Commas, are, Stupid

The worst part of creating anything are critical reviews. I don't mean praise or jeers. I like hearing honest feedback, even if it is as brutal as "That sucked." What I hate is a pretentious "expert" pointing out superfluous and questionable incorrections. In writing, these people usually have an English degree, claim to be a published author and are incapable of producing anything that humans would ever choose to read.

I can deal with it, but I worry about the young writers. How will they know whose feedback is worthy? The litmus test is the comma. If you receive any mention of commas, disregard everything else. Comma usage is the least important aspect of writing, even compared to proper capitalization. In the editing process, comma polishing should happen last, without ever bothering the author, and in a dingy basement.

Bachelor Cooking

Preparing food at home should be fast, easy and use ingredients that can be stored for years. I recently made something that not only has those properties, but is delicious enough to serve on the third date when you work up the guts to lure her to your place.

Some kind of pasta (I like linguine)
A can of artichoke hearts
A jar of pesto sauce
Olive oil
Parmesan cheese (I prefer shredded, not the powdery stuff)

Cook the noodles. While that is going on, add some pesto to the drained artichoke hearts and toss to coat. (The artichokes are pretty bland right from the can. You may want to do this further ahead of time.) Add some olive oil if the sauce is too dry. After the noodles are done, drain them and toss with some pesto sauce, and don't be stingy about it. Mix with the artichoke hearts gently, you don't want artichoke baby food. Throw some cheese top if your date isn't a vegan.

Pothos: The Manliest Houseplant

I have killed many houseplants in my life, and will strike again. There are only two plants that have ever survived: some kind of cactus and an Epipremnum aureum. This is more commonly called pothos (poe-thuss) ivy. It likes medium light, but can handle low or intense light. It likes to be watered, but can go without and not die for ages. It grows like it's trying to reach you. If time were sped up, I swear it would murder people. It is truly a man's plant.

The one I can't kill is on my office desk right now, watching me. Next door a coworker has one that is thriving in nothing but a glass of water. In the office after that, there is a specimen so huge that its owner thumbtacked vines up a wall. Every December we decorate it with flashing lights and Christmas bulbs.

Penultimate Frisbee

I was invited to play Ultimate frisbee with some coworkers. I have played some other type of frisbee. You know, where you simply throw it and then somebody else catches it. I confess, I had always felt that game was lacking a certain je ne sais quoi.

To All the Friends I've Snubbed Before

I am not very sentimental. In other words, I am a guy. If I move or change jobs, I don't keep in touch with any previous friends. I just get new friends that look and act a lot like the old ones. It's convenient, but I admit to feeling a bit guilty about it.

To help alleviate the feeling that I am a crappy friend, I would like to make a public statement:

If you once were my friend (but I have not called you in 12 years) know that I don't think you are a dick. I am just very lazy. Thank you.

A Friendly Reminder from the Management

Several times a year my slum lords find an empty can in the parking lot or catch too many people in the pool. Instead of confronting the offenders, they will print a letter and tape it to all the doors in the complex. It usually reads like this:

Dear Residents,

You disgust me. How can you live with yourselves, wallowing in your own filth? I wish I managed a ramshackle tenement in a third-world country with no human rights so I could deal with you vermin in the manner that you deserve.

Thank you for your attention in this matter,

The Management

I am the Champion

I played miniature golf with coworkers yesterday and beat them all. I owe my victory to a new strategy: Instead of trying to sink the ball on the first stroke, I hit it close to the hole, then took an easy 2. I think this is a lesson that we can apply to our lives, outside of the competitive world of miniature golf, but I am not sure precisely what it is. Maybe:

"Win no matter what the cost."

No, I don't like that one. How about:

"If you win at something and have a blog, gloat online."

Insert THIS in Your Keyboard

The Insert key may not be the most worthless key on the board (That prize goes to Scroll Lock. I have worked with computers for 25 years and still have no idea what that one is for.) but it is awkwardly placed between the Delete and Backspace keys. Every time you try to fix a mistake you risk hitting the inadvertently-typing-over-stuff key.

Maybe we could replace it with one of the superfluous keys that keep appearing at the bottom of the keyboard. If any more junk is added there, the space bar will be demoted to a space key.

But enough whining. I pried off my Insert key with an old bent file drawer key. I challenge you to do the same. Join the Anti-Insert Key revolution!

The Modern Troubadour

The guitar is the closest thing that exists to a chick magnet. If you are not rich or good-looking, being a musician is the next viable option for attracting a mate. Because of the guitar, instead of being a 40-year-old virgin, I have two children and a divorce: Proof of the magic.

Which brings me to the problem. Good musicians are people who enjoy sitting in their room all day playing the same scale and memorizing the lyrics to "One Week". This will get you a girlfriend, but will eventually land you in this situation:

"What do you want to do tonight?"

"Sit in my room and play scales."

"You NEVER pay attention to me!"

I think my current girlfriend gets it. She asked for a CD of me playing guitar for Christmas. I'll call her again in December when it's done.

Performing for the Mentally Handicapped

In my first post, I mentioned the time my college band played a dance for the mentally handicapped. That brought back a lot of memories. Or it would have, if I hadn't killed so much brain matter with alcohol. In beer's defense, it was 20 years ago and I still have three distinct recollections:

1. The crowd loved it. Our drummer was a volunteer for local mental heath services and told us they talked about it a lot afterward.
2. We played "Comfortably Numb". I remember that feeling ironic.
3. There was a hot girl there. I would have been all over that if she hadn't been retarded.