please have snow and misletoe and presents by the tree.
Me: Hmm, ok... I didn't realize there was a list of demands involved. I'll see what I can do about the last two, but affecting the weather may be a little out of my reach.
Bing: Christmas eve will find me where the love light gleams.
Me: So, that's... here... right?
Bing: I'll be home for Christmas.
Me: Yeah, ok, I think we covered that part.
Bing: ...if only in my dreams.

Me: Wait... what?

Seriously? You ask me to line up all these things for you? Say things like "you can count on me" and "I promise you" and then end off with "if only in my dreams"? Bah!

Now, when you do a little research on this song, it is sung from the point of view of a WWII soldier stationed overseas and the "if only in my dreams" ending is supposed to be a sad twist. So, you may consider me a dick for making fun of it. I can accept that. It's still stupid.

Next up? Another song that Bing is known for:

"Do you hear what I hear?"

Bing: Said the shepherd boy to the mighty king...
Me: Stop it, I'm blushing.
Bing: Do you know what I know
Me: Probably.
Bing: A child, a child, shivers in the cold
Me: That sucks.
Bing: Let us bring him silver and gold
Me: Really? Not, like, a blanket? Or some food?
Bing: Let us bring him silver and gold
Me: You're kinda generous with MY silver and gold, you know.

You can't tell me that you didn't find it a little strange that nobody thinks to give the kid a sandwich in any of these songs and stories. I mean really... what the heck is he going to do with Myrrh?

Moving on, we have one that truly makes my blood boil:

"Do They Know It's Christmas?"

This is sung by... a lot of artists... though Bono gets the winning line.

Simon Le Bon: There's a world outside your window
Me: Yeah, I've seen it, it sucks.
Sting and Simon: And it's a world of dreaded fear
Me: Well, it's not THAT bad.
Sting and Simon: Where the only water flowing is the bitter sting of tears

Me: I don't think a "bitter sting" can "flow"...
Sting and Simon: And the Christmas bells that ring there are the clanging chimes of doom.

Me: Ok, seriously, where the hell is this?
Bono: Well tonight thank God it's them instead of you!
Me: No kidding! Yeah, thanks God. So glad you made their lives a living hell.

Go ahead... tell me that's not what they meant! I am sorry, but no matter how you try to rationalize it, that is an absolutely ridiculous way to word that. Really? "Thank God it's them"? How the hell could anyone think that those words are anything but douchey?

Idiots.

I will end with a lovely song by Nat King Cole:

"The Christmas Song"

Nat: Everybody knows... a turkey and some misletoe, help to make the season bright...
Me: Really? Because in my experience, a turkey and some misletoe results in some awkward photos that are VERY difficult to explain to your wife.

Have a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year! :)

Occupy This!

2011-11-07T13:00:00Z

I know my reaction is a bit late for this one, but I think it's high time I poured my thoughts out into a blog entry, otherwise my head might explode.

First of all, I sincerely tried to understand and empathize with the protesters. No, really, I did. Then, when I inevitably realized that their cause was retarded, I tried to ignore them. But now, since the media seems intent on continually feeding this mindless creature, I am just getting more and more pissed off.

I do not think I would be considered "well off", certainly not "rich" and not even in the same galaxy as "the 1%". So, if you work out the math (go ahead... I'll wait), the implication here is that I am in "the 99%". Before I cover the more salient points of my argument, let me bitch about this "we are the 99%" business.

Since I love math so much I want to share the joy of a simple calculation with you. It only requires two numbers too, so it's easy enough for you to play along at home. First get an estimate of the number of "Occupy Wall Street" protesters; I checked and the latest number hovers around 5K. Next, get the latest Census data on the population of the United States; a quick search puts this at around 307M. Now... part over whole, times 100... (5K/307M)*100 = 0.0016%. So, maybe it should be modified to be "We are the insignificant percentage of loud-mouthed morons"? Yeah, you're right, that wouldn't fit on a sign very well.

What's that you say? I'm a jerk and my calculation is bullshit because there are people "occupying" other cities the world around? Ok, lets multiply that by... what? 100? 1,000? Hell, let's throw caution to the wind and just make shit up! Let's say that there are similar protests of the SAME SIZE in 10,000 cities! ((10K*5K)/307M)*100. Congratulations... you are the 16%. Don't even begin to tell me that, although there are only a small number of actual protesters, they represent us all. They do not. I vehemently resent the suggestion that this group of lazy asshats speaks for all of us "poor victimized people".

To these so-called 99-percenters, I want to make this absolutely crystal clear: I am not one of you. Please remove me from the "99%" figure you have been throwing around and immediately update all of your marketing materials. You are completely within your rights to say "we are the 98.99999%" if you wish, but you do NOT have permissions to use the small percentage of the population that my corporeal form represents.

NOTE: While I am writing this the woman next to me on the train unceremoniously dumped her enormous bag of shit onto the seat between us, it's bulk covering all the things I had next to me, breaking the unspoken rule that only 50% of the "buffer" seat is yours to consume. I am considering a protest wherein my fist briefly occupies her lower jaw.

Ok, let's move onto the protest itself.

I do not like protests or protesters, in general, but I usually tolerate their existance without complaint. What has been fairly consistent about other protests I have seen is that there is a clear PURPOSE for the protest and ALL of the protesters agree on it.

In this case, there is absolutely no organization or leadership for this mob at all. It's just a bunch of people hanging out in a park whilst whining about the bad hand life has dealt them. You could ask 100 different protesters what the point of their cattle-like occupation is and you would get 110 different answers (I am estimating that you will run into at least a handful of people with multiple personality disorder).

If I had to distill the arguments of the few protesters that have properly functioning neurons into a simple request I think it would be: "We want the rich people to pay their fair share!". Sounds great. Ok, let's run with that a bit.

Now, this is the part where I get into some pretty foreign territory for me because I am, by no means, an expert on financial matters. But I am going to try to take the arguments and apply LOGIC and not empirical knowledge of the financial domain. Let's see how this goes.

Ok let's say we have a "1-percenter" who is currently taking home (in the current income-tax model) $6.5M in income per year. Now, let's say that the proposed change results in them taking home $5M instead, meaning that they have effectively lost $1.5M every year. Now, let's just go out on a limb here and suggest that the REASON this person is a financially successful businessperson is that they are kinda good with that whole money-thing. Do you think that they will:

1. Meekly accept this giant loss in their net income

or

2. Do whatever it takes to increase their compensation back to where it was (if not higher) by, ultimately taking it out of the hides of those that work for them.

Let's just say that I have my doubts that this group of pot-smoking hippies will have any noticeable impact on the lives of the rich. If I were a wealthy company owner and the government actually LISTENED to these idiots, I would start doing things like making my employees pay to get into the bathrooms. Just out of spite.

I have spent my entire parenting career trying to ensure that my children understand that they are NOT ONLY in control of their own fate, but they are RESPONSIBLE for it. I refuse to raise children that have the inflated sense of entitlement that these people have. My children will make mistakes, we all do. And when they do, they will NOT blame others for the hardships that befall them, they will pick themselves up and do what they can to make the situation better. And that will NOT involve sitting in a park smoking pot and playing guitar.

This whole thing is less like a protest and more like a Phish concert at an asylum if you asked me.

Oh baby!

2011-08-24T12:00:00Z

God's latest move, in this ongoing chess game called life, was both interesting and unexpected; Karrie and I were recently blessed by the arrival of our third child, Gavan Tomas Coffey.

Well played sir.

Although, some might suggest that handing me another child wasn't exactly wise, but still... well played.

In any case, having Gavan has made me reminisce about the whole child rearing process. I have been thinking back on my experiences with each of our children over the years, and analyzing my unique parenting approach. Honing it like a finely crafted weapon for use as I, once again make my way into the fray.

I'll try to keep some sense of order to my ramblings...

To begin with, I would love to say that I was a doting husband, entertaining Karrie's every whim during the long nine months of each pregnancy, but that would be a bold-faced lie. Karrie has never been a big fan of accepting help from others, and I am an inconsiderate lazy bastard (a pretty good match).

Aside from Karrie expanding by about a dress size every month until small objects began orbiting her, it was pretty-much business as usual around the Coffey household for each pregnancy, so let's just skip to the birth.

My behavior during all three of my children's deliveries fully supports my theory that men really have no useful role in the birthing process; our only relevant duty in the entire business ended about nine months earlier, and involved a grand total of 90 seconds of work (including 30 seconds of begging). Let's face it guys, we are in the room to hold our wife's hand so that she has something to squeeze when it hurts. She'd really be better off with a decent "stress ball", if you asked me.

For example, with each delivery, Karrie was strapped to a machine that measured the intensity of her contractions. During each contraction, since only my left hand was busy at the time, and it was impossible to have a meaningful conversation with Karrie because she was fully focused on gently but firmly ripping the fingers off of that hand, I occupied my mind by studying this machine and discussing my observations with her when each contraction had passed...

