Barney's Kids

As a human responsible for two knee-biters running around, occupying two safety seats in a minivan and consuming way too much candy and ice cream, I can say that I am as annoyed to death as the next guy by Barney the Purple Dinosaur. But I won't.

I am annoyed out of my skin by the sappy, so-sweet-they-give-you-diabetes kids that flank the great gob of purple spew, dancing around like little monkeys around a Fisher-Price hurdy gurdy. These stepford kids really need slapping. Normal kids their age should be kicking the chump in the costume, with one bending down behind him while another shoves Barney over backward.

"I love you, you love m...whoa... ow!... Hey, come back here you little shit bastard!!!"

Even more annoying is their parents, who are the ultimate in evil. Exploiting their kids in any way possible for their own personal gain, trying to get their kids celebrity status for the big payday, hoping to be the next Macauley Caulkin or something. Well, we all know how that turns out. Either with anorexia, or robbing liquor stores by age 17 and spending the night in jail - or worse - playing their cards wrong, making the wrong celebrity contacts and spending the night at the Neverland Ranch. Ugh, sorry I even brought that one up. I think I just threw up in my mouth.

Get me away from the keyboard before it's too late.

Look, I don't care

how trippin', skankin', or how phat the music is that you have playing in your car. Stop bobbing your head to it. You look like a moron to everyone that is not in your car. And even to them, the jury is out. Just stop bopping you head. Please.

Oh, and put out that cigarette. I don't want to smell it (and don't think I can't), and its not killing you quickly enough.

On the bright side, I can't hear the music causing your neck to have convulsions. Anyway I hope that there is some music doing it to you. I guess I should be counting my blessings.

TV is not Reality.

So Rob married Amber on national TV. I was so touched, I cried. For mercy, that is. It was a two hour plug for the resort they staged it at, the clothes designers, the caterers, the band, etc. etc. CBS apparently thought it to be good television to take two hours of primetime during sweeps to stage this made-for-TV marriage of two professional reality show semi-celebrities. Who the hell cares about these two chuckle heads who are already about 3 hours past their alloted 15 minutes of fame. Unfortunately, too many of us do. And by "us", I mean "them" - obviously not you or I. I know that you don't care, since you're reading a blog instead of watching Survivor or The Amazing Race or some other manufactured "reality" show on TV.

Sheesh. I've got *my* wedding video on tape, and I pop it in anytime houseguests overstay their welcome. The entire 2 1/2 hours. "Oh, look, here's where we light another candle!" "Didn't we look so much younger then?" "Do you have to leave so soon?" (Sound of feet running and a door slamming)

But I digress. Reality TV is not. If it is *on* TV, it is not reality. It's an imaginary world inside the magic box. Sex and violence are all imaginary. And so are, and thank God for this, PAX-TV and the Hallmark channel.

After all, if you find yourself stranded on a deserted beach somewhere, it's not going to be with a dozen other people who had to audition to get there. And if and when it ever does happen - in reality, that is - there won't be a TV camera and production crew there to capture all of the interactions and alliance-making. The prize for surviving is just that - surviving.

If you want a real reality show, just stick a camera in any living room in America and watch a different dysfunctional extended family unit watching their TV. Gotta pitch that idea to someone. On second thought, go ahead and steal it. It will save me the hassle, improve network programming, and I won't have to get up.

So I hope it works out for Rob and Amber, inasmuch I would wish anyone the incredible luck that I've enjoyed so far in my charmed existence. But not because I particularly like them. But come the fall sweeps, we'll probably be seeing them on Dr. Phil shortly before they break up.

As Dennis Miller would say, "I could be wrong".

Cheese out,

Tad

IRS: An outfit with vision

"On my income tax 1040 it says 'Check this box if you are blind.' I wanted to put a check mark about three inches away." -- Tom Lehrer

The Six Flags dude.

This guy really bugs. Doesn't he just give you the willies? Is it just me?

Done... for now.

Finally back to work after the home improvement experience. Got the living room, hallway, and entry hall painted, the carpets shampooed, and the toilets cleaned. Better yet, had it all done in time for the baby shower my wife, Ms. Information, threw on Saturday. She got to show it off to her friends, who gave me the obligatory ooh and ahh. It doesn't take much to stroke the ol' ego as far as Tad Annoyed is concerned. I'm sure that her girlfriends are all jealous of my wife's spouse, and that they all went home to tell their husband about his shortcomings, and to give him a detailed honey-do list that might begin to make up for them. A hearty Hah Hah.

