February 2005 Archives

Back when we were deciding on what kind of pet to get, we had the good fortune of pet-sitting for a family that had both a dog and a cat. Both animals had their quirks that we disliked - Comet the cat was about as indifferent a creature as has ever existed on this planet, and Penny the dog preferred the cat food so much that we had to feed her first and then let the cat eat locked in the kitchen. However, it was having to take the dog out regularly in the foulest of weather (to do the foulest of things) that really planted us more firmly in the cat camp.

So now we have two cats. Who poop indoors. A LOT. To avoid their litterbiscuits from stinking up the trash can after we scoop, we use sealable plastic bags to neutralize the acridity. But since we use bags more frequently for disposal than for actual storage of stuff in our refrigerators or cabinets, we've taken to buying a box of store brand bags for the cats and another box of the good stuff (Ziploc, Glad, what have you) for actual storage purposes.

The other day the planets aligned and we ran out of both kinds at once, so it went on the grocery list for our weekly run to the Stop & Shop. I got to the shelves with the plastic bags on it and grab a box of 40 store-brand bags, no problem. Then I stared at the shelves for a good two minutes trying to find your regular, garden variety brand-name yellow-and-blue-make-green bags. Apparently the Bag Makers' Collective of North America got together and quickly phased out these bags that worked perfectly well, likely because people are incredibly paranoid about a swarm of fang-wielding, flesh-hungry and generally ill-tempered killer bees escaping from a plastic bag that has not been properly secured while you make an important telephone call in an enclosed, unescapable place. (Yes, you know you've seen the ad.)

So instead, we are now forced to purchase bags that actually have a physical zipper at the top. The American sack-purchasing public now apparently needs the same security on their produce as they have on their pants. Personally, I'm a bit more interested in keeping my meat and two veg in their place than having my veggies possibly go bad in the fridge from an improperly-closed ziploc. All I can say is that if it gets to the point where I need to provide a thumbprint and a retinal scan just to get my carrot sticks out of storage, I'm cracking skulls.

Energized by my encouraging showing the day before, I made my most inspired play of the tournament against Mark P - after an early ZINS 35 (zinfandels) and BAILERS put me up to a 70-point lead, Mark got back closer with a 41-point VISED, all but closing up the board. My rack, ??DOSTU, only played from the E (EDUcTOrS) but a) I didn't see it and b) it would have left the S between two triple-word scores. Instead, through AB, I managed gaDABOUTS (one who roams about). Only 62 points but it drew admiration from the neighboring board. Not much exciting the rest of the game as Mark had difficult racks the whole time, and I came out on top 385-297.

Game 19 pitted me against Jeremy F and after an ugly beginning of tossing back IIOOO on my second rack, the third was good for LATRINES and 78 points. He countered with OXIM (a chemical compound) for 30 and then hooked it to make OXIME/NEOTENY (the attainment of sexual maturity in the larval stage) for 88. Meanwhile, I was making brilliant plays like KNUB...which is not a word. 0 points. I saved some face three turns later by extending EX to EXANTHEM (a skin eruption) for 40, and then WORSE for 40 more, but his 48 for QAID gave him a lead that proved insurmountable, though not for lack of trying - the sneaky setup play of LAIR for 8 points would have given me FLAIR and FIDS (a square bar used as a support for a topmast) for 48 and the win but it was easy for him to block and win 380-353.

Dominic and I rematched for game 20 and it was tight all the way - he replied to my 36-point QUAY (a wharf) with GOOFIER for 70, which I followed up with CATPAW for 34 (a phony, though CATSPAW, a light wind, and CATCLAW, a flowering shrub, are both good). Unfortuantely, I then made the blunder of thinking that SCANDIA was the plural of SCANDIUM (an element), but it's an oxide instead, and SCANDIAS would have netted me a bingo. Instead, he took a lead with RECiTING, which I grabbed back with WENNIEST (resembling a skin tumor). Then came an interesting endgame. The tiles unseen to me were bingo-prone and included a blank and an X, but I didn't want to give him a spot to bingo or use it. Instead I carefully played off something that would give me a big spot to play the J I held. As it turns out, the X was in the bag and he had the blank, which he used to play DIGiTATE (having digits) for 62...but I was able to play JINX through it for 75 and draw within 10. Unfortunately, he was able to go out before me and squeezed out a 415-408 win to drop me to 8-12, -179 overall.