Me: Did that one hurt?
Karrie, grunting in pain: Yeah, it hurt... a lot.
Me: Really? Because that only went to 20, and this machine goes up to 100.

Now, before you ladies get all "hear me roar" on me, you should be aware that Karrie spent less time in labor with all three children combined than most women spend with one. With that said, I fully understand that pushing a roasting chicken out of any orifice is not a pleasant experience, and one that would surely spell the end of life on earth if the males of the species had to do it.

There is a good reason that "in the old days", midwives used to send the men to boil water that was never actually used. We are nothing but a useless distraction from the main event, and should be forbidden entry into the room, and possibly even the building. What ever happened to men-folk spending their time in the local pub waiting for the call from the hospital so they could hand out cigars to drunken strangers?

The point is that men do not see things in quite the same way as women do. Women see childbirth as a miracle that is a joy to behold; a rare opportunity to witness new life being brought into the world. Men see it as a medical procedure...

*The doctor holds up the baby, still connected to the placenta*
Doctor: Would you like to cut the umbilical cord?
Me: Isn't that what I pay you for?

...and we don't see it as a pretty one either...

Nurse: Do you want to hold the baby?
*The nurse holds out a slime-coated bundle that I can only assume, by context, is a baby*
Me: Umm... no. Why don't you hose it off first, then I will reconsider.

The hospital introduced something new this time around. Before we were allowed to leave the hospital with Gavan we had to watch a video about the dangers of shaking babies. I believe it was cleverly entitled "never shake a baby". The fact that you need to have a video explaining to new parents that violently shaking their newborn is "bad" is not exactly surprising, but kinda sad.

The only thing I got out of the video was that it's mere existence illustrated the vacuousness of your average parents. About halfway through the video I felt like turning to the nurse with a look of feigned innocence and asking: "Wait... is this true for puppies too?" but thought better of it.

Once we had watched the video, and signed more paperwork than we did at our last home closing, we were allowed to take Gavan home and begin to figure out how this little bundle of swirling chaos was going to change our lives. I mean sure, we have two other kids, so having an infant in the house is nothing new, but it has been a long time.

Why many people, Karrie included, love the infancy stage so much is beyond me. I sometimes shudder to think about how our children would have turned out if I was the primary caregiver in the household. I would probably have purchased every possible gadget that claimed to help a baby sleep/eat/poop/etc. Ultimately, my children would have been, for all intents and purposes, raised by robots.

I am perfectly fine when presented with clear instructions, but that is not how infants operate. When they are hungry, they cry. They have a full diaper? Cry. Hurt? Cry. Want to cry? Cry. It's a bit like having a single alarm that can either indicate that "It is lunchtime", "The basement is flooded" or "The building is being attacked by aliens".

Women will have you believe that they use their magical spidey-sense ("maternal instinct") to determine what the baby truly wants when they cry, but I have observed Karrie very closely and determined that women really just cycle through and check every possibility until they find the right one. It's a well camouflaged brute-force algorithm, they just get better, and faster at it over time. Just had food, diaper is clean, doesn't look hurt... must be something else.

I am not trying to devalue a mother's role in any way, just trying to shed some light onto how it works in reality. I am still baffled by most of it. For example, when Karrie determines that Gavan wants to play, she will sit on the floor with him for hours, positively glowing, delighted by his every coo and giggle. Whereas my interactions with him tend to go a bit like this:

*I stare at Gavan*
*Gavan stares back*
Me: Do something.
*Gavan cries*

Don't get me wrong, I try to enjoy myself with the baby but I just don't think I am wired to enjoy this stage of his life with the same vim that Karrie does. I do what I can though, for instance, I was recently in a candy store with Gavan, and decided to solicit his help to test a widely accepted scientific theory:

Me, to everyone around me: Watch this.
*gives a giant lollipop to Gavan*
Me: Give me that!
*snatches lollipop away*
Me: See how easy that was?

Unsurprisingly, Karrie seldom leaves me alone with any of the kids. In the interest of their safety and mental well-being, she pretty much handles all child-related activities all the way up to, and including, bedtime.

When she is putting the baby to sleep, or back to sleep in the middle of the night, she usually tells stories and/or sings songs. She is pulling from a fairly standard repository of children's stories and songs, and I usually don't have a problem with them, but at 3am I tend to become a little more critical than normal...

Karrie sings: Twinkle twinkle little star, how I wonder what you are.
Me, turning over from a dead sleep: Seriously? With all the science education you have, you are wondering what a star is?

I mean, really... what kind of bullshit is that? She knows damn well it is, more than likely, a giant ball of burning gas. But, this exchange gave me some ideas for a few minor modifications to the traditional lyrics. Because, if it's not a burning ball of gas, it certainly isn't a "diamond in the sky":

*Craig sings*
Twinkle twinkle little star, how I wonder what you are.
A meteor set on a course to kill us all with massive force?
Or perhaps the final breath of a suns explosive death.
Twinkle twinkle little star, how I wonder what you are.
*Craig finishes with a flourish*
*Gavan begins to wail*

He does that a lot around me. I have a way with the kids.

So, in summary, even though it has been a long time since we had a baby in the house, Karrie and I are handling things in much the same way as we did with our other children, years ago. It's a time-honored good-parent/bad-parent routine that we have grown quite accustomed to (Guess which one I am! Go on! Guess!). She spends every day diligently teaching the baby how to behave properly, and I spend about 15 minutes each night desperately trying to undo all of it.

I am sure you can recognize who has the harder job here. After all, Karrie has all day to do her part, whereas I only have 15 minutes to do mine.

It's not easy, but it's a burden I bear stoically.

Managing to manage...

2011-06-23T05:00:00Z

So there I was, at the ass-end of a painfully long day in the office, urinating in a small bathroom that smelled like it was constructed entirely out of dried hippo feces, when it occurred to me... work is killing my soul.

Ok, maybe that is a slight exaggeration (about killing my soul, not about the bathroom... that is completely accurate). I actually like my job, I suppose. I mean, I don't exactly leap nimbly from my bed each morning anxious to face the day but, on the other hand, I also haven't hung myself from an overhead pipe using my belt so I guess I'm doing ok.

It's just that... I really like doing things, and my job currently involves an awful lot of talking about things, and remarkably little actual doing. One of the many bitter ironies of the corporate world is that if you prove that you are good at doing something you are rewarded with a succession of positions that require you to do progressively less and less of that thing.

NOTE: I have also described the odor in that particular bathroom as follows: "It's as if someone who has subsisted for an entire month on a diet of nothing but cabbage and baked beans, went into the bathroom and was messily devoured by a larger person who subsequently... detonated."

I just need to make that mental leap that all managers and directors must make. The one that makes them look at their workload and say "Wow... that project looks like a interesting opportunity to work with something new, expand my skillset and maybe even have some fun! ... I'm going to give that to someone else!".

For me, delegating projects feels a bit like giving away newborn babies (my own; I would cheerfully distribute other peoples brats). It is a practice that I am almost certain I would never willingly consider doing unless there were absolutely no other option available to me.

And so... here I am... with "absolutely no other option available to me".

The folks that work for me will probably read this and say that I still do quite a bit of "work", and may even accuse me of cherry-picking some of the more interesting projects for myself. Reasonable charges, for sure. To these accusations I respond: "What the fuck are you doing reading my blog!? Get back to work!"

To make matters worse, even when I succeed in reluctantly divvying up the project load, I am absolutely terrible at keeping track of it all.

I once took a class on "Project Management" where the instructor described the process as "like dancing with a bear". He explained that "you pick the music, and when to start, and the bear picks the tempo... and when to stop". To me, it feels more like I start the music and step boldly up to my hairy partner only to discover, as he viciously mauls me with his powerful claws and teeth, that this is not a "dancing" variety of bear.

NOTE: A few of us in the office believe we have narrowed down the root cause of the bathroom odor. A gentleman we have nicknamed "The Master Blaster". A name earned by the fact that when he is in one of the stalls doing his business it sounds a little like someone is having a difficult time giving birth to a litter of hungry wolverine pups.

With one or two large projects, I am fine; I am able to manage them pretty well while still ensuring that the inmates aren't running the asylum. With three or four projects, things start to get a bit dodgy. Beyond that, my brain seems to reject me as a host.

I was going to compare my behavior to a "pressure release valve", but I realized that this is not entirely accurate. That analogy implies that the system works well, up until a certain amount of pressure has been reached, at which point the valve releases some and the system returns to normal. This is how a healthy organism should function... but, no... this is not me. My behavior is more like that of a circuit-breaker. When too much responsibility floods by brain, it just shuts down and nothing of value gets done.

There have been stretches of time... hours, mind you, wherein the only thing I accomplished was the construction of a small collection of forest creatures made from nothing but office supplies. I am not trying to diminish this task, since they were truly adorable, but it was not something that was on my high-priority project list at that time.