I'm glad to get back to the office so I can get some rest - sit in a comfortable chair and zone out in from of a pair of computer monitors all day. Something I do very well, thank you. Oh, and do some work in the meantime. All while keeping up with news, business, sports, weather, comics, and blogs. Who says I can't multitask. Oh yeah, I do.

It is interesting to me that I can feel more connected to the world while I am huddled alone in my office than when I'm out for a week, out there IN THE ACTUAL WORLD, with relatively little computer time. The internet just doesn't seem as interesting at home.

So here I sit, researching the next project. I think it will be tearing out some hideous wallpaper and replacing it with some wainscot and - ulp - more painting.

Ah, well. I do get much more satisfaction if I can do a passable job myself than if I pay someone to do it.

Modern Art.

This entry is inspired by a recent blog by The Printing Press.

A few years back I visited the MOMA in San Francisco. There was some, in my totally amateur opinion, total crap. A 4-foot long shelf with nothing but toast on it. Not just one, but two separate pieces comprised of an empty transparent acrylic cube. One was entitled "Air". I forget what the other was titled, since I was too busy trying to suppress the laughter.

I always regarded my father as a great artist as he as always painted or sculpted in his spare time away from his dental practice. He has some ceramic pieces that are beautiful to me, and some that are not so much. On a number of occasions I had asked that he make something for my wife and me, as did many other friends and relatives. But he never did so by request. He would only do so when he was inspired to create something. In my estimation it was when he needed to express himself in ways that he did not want to verbalize. Any time I would ask him what his thoughts were behind one of his abstract pieces, he would answer by asking what I saw in it, because that is what it was meant to be. When expressing yourself with that kind of attitude, you can never be wrong.

He has had a much longer journey through life, and has his own unique set of baggage. It's his art that is his release, his escape, it is himself. And he has never needed an art school to tell him how to express himself.

He did give me one of his pieces. It had won him a blue ribbon at the county fair. People who think that their opinion of art has any importance might scoff. To them I would tell them that they don't get it.

In a similar manner, I should not scoff at what I saw in The San Francisco MOMA. I just didn't get it. What I saw said nothing to me. I tried to keep an open mind, but it was difficult. I didn't understand what the creators were trying to express, other than they had some extra bread left one day after breakfast, and were just trying to see what shit the folks at the MOMA would ooh and ahh over. I could imagine the following conversation occurring in at least two studios -

"Hey, have you seen my empty acrylic display box anywhere?"
"Oh, I thought it was a completed work and submitted it to the gallery for you."

I balk at calling them artists. My father is an artist.

Damn you, DIY Network!

And Food TV, while we're at it.

I'm at the point in my life where, while I'm not exactly raking it in, I'm doing well enough to get digital cable TV. And among the 3000 channels that are available, Food TV and DIY Network are among the most sinister. They ought to make a special V-chip just for them.

If you're not familiar with these, I don't blame you. Approximately 2900 of the aforementioned 3000 channels are quality pay-per-view porn channels. Not that I would know. But these two in particular are evil in that they give any ordinary, everyday shlub with a modest disposable income a false sense of capability and know-how and the belief that a) hey - I can cook like that, despite the fact that I spent 14 fewer years studying at Le Cordon Bleu than the smarmy dude running all over the set yelling BAM, not realizing that his audience is cheering for the garlic, not him (although I suspect that if he were passed through an appropriately sized press they would go just as wild, having kicked it up yet another notch) and b) I can redo my living room in weekend for under $1000 and give it a trendy designer look.

Well, $169 and one day into it - the living room debacle - there's Ralph Lauren Chamois-colored paint (that's the color, the folks down at the wherehouse store kindly mixed it in some Behr quick-dry flat latex) all over my ceilings and carpets. Oh, yes, some happened to have made it onto the walls. The $1.57 dropcloths are still relatively clean though. I guess the reason they get $1000 budget on those weekend-makeover shows is to replace the carpeting, get new clothes, and get an industrial shampoo for their hair after the things start going badly.

The thing they don't show on these shows is that the production crew is comprised of a team of licensed-contractor set designers to whom building an entire house during their union-mandated cigarette break is child's play.