NOTE: Seriously. I have gone in right after they cleaned it and, if anything, it smells worse. It's like they wash it with shit instead of a cleaning agent.

But, somehow... I manage to manage, and despite my instinct to flee back to my "doer" roots I keep on trying to grow as a manager while retaining some semblance of technical chops. I have high hopes that one day it will all just suddenly make sense, signalling to me that I have finally completed my metamorphosis from the ugly little hairy engineer caterpillar into a bright and beautiful manager butterfly.

Or that I have finally given up because the last remnant of my soul was finally destroyed dooming me to a life of rapidly approaching obsolescence.

One of those two.

Lyrical Satirical

2010-10-20T12:30:00Z

I am sure by now that you have noticed my unnatural sensitivity to the general use and abuse of the English language. You know that guy who corrects everyone when they say something incorrectly? I correct him. Don't get me wrong, I freely admit that I am not always correct, it's just that sometimes I feel like I am the only person who gives a shit about things like the difference between "you're" and "your".

NOTE: Incidentally, it's quite simple folks; "you're" is a contraction of "you" and "are", as in "you're a fucking idiot", and "your" is the possessive form of "you", as in "your IQ is too small to calculate".

So, right or wrong, I will continue to fight the good fight as the Sheriff of Englishtown. And, just in case you thought my jurisdiction only covered written and conversational English, rest assured my friends that it extends well beyond that.

Have you ever listened to songs on the radio and had their lyrics just... rub you the wrong way? Well I sincerely doubt that any songs have bothered you as much as they have bothered me. The problem is that, unlike most people who probably just listen to the music without even trying to hear the words, my brain seems to need to understand the words to every song I hear... even if I hate them.

Most of the time, this is ok. I don't listen to the radio often but, when I do, I listen to a station that plays "popular" music which tends to follow simple, predictable patterns that lull the brain into a state of catatonia. Every once in a while, however, I hear lyrics that make me question if the person that wrote them speaks English as their primary language (or at all, for that matter).

I think, for me, it started with Alanis Morissette, when she asked her fans "isn't it ironic?" and for many of the situations, which she presented in her lovely voice, I was forced to respond "No Alanis... no, it's not". By my reckoning, "Ten thousand spoons, when all you need is a knife" doesn't qualify as irony... it just sucks. If you had asked me "doesn't it suck?" then I would have readily agreed.

Yeah, I know, 15 years too late on that one.

But, lucky for you, I have some more current material. Here are three more examples of fairly current songs with lyrics that make me yell at the radio...

Let's start with "Tattoo" by Jordin Sparks:

Jordin: "Don't look back, got a new direction"
Me: Good for you.
Jordin: "I loved you once, needed protection"
Me: Whoa... sounds like you have an STD problem there.
Jordin: "You're still a part of everything I do"
Me: Chlamydia will do that.
Jordin: "You're on my heart just like a tattoo"
Me: Sure, that's another way to put it.

To me, this is a classic lyrical mistake; Jordin got cornered by the word "direction", desperately needing a word to rhyme with it, and ultimately choosing the word "protection". Not a word, I would argue, that is the best choice here. I am sure, for instance that she could easily have worked affection, connection or erection seamlessly into this song without too much trouble.

There are plenty of good rhyming dictionaries online Jordin. Google it.

Oh, and emphasizing the wrong syllable of the word "tattoo" just so that it works for your crappy song makes me want to run you over with a farm tractor.

Up next, "Already Gone" by Kelly Clarkson:

Kelly: "I want you to know, that it doesn't matter where we take this road, someone's gotta go."
Me: Yeah, ok. I vote for you.
Kelly: "And I want you to know, you couldn't have loved me better. But I want you to move on, so I'm already gone."
Me: That was fast.
Kelly: "I'm already gone, already gone."
Me: Ok ok... I got it.
Kelly: "You can't make it feel right when you know that it's wrong"
Me: You know, for someone that's gone, you sure are noisy.
Kelly: "I'm already gone, already gone"
Me: *sigh*
Kelly: "There's no moving on, so I'm already gone"
Me: How can you be "already gone" if there's no "moving on"?

It's like the songwriter has short-term memory loss. First she wants this man to "move on", which is apparently why she's "already gone". And then, 30 seconds later, she claims that there is no "moving on"... which is NOW why she's "already gone". Fascinating.

Speaking of memory loss, the final song for today is "You're Beautiful" by James Blunt:

James: "I saw her on the subway, she was with another man"
Me: Bummer
James: "I won't lose sleep on that, because I've got a plan"
Me: Brilliant, let's hear it!
James: "You're beautiful..."
Me: Ok, good start, what's next?
James: "You're beautiful..."
Me: Um, ok, I think we covered that.
James: "You're beautiful..."
Me: I'm losing faith in this "plan".
James: "It's true..."
Me: Ok, now you're just fucking with me.
James: "I saw your face in a crowded place... and I don't know what to do"
Me: What happened to the plan!?

If your plan was to be a whiny bitch, then mission accomplished James! This is a lyrical train-wreck. I cannot even make up a funny reaction to this worthless word-salad other than to say that I am confident that I could write more coherent lyrics while under the influence of a rhino tranquilizer.

You may think I am being extra picky here, but I respectfully disagree. These people get paid an awful lot of money to work with these words, and it's really ALL they do. I am pretty sure that if all I had to do as a job was to make sure that the words of a small collection of 3-minute songs were not retarded, I would be able to do that without fail.

But, then again, they get paid millions of dollars to croon their atrocious songs to crowds of adoring cretins while I write a blog that only a half-dozen people read... for free.

So, I guess they must be doing something right.

A nerds-eye-view of "girls"

2010-10-12T00:00:00Z

It's that time again! Time to reveal yet another in a long list of shocking truths about myself. In previous articles in this series you have learned a wide array of interesting factoids such as: 1) I don't like sports and 2) I don't know how cars work. To add to that long and detailed list, today's interesting Craig fact is:

I am no Casanova.

I know, I know... It's unbelievable; a sobering sign of a world gone mad. If you need a moment to meditate and take it all in, do so now. I'll wait.

Ok, welcome back.

The truth is that, in general, I am more than a little shy socially. Because of this, my group of friends has always rather small but, when I was younger at least, it included equal parts boys and girls. It was when I finally started to notice that girls were constructed from fundamentally different parts than I was, however, that things changed rather dramatically. You see, prior to this realization, everyone I met had been lumped into the "person" category and I was thus able to actually speak with them, but when I became a teenager it all went to hell. Even in forced social situations, like school, and even with "people" I already knew, things became... awkward...

Me: Did you do the Math homework yet?
Person: Yeah, it wasn't that bad.
Me: Great, can you help me with the second question?
*popping sound*
Me *staring at their chest*: Were those there a minute ago?
Girl: You're not on the football team, why the hell am I talking to you?

Ok, that may not be 100% accurate. It was really more of a *boing* sound... and I think she may have kicked me too. In any case, from that point forward I became convinced that all girls hated me and would do everything in their considerable power to ensure that I remained a virgin till I was at least 80 and so I decided to never date. After all, in order to go out on a date, I would have to actually ask a someone, which would in turn require me to communicate with one of these malevolent creatures and that really didn't seem practical. Thus, by the age of 16 or so, I had already decided that I was going to die a lonely old man who would leave everything he owns to his goldfish (likely named "Mortimer").

It was probably for the best, since I am quite certain I would not have done very well in the dating arena. When I get nervous I become very... proper, and I can assure you that if I was out at a bar trying to "pick up women" I would be quite nervous. I would likely start sounding like some jackass acting student practicing (badly) for a part in a Shakespearean play.

Me: Pardon me fair maiden but even from yonder barstool one could not help but notice that you possess a level of pulchritude rarely heard of outside of ballads.
Woman: *looks confused*
Me: Barkeep! A beverage for the resplendent young lady!
Woman: *looks frightened*

It really is nothing short of a miracle that I actually found a mate.

Yeah... about that...

I am married so, clearly my whole "die a lonely old man" thing didn't pan out, but it wasn't entirely my fault. Life just had other plans for me it would seem. Almost up to the very last minute, I was planning to go "stag" to my Senior Prom, but the friends that I was going with all got dates leaving me with the following choices:

Don't go
Go as a pathetic dateless loser ("stag" is only ok when you aren't the only one)
Get a date

And so, because I was forced into actually getting a date to the Senior Prom, that is how I met my wife, Karrie. That sounds so much worse that it is meant to. I didn't need to be forced to ask her out as the result of any shortcomings on her part, believe me, but still the start of our relationship wasn't exactly the makings of a romance novel. I would love to spin some fantastic tale about how my wife and I first met and started dating. Something flowery that tugs on the heart-strings. Something like:

I saw her from across a crowded room, unable to avert my gaze from her beauty, her hair glimmering like dewdrops in the bright summer sun. As if sensing my gaze upon her, she suddenly looked my way. Our eyes met and I could feel an instant connection; my stomach began to flutter as if the caviar and champagne I had just had were flirting capriciously with each other inside of me. Suddenly conscious of her sweeping gaze I quickly checked my appearance, appalled to find that there was a small wine stain on the cuff of my shirt. Sensing my dismay, her expression softened as if to say "Such things don't matter to me". And so, without a word, the stage was set for our life together...

But, sadly, it was really more like:

I saw her across the crowded classroom, staring at her for an inappropriately long time. Her friends caught me staring at her and whispered something to her, laughing. She turned her gaze my way and I felt like I was going to hurl; that's the last time I have Cheetos and Mountain Dew at the same time. Feeling a little exposed with her glaring at me, I quickly checked to see if my fly was open, only to find that one of the football players had just pantsed me. Sensing my dismay, her expression softened as if to say "Really? Spiderman Underoos?". And so, without a word, the stage was set for our life together...

Truthfully, Karrie, being one of the few people on the planet who found my jokes to be funny, was my first and only choice to ask out. If she had said no, I am pretty sure I would have immediately started executing my original plan and picked up a goldfish on the way home. But, seeing as I am thoroughly married to her, it's pretty clear that she did not say no. On the contrary, due to what I can only assume is an epic lack of judgement on her part, she said yes... three times, in fact. Yes to the prom, yes to dating me, and eventually yes to marrying me.

Now, while I realize that marrying the first girl I ever dated doesn't exactly make me an expert on relationships, I like to think of myself as a fairly observant and empathic person. I truly believe that, despite my lack of direct empirical evidence, I understand women about as well as any man can. And although I didn't go into very much detail about my experiences with girls when I was younger, if I had to summarize them I would say that, with very few exceptions, teenage girls are pure evil right down to the deep black frozen core of their obsidian hearts.

There are those, I am sure, that will beg to differ with my opinion and likely because they lost their virginity in school broom-closet at the age of 16, while my interactions with girls when I was young were typically not what you would call "warm and inviting". To these folks, I don't really have a rebuttal that isn't laced with jealousy, and therefore I stand by my original assessment.

What got me thinking about all of this recently was the fact that my son just started high school, and is now surrounded by the special industrial-strength high school variety of girls every day. He is likely already riding the same emotional roller-coaster that I did when I was his age and there is really no way that I can possibly prepare him for what is coming.

I cannot decide if I should wish him luck, or buy him a goldfish.

Llama-palooza

2010-10-07T02:30:00Z

The parts of my life that I choose to document in this blog are typically not very representative of me. Most of them are infrequent events of minor import that I shamelessly embellish to make sound more interesting than they really are; like a good documentary. But there are a few portions of my life that, when I describe them, sound like a pitch for a bad sitcom. This is one of them:

My daughter trains llamas.

She trains them for two categories of activity. To show (like a "dog show") and to go through an obstacle course. She does this every week, all year long, and then goes to small 4H events to compete with other local llama trainers. She has done this for a few years now, and it had almost begun to feel... normal. That is, until this past week when we decided to enter her into a competition at a very large state fair called the "Eastern States Exposition" (aka. "The Big E"). It was during these two days that I learned just how different I am than the typical state fair... fare.

I think the first clue should have been the laptops. I brought two (naturally).

When we arrived, I wasted no time and set up a small wireless network for my son and I to use, and we almost immediately began playing a Massively Multi-player Online Role Playing Game (MMORPG) which we played for as long as we could before our legs went numb from sitting in those crappy folding chairs that seem to be specifically designed to completely cut off the circulation in both thighs.

We were like a little oasis of technology adrift in a sea of llamas. We were set up on a hay-covered floor in-between two llama pens in a giant building filled with livestock of all varieties. Our choice of location was made purely based upon the fact that this spot actually had a power outlet. In hindsight, however, despite it's ready source of power, our choice of basecamp may have been less than ideal (see diagram below).

Llamas are deceptive creatures when it comes to their feces. They don't make big sloppy messes like cows do, just a small pile of pellets, almost like a timid little bunny. But I would estimate that they expel waste about once every 30 seconds, and the accompanying cloud of noxious gas that comes along with these pellets has a scent which is not entirely unlike being punched in the nostrils with an icepick.

To add insult to injury, the lovely creature pictured to the right seemed to think my laptop power cord tasted like licorice because he started happily chewing on it when I was away for a few minutes. Luckily my wife caught him and moved the cable, otherwise I would have had to open a BBQ'd Llama booth.

As if all that wasn't enough, there were llamas in both of these pens that were for sale. and we were constantly interrupted from our gaming by the seemingly endless stream of toothless hicks that had come to the fair purely to fulfill their instinctive need to eat fried balls of butter. Although it was abundantly clear that they had no ability, or intention to actually purchase a llama, they were all desperate to know how much they cost. Given our "prime" location, in their tiny little brains we were clearly the ones who possessed this knowledge that they so greatly desired.

After about the fourth time I got tired of explaining that I wasn't the owner of these llamas and that I had no clue how much they cost, and I just started responding with things like "about fifty grand" and "how much you got?". I even told one man that I would consider trading one for his daughter and two mature goats (he declined).

About the only advantage of our position was the fact that we were pretty close to the arena where the competition was going on, so we could clearly hear everything the judge was saying about the llamas in each round, but we were far enough away from him that he couldn't hear my comments...

Judge: Up next we will be the class 6 Suri Wool Yearling Males
Me: Fantastic. It's about damn time.
Judge: I bet you are wondering why I started with class 5.
Me: Honestly? It was friggin' killing me. I was thinking "Starting with class 5 llamas? It's like a world gone mad!"

This was amusing for a while (at least to me), but eventually the "charm" of our little camp wore off and we decided to take a break from gaming until we could feel our legs again, so we packed things up and moved to bleachers around the arena to watch the show.

It was like I took a rocket to a different planet. Now that I was paying full attention to the competition I realized, more with every passing minute, just how differently I was wired than these folks. For example, I personally derived a great deal of amusement from the judging and specifically... the judge himself (pictured left). I would swear to you on a stack of Bibles that he spent a solid five minutes discussing one llama's testicles. The fact that the judge was an older gentleman with a stern look about him just added to the comedic affect.

Judge: The reason I put this llama in second place is that I really didn't like the look of his testicles. One is hanging a little lower than the other.

At this point I was in the bleachers, barely able to contain my bubbling mirth. But, when I looked around me to find someone else to share this absurdity with I found that they were all nodding knowingly as if to say "Yeah, I saw that too. Those testicles just aren't right.".

I think that was about the time I decided that I needed to leave this place before my brain imploded. By the end of our stay, I was thoroughly ready to go home to hide away in my fortress of digital solitude.

I think that, perhaps, in time I might grow to enjoy at least some portions of the fair. I mean, it has the kind of food that you wouldn't dare eat without the aid of a "spotter" armed with a defibrillator and that, at least, is right up my alley. But for now I think I will just categorize it as "an experience".

Dam-boozled

2010-09-24T02:00:00Z

Once or twice a year I make a trip to Amsterdam.

Now, if this were the blog of a more cavalier or lascivious man the remainder of this entry would be filled with stories about me puffing away the few remaining useful brain-cells I have in sweet-smelling smoke-filled coffee bars during the day and bed-hopping my way through the red light district in a drug-induced haze at night. Naturally, I would awaken every morning in an alleyway bereft of money... and pants.

Well I am terribly sorry to disappoint you but, this is not that blog, and I am not that man.

No, while I thoroughly enjoy every visit I make to Holland, they are all quite tame and have never involved anything more exciting than an uneventful walk around the streets of the city followed by a movie back at the hotel (no, not even that kind).

I'll be honest, I struggled for a while to come up with something to say about Holland and its people that was both derogatory enough to fulfill the general parameters of my blog, and yet not so bad as to make my Dutch friends, some of whom actually read this, hate me any more than they already do. Since my prudish nature has robbed me of the opportunity to poke at the seedy underbelly of Amsterdam, I am forced to retreat to safer terrain such as...

Food

As my physique suggests, I don't typically have a problem finding food no matter where I am in the world and Holland is really no exception. In fact, Amsterdam is currently home to my favorite restaurant on the planet, a small place named Bistro Bij ons.

In this tiny little restaurant, they serve a traditional Dutch dish called Stamppot which is basically a pile of mashed potatoes, sauerkraut and bacon covered in gravy and topped with stewed meat. For me eating Stamppot is a borderline erotic experience requiring my full mental attention to avoid moaning loudly with pleasure and ultimately being kicked out of the restaurant for disturbing the other guests. It's like a pig and a cow are having sex on a bed made of potatoes... in my mouth. Finish that off with a serving of "flipped bitches" for desert, and it becomes obvious (at least to me) why this place holds a special place in my heart.

But, sadly, not all restaurants in Amsterdam are Bistro Bij ons, and not all Dutch food is Stamppot.