Oh well. I learned which end of the paint brush to hold after a couple of walls, so I'm well on my way up he learning curve, like that poor tugboat on the cover of that George Clooney movie I never rented. Perhaps it will be done by week's end, when the house will be full of partying women and babes -- don't get to excited, it's just a baby shower. I should have used oil-based paint with the fumes that kill bugs, that would keep the party short. At least I have a hard stop on my adventures in DIY ineptitude.

Maybe instead I ought to move forward with the painted carpet look, and send some naked photos of myself on it to Paige Davis. Nah, she probably gets about 250 of those everyday.

Never mind. I'm hungry. It's time to cook something.

Secret Message

Congratulations. You have found the secret message. Thanks for being so curious. You also must have some serious time on your hands. Not that I do, but its kinda fun wasting it doing shit like this.

Didn't get called in to Jury Duty

Dammit. Didn't get the call. No jury duty for Tad. Missed my chance to be a fingernail on the hand of Justice.

The damn convenience of a call-in system. First I had to call in last Friday after 5:00 for the possibility of reporting Monday. It tells me to call Monday at noon for the possibility of reporting at 1:00 PM. Can I make it there from work in time? (See my posting on Rush to Judgment) Should I even bother going in to work?

I go to the office, not taking on any assignments that might actually require me to be there the whole day. Might have to go on a moments notice, maybe I'll be needed to help decide a crucial legal decision. So I called in at 11:30 to see if they post the info early. They do. It tells me to call Tuesday at noon for the possibility of reporting at 1:00 that day. Here we go again.

I suppose that this is convenient. After all, I don't have to set foot in a courtroom and sit around for hours. But then, I feel that I can't really do my job to the fullest extent. Having to report might get me on a panel and keep me there for weeks. Can't schedule meetings. Can't schedule doctor appointments. Really convenient.

Of course, I do have the option of calling them up and arranging to come in on a specified day and sit on my ass in their waiting room in case I'm needed. That would make a day at the DMV seem like a trip to Disneyland. Even though I would have my favorite reading material, boredom would eventually cause my neck to open up at some point and swallow my head whole. I hate it when that happens.

Called in Tuesday. Same status. Cool, kinda. Two days down. Odds of getting picked going down.

Called in Wednesday. Some groups were summoned, mine was not. Have to call in Thursday. Uhoh. The sudden activity means that they're not just sitting on their hands at the courtroom. Has the odds of being asked to come in gone up, or down? Now I'm fearing that I'll get called in on Friday and saddled into a week long trial, sabotaging my vacation. arrrgh...

Called in Thursday. I get notified that my service will not be required. Woohoo!, and yet, . Kinda bittersweet. Now I'm perversely waiting from my next Christmas card from the county saying that they need me to help make an important decision.

Don't they realize the emotional ringer they've put me through? I'm thinking of sueing for emotional distress. Now I'll have to follow through on my threats to paint the living room and hall next week.

Today is the day I shall blog in orange.

Uh, mission accomplished.

Do the Right Thing

The technology company where I work has this award they give out called the "Do the Right Thing" award. The line is that they wish to recognize and reinforce that it is good to act with integrity when we come to work. C'mon, we're not lawyers. But what is laughable is the reasons that some people get nominated for this "honor".

For instance, a director of customer support was nominated because he "resolved an installation problem with an end user. He identified the problem and was able to troubleshoot. The customer was up and running within minutes. " Excuse me, but isn't that his f*#!ing job? Nothing against this guy, he is a stand-up guy (If you know me, it's not the guy you think it is). But I do this job 8 times a day, and nobody nominates me for the "Showing up to work" award. Sheesh.

And then, I see our that HR director, who has helped sink our HR department to the lowest depths of any for which I have worked in my 20 year career, is nominated as well. This person is up for this honor because our lease expired, and this person had to travel to Sunny Southern California from their landfill in New Jersey and renegotiate it. And that they did, for a third less space, creating a hazardous construction zone in the office for 3 months before moving most people from their cozy offices into cubicles, lowering morale by the minute. But, this person saved the company a couple of shekels, so they are up for the "Did my f*#!ing job AND piss off the people I'm responsible for looking out for" award.

(I know that this would read a lot better if it were gender specific, I hate using "they" or "he/she". But I am also Tad Paranoid.)