On one trip, we asked the concierge at our hotel for a recommendation, and he sent us to a place down the street named Envy (ostensibly named so to describe the feeling that passersby feel when they gaze upon its inhabitants). We realized, a bit too late, that this place was designed to trap those unfortunate enough to enter, keeping them weak by feeding them microscopic portions and ensuring that each course is prepared by a different shift. About two hours into our visit we began to desperately and fruitlessly seek escape.

FUN FACT: In Dutch "fusion" restaurants "check please" means "wait an hour and then bring me another 'course' consisting of 2 grams of meat, a drizzle of unidentified sauce, and a 'foam' of some variety".

Eventually we escaped by asking the waiter for "chicken nuggets" and then, while he was confused and distracted, we struck him in the head repeatedly with a pepper-grinder until we were sure he wouldn't regain consciousness until we were safely back home in the US. In hindsight, I think we may have been a tad overzealous and I sincerely hope that the pepper-grinder was not permanently damaged.

In another restaurant, on a different visit, one of the many courses of our meal had only two ingredients that I was able to confidently identify...

The long strip of mushy yellow paste still haunts me.

Considering what this dish likely cost, the profit they make off the investment in a large box of Sunmaid Raisins and a couple of bags of microwave Orville Redenbacher Popcorn must be amazing.

Ok, let's wrap it up with a brief comment on my favorite meal of the day, breakfast. On each visit, in every hotel I have stayed in, they offer a buffet breakfast with the usual selections: eggs, bacon, sausage, etc. They all have a selection of breads as well and, without exception, near the breads they all have a display stand filled with boxes that look like the one below.

The fact that I have never seen a single person actually eat these, combined with the fact that the picture on the box looks like a large pile of mouse droppings on a slice of bread, made me suspect that this was some sort of national practical joke. Something like Rocky Mountain Oysters are for people who live in Colorado.

In an unprecedented display of bravery, on my last trip I decided to actually try them on some toast. After I took my first bite I would not have been surprised to look up and find all the Dutch people in the restaurant chuckling while clacking their wooden shoes together in amusement (or, whatever it is they do) but, not only was there no laughter, I also found out that they taste a lot like dark chocolate sprinkles, and not at all like rodent-poo as the box suggests.

How odd.

Anyhow... I have learned some hard lessons when it comes to eating in Holland. Always pack a backup snack, don't eat the brownies and, whatever you do, never ever trust the concierge.

Year Two

2010-07-28T13:00:00Z

Two long years ago, I launched CoffeyGrind.com in order to pick up a hobby that was fun, mentally challenging and, if at all possible, not completely illegal. I can proudly say that (so far) I have been successful and, although I did not post as many entries in the last year as I did the year before I have still made what I would like to think of as a valiant effort to entertain, offend and occasionally disgust the small handful of unfortunate people who have inadvertently stumbled across my wee-little site.

As was the case with the previous year, this last years-worth of blog entries is a collection of essays mainly about things that boil my blood but with a pinch of self-deprecation sprinkled in for fun. If you really don't have the time to read all of them, allow me to sum it up for you:

I am a Twitter-hating Conservative Republican who understands business-speak, doesn't believe in luck, sucks at maintaining his car and would love to see most Social Studies teachers be put to death by stuffing a hungry wolverine into their pants.

There. You're all caught up now.

To wrap things up this year I would like to thank all the people that made this blog possible. For the last two years, these unsung heroes have provided the fuel for this blog and by doing so, I suppose, have become... sung. I mean really, now that I think of it, I have written entire articles about them, so why do I need to write more? What kind of attention-whores are these people?

Well... I guess I don't have any better ideas for this entry anyway, so I'll stick with thanking people, so here goes nothing...

Thank you Megan Fox. Just... thank you.

Bacon... what can I say about you that has not already been said? No other meat moves me the way you do. You are the wind beneath my wings. By "wind" here, I mean "cholesterol"; and by "beneath" I mean "in"... and by "wings" I mean "all my major arteries". I love you. Call me.

Thank you brain. You are insecure, and yet somehow you let me share some of the most embarrassing moments (and photos) from my youth. Because of your obvious dysfunction, I have been able to write some of my favorite blog entries. Keep it up!

Morons. You are the subject of so many of my entries that I cannot, in good conscience, leave you out. My hatred for you is so strong that it can almost physically manifest itself, but I cannot deny the rich source of comedic material you provide and so, I thank you, but not as much as I need to thank the service that brings you to me...

Finally... Thank you Long Island Rail Road. Without you, and the almost incomprehensibly stupid people that ride your trains, I would not have nearly as many entries as I do. For 15 of the years that I have ridden the LIRR I considered these people an annoying distraction from the things that made my commute tolerable. Now, however, I cannot wait for my next interaction with them so I can belittle them here. Your seemingly never-ending stream of morons and the completely inappropriate things that they do and say is, without question, the greatest source of inspiration for my blog. Thank you so very much. You are my muse.

And so, with that out of the way, one more year of CoffeyGrind comes to a close, and another begins. What will next year bring? Will Megan Fox still be stupid-hot? Will morons still be plentiful? And will the LIRR continue to pack them onto a train with me every day?

Who knows? But since, as I am typing this, there is a man on the train clipping his toenails, I would say the future looks bright.

The Mutha of Invention

2010-07-23T12:30:00Z

I have had the same umbrella for about 10 years.

It's nothing special, just a plain old umbrella. There are no fancy buttons to help you open or close it, or ingenious vents to guard against gusts of wind. No, it's not a mechanical marvel but, it keeps me dry and, for the most part, it looks like it did the day that I bought it. I attribute this partially to the neurotic way in which I carefully close and re-fold the umbrella each time I use it, and partially to the fact that I don't actually often use it, even when it's raining. I have long maintained that rain can ruin a good umbrella.

Fairly recently, however, a pushbutton umbrella came into my possession and, although I clearly had a sentimental attachment to my simple, reliable old one, I am a shameless whore for all "technology" no matter how mundane. So I quickly replaced my sad old umbrella with this shiny new one, not giving it a second thought as I carelessly tossed it into a basket of random things located near my front door.

If it were physically possible for an umbrella to do so, I am absolutely certain it would cry itself to sleep every night (though I suspect its pillow would remain blissfully dry).

For the past month or so, the new umbrella sat in my bag waiting for the day it was needed. That day finally came this week, at the end of my commute home. As my train arrived at Ronkonkoma station I noticed that it was raining heavily, so I stopped under the awning on the platform and removed the new umbrella from my backpack.

This was one of the fancier ones that has a button that both opens and closes it. I pushed the button and was rewarded with a solid *snick* as the umbrella unfolded smoothly and latched into place. As I stepped boldly out into the pouring rain and made my way across the parking lot, its clever design and sturdy construction ensured that I stayed as dry as a Englishman's wit.

When I arrived at my car, I steadied the umbrella under one arm as I retrieved my keys from my pocket and opened the car door. As I slid into my car I pushed the button once again to close the umbrella, and... that's when I realized two things:

The button doesn't really close the umbrella, it merely collapses it; you still have to close it the rest of the way manually.
The snapping action of the umbrella collapsing instantly transfers all the water from the umbrella onto its wielder.

I am pretty sure I would have remained drier if I had simply discarded the umbrella at the train platform and rolled myself to my car, making a special effort to hit every puddle along the way.

This experience, aside from making me want to violently disassemble the umbrella at a molecular level, made me realize that just about any moron can invent a new product. I mean, all you really need is an idea and a large collection of morons with credit cards. As Apple continually demonstrates, the idea doesn't even need to be unique as long as you convince the morons you are selling it to that it is better.

I have had a few ideas floating around in my head that I'd like to share. Don't go stealing them, unless you cut me in. My foolproof moneymaking ideas are:

Anacondoms™

Condoms for the man with a large... ego.

Think about it! There are millions of insecure men out there that would buy these. Heck, alot of men would buy them just so they could be seen... buying them. And, here's the best part! They don't even need to be large! You make them the same size as normal condoms so that the men who buy them (mostly Corvette owners I assume) can feel even better about themselves when they wear one and it isn't loose.

It's genius, I am telling you! Anyhow, onto my next idea, which is:

We have patties that look like hamburgers but are made entirely of vegetable matter and some sort of barely digestible glue that holds it all together and likely causes cancer. This seems to make the people that suffer from Vegeterianism happy. So why not have something for carnivores like me? Vegetables that are made entirely out of the flesh of dead animals. Some preliminary ideas I have include:

Rutabacon (Rutabaga)

Lima Beef (Lima Bean)

Or, my personal favorite...

The Porktato (Potato)

Mouth-watering, isn't it? Ok, my last idea is quite simple:

Garanimals for Men ®¢☺♀

Like most men, I generally look like I got dressed in the dark. I have worn dress socks with shorts, and black shoes with a brown belt. And, I am pretty sure my shirt has never really ever matched my pants.

Remember Garanimals? If the shirt has a giraffe and the pants have a giraffe, they match! Men desperately need this. I think there should be a line of suit separates, shirts, ties and socks with little animals tastefully embroidered on them somewhere. It'd make millions, I am sure of it!

Well, there you have it. My three biggest money-making ideas. I am on my way into work right now to submit my resignation so I can focus all my energy on promoting them.

Wish me luck!

A Democrat... I am not

2010-06-02T12:30:00Z

It doesn't take a genius to figure out my political affiliation.

If you can tolerate more than a five-minute conversation with me about almost any topic then you clearly possess an epic level of patience and understanding rarely seen in sentient lifeforms; I mean, I am generally a likable guy (no... really), but when I get going on a topic that I have strong opinions about I swear that I could goad Gandhi into taking a swing at me.

But, that's not my point.

My point is that if you have met me face-to-face then I am pretty confident that you can accurately identify which party I side with And if you read almost anything that I write then you can gain additional help through the trail of (not so) subtle hints that I leave. Let's tally up some of the hints that you can quickly and easily glean from my writing:

I like meat
I like the opposite sex
I hate almost everyone

If those three facts don't label me as a Conservative Republican, I don't know what does. But still, I know that things aren't always that cut-and-dried; I am sure that out there, somewhere, there are peace-loving republicans and bacon-eating democrats... somewhere... So, just in case there is any confusion about my general political bent, I have decided to offer my opinions on a small selection of today's important financial, social and political topics.

Let's see... where to begin...

Financial

I like money.

More specifically I like my money and would like to, if at all possible, actually keep some of it for me and my family. I worked very hard for it, and from where I sit it looks like many of the people on the receiving end of these government hand-out programs... did not.

I don't mind that some of my money helps people that really need it but I DO mind that quite a bit of it goes to help a bunch of lazy asshats who can work, but choose not to. I am sorry, but I do not believe it is a good idea to hurl money at masses of people in the hopes that some of it sticks to those that actually need it.

So, to those that believe it is our social responsibility to give our excess wealth to those that need it I say "Keep your grubby hands out of my wallet... commies".

I also don't like paying for...

Healthcare

Call me crazy, but I don't like paying the healthcare bill for people who chain-smoke while drinking beer and eating pork-rinds. If these people are not smart enough to figure out that these things are bad for them, then they simply need to be carried along by the process of natural selection.

For smoking in particular you simply cannot argue that anyone is being mislead here. I was just in Penn Station buying a drink at a newsstand and there were three copies of the following sign prominently displayed:

This is a vendor who makes a significant income from the sale of cigarettes and they are basically saying "Please, for the love of GOD don't buy these!". At this point, if anyone smokes and is surprised by the fact that they have health problems, then I think their doctor should be authorized to euthanize them on the spot and divvy up their healthy organs to anyone who will either treat them with respect or eat them.

Face it folks, you just can't cure stupid people by offering them a better healthcare plan. We should probably consider spending less money on emergency angioplasty for retards that have done nothing but drink bacon-grease for the last 10 years of their miserable lives and maybe focus more energy on...

Education

I send my kids to Catholic school because, despite the fact that I, and millions of other taxpayers, dump a significant amount of money into the public school system... it sucks.

I know that some of you are saying "You're an asshole Craig Coffey! I went to public school, and I turned out just fine!". Well that is a fair statement. After all, it's statistically unlikely that all the children who escape the public school system become criminals; at least a few of them need to become lawyers to represent them. So I will allow for a certain margin of error in my equation here if for no other reason, than the fact that I went to public school.

Also, it's important to point out that I am not saying there aren't any good public schools. On the contrary, there are quite a few really excellent public schools, but a good rule of thumb is:

"If you can afford to live in a neighborhood, then the school there sucks. The school district next to yours is nice; all the kids in that one will grow up to be CEOs of multi-billion-dollar international companies. But you would have to sell one of your kids just to be able to rent a room in the servants wing of the smallest mansion in that town."
(you need a big thumb for this rule)

I get especially worked up when I hear a school district threaten to fire teachers if the latest insane budget is not passed. But, when I see that they intend fire these teachers despite the fact that all of the sports programs are still intact it makes me want to find those responsible and back my car over their testicles.

Crapping all over education certainly warrants at least that much of a penalty, but perhaps falls just short of...

The Death Penalty

I don't think all murderers should be put to death.

I think they should be forced to fight in bracketed, gladiator-style battles to the death. These competitions could be televised because I am certain they would cause you average Nielsen family to have an orgasm, and could rake in enough advertising dollars to pay for the deadbeats that didn't commit crimes bad enough to justify death, but just bad enough to justify living off our tax dollars for the rest of their worthless lives.

Oh, and the ultimate winner of the competition each year should be rewarded with a nice hot meal... then be put to death.

I think we could fill the lower ranks of the contestants with...

Illegal Immigrants

I think that entering a premises illegally, typically referred to as trespassing, should be a punishable offense. I think that the legal inhabitants of the premises should be allowed to make the trespassers leave or, at the very least, should not be required to offer the trespasser a warm bed and a ride home. The label "Illegal Immigrant", which is a very accurate one, has the word "Illegal" in it. The fact that there is any confusion on this topic is beyond comprehension.

I don't want to hear any sob-stories about this country being built upon the backs of it's immigrants, or about the crappy jobs they are doing for pennies. Bottom line... What they are doing is illegal; kick them out, or change the law, pick one you mewling liberals.

Not that I can blame them for coming here, since it's hot as hell in Mexico.
Speaking of hot...

Global Warming

You tree-huggers need to stop referring to your futile campaign as an initiative to "Save the Earth" since I can assure you that this planet does not need "saving" from the likes of us; This planet has weathered far worse than us, and will long outlive you, your Prius, your BPA-free drinking bottle and your non-bio-degradable, reusable 99-cent grocery bags that have the carbon-footprint of a hundred regular plastic bags but rip after three uses.

If you asked me, Global Warming is this planet's way of purging the human irritant. Instead of "Save the Earth", you should call it what it is: "Save the Humans".

Ok, I think that about covers it. I have many more opinions, of course, but I need to keep them carefully guarded. Some of them would give the average Democrat a severe migraine, and make a Liberal's head explode upon reading so I will keep them to myself.

...for now. :)

No Such Luck

2010-05-14T12:30:00Z

My life is pretty damn good, if I must say so myself.

Every day I commute to my job where I get to work with some amazing people, and every night I come home to my wonderful family. Don't get me wrong, my life is far from perfect but, as lives go, I could do a lot worse. Which is why I have frequently been told that I am a lucky man to which I have typically responded with "Yep" or, when I am feeling particularly chatty, "Indeed I am".

To many of you, that might appear to be the end of it. I am sure at least some of you are thinking "What the hell is this psycho getting at? All he does in his blog is bitch about stuff... but if his life rocks, then how could he possibly find some way to be angry about it?"

Well rest assured my friends, I am capable acheiving an impressive level of primal rage over the most trivial of things. Once, I was trying to connect a computer to a small network in my house and I could not, for the life of me, get the network card (a 3Com card for those that are interested) to work. When I had finally decided that it was a lost cause, I calmly removed the card from the machine, walked out to my garage, clamped it into a vice and smashed it with a small sledge until it was reduced to sub-atomic particles. So, trust me folks, this is not even remotely challenging.

But back to the point, which is that I am a big fat liar.

The problem, you see, is that I don't believe in luck. I lie about it because that simple bit of fiction is so much easier to say than the truth, which is that "luck" is just something that morons use to rationalize the losses that are the result of the terrible choices they make in every aspect of their lives, and downplay the gains that are the result of the good choices that others make. I am getting really tired of hearing people talk about "luck" like it's some mystical force that alters destinies.

Idiot: You sure are a lucky man
Me: No, I am not.
Idiot tilts his head sideways like a confused dog
Me: Luck is just the perceived outcome of applied probability.
Idiot: Wow... those are big words. You sure are lucky you are so smart.
Me (sighing): Indeed, I am.

I work my ass off to be successful in the things that I set out to do. I spend a significant portion of my time agonizing over every detail of a situation before finally making a choice about how best to proceed. This process is not always long, and is seldom visible to the casual observer but, trust me, it's happening. I don't choose a place to have lunch without investing a great deal of mental energy on it, so you can probably imagine the internal chaos that is caused by managing the more important portions of my life.

Whenever people hear about some "hard luck" case -- someone that has lost their job, spouse, life savings, etc. -- they instinctually feel bad for them, as if life had somehow callously wronged these poor undeserving individuals. But if you dig into these cases a little you realize that many of these asshats deserved exactly what they got.

For the examples above I am able to provide some easy-to-follow rules that will help prevent you from losing these things ever again:

As you can see, many catastrophic, life-altering losses can really be completely avoided through the simple expedient of not being a complete fucking moron. I am here to help, no need to thank me (although your lavish compliments and generous cash donations will not be turned away).