The corporate culture that upper management wants us to buy into can be summarized nicely by our internal web site's listing of our basic beliefs (after all, it's not just a job, it's a religion!):

Our corporate culture is characterized by five basic values:

• Customer First
• Excellens in Execution
• Sense of Urgency
• Do the right thing
• Passion & Fun

Using a spell checker on a regular basis must have come in sixth and just missed being included. Guess it isn't so urgent. The funny thing is that 3 years ago they mass-printed desktop calendars for our customers, featuring a different motivational phrase each month. February's was "Excellenc (sic) - Anything worth doing is worth doing well." Like learning from past mistakes.

One of my colleagues, for whom I have a great deal of respect, once postulated "There are very few true geniuses in this world. What are the odds that any of them are running this company?" Hear hear. If they did, I'm confident that they wouldn't settle for a position in HR.

Waiting for the fun to start.

Rush to Judgment

Tad has jury duty. Time to perform some civil disservice. I've gotta call in at noon, to see if I have to haul ass, if such a thing is possible on my beloved 405, for 20 miles to arrive at 1:00 PM and do some waiting. Don't like the inability to plan my day though. That's OK, I had the foresight to go to Amazon.com a couple of weeks ago to make sure I'm covered in the interesting reading department.

I kinda hope I get called in. But not for long, though. I've got a sit-on-my-ass vacation coming next week. For the record, it's supposed to be a paint-the-living-room-and-hall vacation, your honor.

I've never made it into an actual courtroom before, at least as a juror. (Don't ask. It wasn't about me, I just don't want to talk about it.) I'm Looking forward to imposing my views on how litigious our society is by not letting some whiner get away with a reward for any kind of "emotional distress".

When will people realize that emotions are things that they own, and they are possible to control, if not at least manage. When someone does you wrong - which is a personal judgment to begin with - and it causes you "emotional distress", you are admitting that you are not strong enough to take responsibility for how you feel about yourself, and, on top of that, that you should be rewarded monetarily for your own shortcoming.

I suppose it's because I've always believed in taking responsibility for my own problems, and I expect others to do the same. Look, don't stand on the top step of the ladder. I don't care whether it's labeled or not. And don't put the cup of coffee between your legs as you drive. Of course it's hot, moron.

Besides, the Government already provides a much easier way to get your hands on scads of money that you didn't earn. It's called the lottery. And if you think that it costs too much to buy enough tickets to improve your odds of winning, just wait until you get that bill for the retainer fee. And then you might not even win your case. Which just might give you another case of emotional distress.

Buuurp...

Today I ate an entire box of Healthy Choice ice cream bars.

I'm not so sure it was a healthy choice.

Have a Nice Day. Somewhere Else.

OK, I know you must have had a hard time getting out of bed this morning. So did I. I should have left 10 minutes earlier than I did, so I know the feeling. Your mind is kind of hazy as you merge onto the 405 in stop-and-go traffic. You must be alert and with it to some degree, I figure, because you take the extra effort to pass a number of cars on the right shoulder before merging in front of me. So I let you in. I figure you're motivated to get where you need to be in a hurry if you're riding the shoulder. And I don't want to be an asshole or anything, after all, there has been a rash of freeway shootings lately. Don't want to chance it.

BUT THEN, your mind turns OFF. All motivation you had to get to your crummy job has suddenly left the planet. You are now incapable of keeping up with the 20 MPH crawl. Old women in walkers are now cutting in front of you like you're their bitch. And I'm stuck behind you.

Mind you, I'm not in that much of a rush to get to work, hell, it's not like I'm a bikini inspector at the brewery or anything. But dammit, YOU are now wasting MY time. WTF? You're not even on the phone! (Don't get me started on that.)
Uh-oh. I'm getting a little too close to your bumper, and you happen to come out of you coma long enough to accidentally look in you rear-view mirror. Now it's a game. No brake lights, however, you just ease off the gas. Shit. Can't get around you, traffic in the next lane is doing 80. I hit my brakes while noticing the scowl on th e guy behind me. Somehow he's able to get over.

Sigh. I realize that I've just given you all control of my thoughts and emotions. I hate not having control. Funny how I can give it up so easily.

After that realization, it gets less interesting than this rant has been so far. I wait for an opening in the next lane, which seemed to take until Wednesday. Freedom at last. I cut you off just to make a point. You have no more control over me. Or do you?