So, to sum up, if you have experienced a constant stream of hardships in your life, chances are you are not plagued by "bad luck"; you are probably just an incompetent dipshit which is, unfortunately, a condition that cannot be cured with rabbit's feet or horseshoes. And when you casually chalk any aspect of my hard-earned life off to "luck" it makes me want to punch you in the larynx until my arm gets tired.

You're lucky I am lazy.

Funny Business

2010-03-21T04:00:00Z

It seems I have yet again shirked my blogging duties, since it has been quite a long time since my last posting. This time, however, it wasn't for World of Warcraft, it was actually for work. Unfortunately, I have been working quite a bit as of late and really haven't had time to sleep, much less blog. So, I am truly sorry. Trust me... I'd rather be blogging.

I realized that I don't write about my work much in this blog. As I always seem to do, I decided to analyze why this is the case. After giving this some thought, I believe that my reluctance to write about work is partially because I am afraid that I will mercilessly ridicule a coworker who will subsequently read the entry and respond to it by stabbing me in the face with a letter-opener. And, it's partially because... ok, no... that's really it.

But I have learned something that I feel the need to share with you all. Something that has long confounded the average person, which isn't really saying much since the average person can entertain themselves for hours using only a laser-pointer. Something that I am certain can help future generations of corporate drones rise to the absolute pinnacle of mediocre middle-management. Something that doesn't specifically single out an individual who may feel the need to suddenly and violently retaliate.

I think I have finally begun to decipher the language of business.

Before you scoff at the notion, please understand that gaining even limited comprehension of this language is no small feat. It is a language of fanciful metaphor, where words frolic playfully with each other in a sprawling field of colorful acronyms. Taken individually, the words and phrases that make up the language can seem to be fairly understandable and perhaps even a tad mundane but, when spoken by a master of the art, their relentless cadence can be beautiful and hypnotic lulling the listener into a state of drooling catatonia.

Anyway... Why have I chosen now to speak up about this topic? So glad you asked.

You see. I have reached the point in my career where I spend more time in meetings, accomplishing absolutely nothing, than I do in front of a computer, doing... you know... work. Because of a large project that I am currently involved in I have been spending even more time in meetings than usual, and many of these meetings have been with consultants instead of internal employees. Consultants are masters of this language, but I didn't know that at the time.

Initially, I felt a kinda lost in these meetings, which I attributed to being a little "out of my league" but realized pretty quickly that it was something else. It took me a few meetings to pinpoint the exact source of my problem, but I finally figured it out... I had NO idea what the fuck these people were saying. In person, in email, or on the phone... it didn't matter. I hadn't the foggiest clue what they meant. The noises emanating from their mouths sounded vaguely familiar, but it wasn't quite English.

"Heya Craig, this is Cecil from JCN. I'm calling to touch base on the BCP project, and wanted to give you an ETA on the RFP. I'll have it to you by COB. Maybe we could do lunch and discuss how we can forge a collaborative partnership that engenders synergies and create a cross-functional team to build a straw man and run it up a flagpole. Call me ASAP, OK?"

I cannot properly translate all of what was said in the message above; to do so would require the Rosetta Stone, the Dead Sea Scrolls, 12 tubes of airplane glue and about 3 weeks of dedicated work. But I can understand enough of it to explain the "gist" of the message. In this case, Cecil clearly wants to do something with his flagpole and a straw man... perv.

As a technical person, to complain about the widespread use of acronyms might just be a wee bit hypocritical, so I will forgive them on that count. But why do they have to use different words than the rest of us? The other day, one of the consultants said they had an "Ask". Really? What happened to the word "Question"? It's a perfectly good word that everyone understands well. It really didn't need to be replaced by noun-ifying the word "Ask". Morons.

To give them the benefit of the doubt, I decided to check the dictionary to see if there was any definition of "ask" that was a noun. Turns out that there is! It's a word from Scandinavian Mythology meaning: "The first man, made by the gods from an ash tree.". So I apologize for calling you a moron in the previous paragraph; clearly you were just trying to let me know that you had a wooden man. Can't wait to see it.

And what is the deal with all the metaphors? They are worse than the misused words! Half the time when one is used, someone in the meeting has to ask (properly used!) what it actually means. Doesn't that completely defeat the purpose of actually using a metaphor? Aren't we trying to effectively and efficiently communicate here? Perhaps this simple rule will help:

Rule: Any word or phrase that, when uttered, makes everyone in the meeting think "what the fuck did he just say?" is probably less than ideal for communications purposes.

All of this is bad enough when people do it "properly", but what is worse is when non-consultants attempt to use the same language and completely mess it up. The average corporate parasite doesn't really try to understand anything that a consultant does before they try to emulate it and the result can be somewhere between annoying and amusing.

Me: I think we should proceed cautiously.

*silent nods from around the room*

Cecil: We can no longer ignore the hippo in the room!

Me: The... what?

Cecil: Let's just throw the monkey on the table here.

Me: Wait... what happened to the hippo?

Cecil: We have to open our kimonos! You first Craig... go on, open your kimono!

Me: I... um... can we go back to the hippo?

I tried the kimono thing in a meeting once... it didn't end well.

After I heard "Open the kimono" once, I just had to look up it's origins. Turns out, it came from Japanese Folklore:

"The Goblin Fox and Badger and Other Witch Animals of Japan" vol. 18, p. 84: It was believed that the wolf was shameful of sexual things, having no strong sexual instincts. He would never disclose his organ, but hide it behind his hanging tail. Should a person perchance see his sexual act, he or she would have to open the kimono and disclose his or her own organ, so as not to shame the wolf."

So, when I hear "We need to open our kimonos" in a meeting I know that I am supposed to hear "Let's have no secrets" but I am really hearing "Let's all expose our junk to a wolf".

And while many more of these phrases have a similar charm, I have to admit that one of my personal favorites has always been "touch base". If you close your eyes, you can almost picture the speaker gently brushing their fingertips across the surface of the base as they sprint gracefully past you. But aside from the powerful imagery, for me this phrase has always had an even deeper purpose because, if you asked me, it is a very effective asshole-detector.

I have frequently used the number of "touch base" references per minute (or tb/m) to gauge the "asshole coefficient" of the speaker, which is typically much higher in salespeople who apparently need to say these words at least once every 10 minutes to avoid being ridiculed at their country club (including the occasional "wedgie" in the locker room after squash games).

At a previous job, one salesperson left me a 30-second voice-mail in which he said "touch base" 3 times, giving him an asshole coefficient of 6 tb/m, which is off the charts! This breed of super-salesperson can only be killed by dipping a Mont Blanc pen into a Grey Goose Martini and using it to stab him right through his blackened heart. Only a direct hit will do the job.

There is so much more of this language to cover, but I think I will save them for a future blog entry since this one is getting a bit long. Until then, keep proactively leveraging cutting-edge best-of-breed turnkey solutions for business-critical systems!

Twitter Blows

2010-02-11T00:00:00Z

On several occasions, I have come close to begging you people to leave me the hell alone, but you just couldn't let it lie. No... you just had to keep poking me with sticks until I got angry didn't you? Well, unfortunately for you, despite your best efforts to convert me, the only result of your tireless assault is a sad little blog entry entitled "Twitter Blows".

I hope you're happy.

For those of you that have been vacationing on a distant planet for the last five years, let me try to explain Twitter in layman's terms. Basically, you can follow other Twitter users (henceforth referred to as "tweetards"), and they can follow you. When you post a message (otherwise known as a "tweet") it is sent out to all your followers, and when someone you are following posts a message, it is sent out to you.

That is it in a nutshell.

This is not a complex concept at its core. In fact, since it's basically a tool to send SMS messages to groups of people... there's not a complex bone in its pathetic little body. So, you might venture to ask, what makes such an unassuming little messaging product so deserving of my wrath?

Well, as you probably know, normally I can cheerfully let the morons wallow in their own stupidity (yeah, I know... not really), but I am getting a little tired of hearing about how Twitter not only cures cancer but also gives you minty-fresh breath. I mean, forfucksake people! It's an interface to SMS, not a "political movement" or a "social revolution".

I know what you die-hard Twitter freaks are thinking; you're thinking "Sign up for an account Craig... Just try it... You will be one of us... *drools*". Well, if I had a nickel for every funky-smelling wild-eyed tweet-junkie that chanted a similarly ill-informed prediction... I would have precisely one nickle because, after the first one, I haven't let them get past the words "Sign up" before applying a swift but powerful rabbit-punch to the adam's apple and making a run for it.

But the truth is that I have, in fact, tried it. You see, one of my close friends kept waxing rhapsodic about Twitter and eventually I decided that I should give it a try. So... with great trepidation, I created my account, registered my cell phone, and began following them.

Something important to note here is that, because of its association with SMS, each message is limited to 140 characters. As a result, I really had no intention of posting anything myself because it doesn't really give you much room for creativity and, as you might have guessed, I have a problem being... concise. In fact, it really only lends itself to the dissemination of simple and painfully mundane details. The first few hours of tweets on my new account looked something like this:

*buzz*
Paco: I installed a new Linux distro
*buzz*
Paco: I hate mornings
*buzz*
Paco: I just installed another Linux distro
*buzz*
Paco: Squirrels are dumb

If, at that point, I simply responded to this last message to inform Paco that I took exception to his uninformed opinion on squirrels, then the result would be a tweet which would go out to every one of my followers without any reference to Paco's original message unless they too were following him (like hearing one side of a phone conversation). Ironically, this response would not actually go to Paco unless he was following me. In summary, a thoroughly unintuitive departure from the logical way that all other systems of digital communication work. Awesome.

NOTE: Before you tweetards start frothing at the mouth, yes I know that you can respond to people on Twitter, but in ANY OTHER form of digital communication I do not need to re-address a REPLY, so kindly shut the hell up. Thank you.

And, even if its interface made sense, who can tolerate constantly receiving microscopic updates about other peoples lives? And, more importantly, what kind of sick psychopath can justify sending them? I would estimate that roughly 60% of Twitter users out there are shallow, narcissistic, attention whores who really believe that every tiny moment of their pathetic self-absorbed lives is a nugget of pure joy to their followers and who only learned about Twitter because they got a glimpse of it while masturbating to Anderson Cooper's 360.

All of this is also true for the remaining 40% but in addition, they still wet their beds.

It was only through a herculean display of willpower that I did not delete my account within the first 24 hours. But I found the constant interruptions for useless details more than a little annoying, and so I disabled the SMS feature, which lead me to the same place that I am sure millions of other Twitter users have been; I figured out, to my surprise, that this tool was actually kinda useless for its original intended purpose. It was akin to getting a new hammer only to find out that it doesn't actually work on nails.

Not daunted by this, however, the Twitter community has shamelessly whored itself out to every possible purpose they could find (breaking news, politics, self promotion, marketing, etc.) in a desperate effort to find some niche to stick to. If you asked the average tweetard, they will tell you that it's absolutely perfect for every single one of them. If you asked me, it has only proven that it is great at pissing me off.

Let's examine its use as a source of news...

For a moment, lets ignore the fact that there are a wide array of decades-old technologies that can provide you with more than 140 characters of breaking news from legitimate sources whose sole job is to seek out and report on important global events; sources, mind you, that actually perform a monumentally underrated service known as "fact checking".

...ok, we've ignored it for a moment.

Are you people out of your friggin' minds? Really? You want to rely on common people to provide you with your news?! Have you met common people!?! They're idiots! The other day, I saw someone back into a parking spot in the middle of a completely empty parking lot! These people that you are relying on for news? This is their king!

Not convinced? Ok, how about this? As per a study of Twitter that was done by Pear Analytics, in which they randomly sampled tweets and categorized them, the "News" category only made up roughly 3.6% of all tweets. Compare that to the 38% that were categorized as "Conversational" and, even better, the 41% that were categorized as "Useless Babble" and you can see where I am going here. Sure... there may be news in there somewhere, but you have to burrow through a mountain of shit to get to it.

Sample Twitter log:

...
Good morning!
Who's up for lunch?
Megan Fox makes me have impure thoughts
A plane just landed in the Hudson
I'm sleepy
Where the hell are my pants?
Peanut butter is yummy
...

It's like playing "Where's Waldo?" with important information. No thanks. I already have plenty of useless, unverified trivia in my life. I suspect that, even though people say they want all this unwashed information, they will ultimately gravitate towards sources they can trust and ignore the rest. Who has the time to sift through it all?

Sadly, however, I am certain that Twitter will survive for a good long time based solely on its media hype and momentum and, one day perhaps, its hardcore zealots will even claw their way to a legitimate non-contrived purpose for it. If that day comes I will reactivate my account and give it another try.

Until then, shut your gaping cake-holes, because I am really not interested.

Haven't got a clue...

2010-01-13T04:00:00Z

It's time to talk about my past again.

Many of you alert readers have likely already surmised this, but my younger years weren't exactly a crazy hedonistic romp on the back of a naked cheerleader through a field of flaming marijuana. On the contrary, from the time I could muster enough strength in my chubby little digits to type on a computer keyboard I have largely spent my personal, educational and professional time gently, if sometimes inappropriately, caressing a digital device of some kind. But there have been times when some simple analog activity was interesting enough to coax my portly ass out of the lightless cavern of my bedroom and into the harsh and unforgiving sunlight.

I'd like to talk about one such activity.

As I have pointed out on a few other occasions, my friends and I were a pretty imaginative bunch of folks who had a lot of free time on our hands. Now, I am not suggesting that we were the only teenagers to have abundant free time, or even imagination. But the key difference, in my humble opinion, is that unlike your typical high school fare, instead of using our free time to conduct bracketed competitions for who could sustain a flame the longest using their own gas, we typically engaged in activities that were a bit more cerebral or at least a bit less... gastrointestinal.

The activity that I am making my glacial way towards introducing is one that we called a "Clue Hunt". The name pretty-much gives away the purpose here; the teams race each other, following a trail of hidden clues, until they decipher the final clue that leads them to the goal. Games typically started in the late evening and went on into the following morning (or afternoon).

The clues lead these poor souls all over Long Island, and took the form of anything our twisted minds could think up. Some clues were simple riddles or cryptograms, while others were much more complex. One clue lead the teams to a fairly precise location and asked them to tune their car radio to a specific station. The next clue was transmitted in a loop from a short-range FM transmitter. I always liked that one.

Although we never actually used it, one of my absolute favorite clues was a variation of the Indiana Jones map-room puzzle. At the entrance to Jones Beach there is a large map of Long Island inlayed into the walkway with streetlights nearby. If I remember it correctly, there are no landmarks on the map except for all of the parks and beaches. We planned to have the players make a staff of a certain length, and place it in a specific crevice in the sidewalk. The shadow of the staff on the map would point them to the park that had the next clue.

Most of them were less creative than that, but it any case, these clues didn't exactly write themselves; they took large blocks of dedicated time to come up with, and in many cases required hours of driving for "site recon" to ensure that our chosen locations had places that were public and accessible, and yet somehow... secluded enough to hide the clues so that they would not be removed before the players got to them. And, as you might have guessed, the placement of the clues was no easy task either. Don't get me wrong, it was not as hard as it would be today, that is for sure. Back then, security was much more relaxed...

*A security guard walks up just as I am taping the clues behind a sign at a state park*
Security: Hey! What do you think you are doing?
Me: I'm... um...
Security: Out with it!
Me: Ok, ok... I am trying to place these envelopes of clues here so that, later tonight, carloads of teenage kids can trespass on government property and find them.
Security: Are you out of your mind son? That's a terrible location. Over here is much better. Here, give me those envelopes, I will tape them up. You run along.

Today, it is highly unlikely that the security guard would finish blurting out the word "Hey" before neatly punctuating it with a taser to the testicles.

Anyhow...

My friends and I planned and executed several of these during our teenage years. The planning took months, and the execution was brutal, but we always had a great time. Eventually, other groups of people began to copy our fine work and planned their own clue hunts. We were always curious to see how we'd do if we were ever able to compete in one and so we cheerfully handed in our registration fee and anxiously awaited the day of the hunt.

We made all the necessary preparations: police radio, drinks, snacks... matching uniforms. We were a vision to behold. We all wore black sweatpants and black t-shirts with our "codenames" on them (Mine was "Sarcastus"). I chose to enhance my outfit even further with the addition of a dark grey full-length hooded cloak. In my minds eye, I envisioned the cloak billowing out behind me, in slow motion, when I exited the vehicle; a dark miasma surrounding me as I calmly searched for clues. It turns out that in this one particular case, my imagination wasn't all that far from the truth.

One of the clues lead us to an elementary school in some town that I forget the name of, but we had a bit of trouble finding the envelope that was hidden somewhere on the school grounds. So... here I am, dressed all in black and sporting a very I-am-a-cult-member looking cloak, running around the normally peaceful grounds of a picturesque school of a small Long Island town in the wee-hours of the morning.

Starting to get the picture here? I am sure the fact that I made several very darkwing-duck-like cloak motions didn't exactly help the situation either.

A short while after we drove away, we heard a call on the police radio. Apparently a "cloaked figure" was "terrorizing" the town that we had just left. I would describe my emotions at the time as equal parts "unparalleled elation" and "please drive faster, I don't want to get raped in jail".

As luck would have it, however, we made a clean getaway and ultimately went on to win the competition. We had our victory brunch at the International House of Pancakes, and gloated appropriately to the people that we knew on the other teams. And, after all was said and done, I think we had some experiences that are worthy of remembering and, as we get older, blathering about at parties and in blog entries.

So, no... I will be the first to admit that I may not have lead the most exciting childhood possible. But can you say that you terrorized a small town?

I didn't think so.