The ride home was much more interesting than the ride down - three MIT graduate students who had recently gotten into Scrabble over the past few years were looking for a ride, so I offered up the space I had. The next three hours were basically filled with game analysis, verbal volleying and basically forgetting the crappy games we'd all played. Dropped them off at a T station, rolled back home, and here I am...

After my near-death experience the night before, I regained some of my schwerve in the second half of the tournament...though it wasn't easy getting up the next morning.

Game 11 against Bob L was a rather pedestrian game as far as plays went - we traded bingoes on our fourth racks, his LOITERS followed by my INERTIAE (through the N, turning a rack of AEEIIRT into 82 points). I then picked up ?BDEGOT but with nowhere to play BiGOTED, I instead played through an I, keeping the blank...and drawing AENORS, which allowed a 58-point pERSONAL next rack for an 80-point lead. I coasted to a 400-356 win despite his 55-point JET a turn later.

Game 12 was a frustrating one against Marje S - despite getting to opening with ZEBRA 52 after she dumped four tiles from her opening rack, she struck back with NOTABLEs through the B. I was able to build a 90-point lead on the strength of FIXED 32, HOMO 46 and TEAK 34 but when she drew the second blank and third S to make SILlIER to pull her within 24, the board closed up. When she dumped one U with NU and another with NUGGET, I figured her for the last U and realized I couldn't afford to draw the Q, so I played carefully...but drew it anyway, and allowed her the last S. So despite her drawing both blanks and all four S's, she STILL needed to stick me with the Q to win, 381-364.

The last game before lunch started off with a similar bang - Mark P opened with PHON (a unit of loudness) which I hooked to make PHONE and FIQUE (a tropical plant) for 47 After his beautiful natural ANOREXIA (through an opening I had made) two racks later, I held CEIRSTV and had a choice - either take VERTICES for 78, or try VERISTIC, a word I was only 60% sure of, for 20 points more. I opted for the safe play and took the points. I then stupidly opened up another spot, which he smashed with a 97-point YOWLERS to take a 50-point lead. Desperate to catch up, I opened yet another spot, which enabled him to drop JESTS for 60 and seal the deal. I caught him with 11 points on his last rack which drew me to within 411-363, but I had hit my low point of the tournament at 3-8. Time for lunch.

The peppermill turkey bagel sandwich must have had something in it because I came back with a vengeance in the afternoon. After Dave K opened with TAU, I played VEXT to the T for 22. He then played ZEAL through the E for 33, setting up a rather unique opportunity to pluralize both TAU and ZEAL at once - with OGRISMS (the state of resembling an ogre) for 84. He held it for a minute, but let it go (the spelling of OGREISMS is better-known, but both are good). Three turns later, Dave makes AGAROSE (a sugar) for 75, next to which I play WUD (crazy) for 26. This makes the following position:

				W	U	D
A	G	A	R	O	S	E
				-			=

The single-quote is a double-letter score, and the equals sign is a triple-word score. My rack is EHKLNPR, and I net a cool 67 points for KELP to the triple, making WOK, USE and DEL (an operator in differential calculus) in the process. He uses both blanks to make AEROlItE (a meteorite containing more stone than iron) for 68, but that enables me to turn BEHNRRT into BRETHREN through the E for 64 more. From there we trade average scores and I emerge with a 401-344 victory.

Game 15 is a rematch against Debbie, and we jump out to a quick start - I open with JOINS for 40, she comes back with SMEARING a rack later for 80. When she makes TWANG to leave the G just above a triple-letter score, it lets me get 41 for DRIFTY (full of snow drifts) instead of the 20-something it would have scored. My next rack nets my first blank in four games, and I waste no time in dropping WEARIEr for 67, which I follow with NOSH for 45. She replies with RATOONED (to sprout from a previously-planted root) for 61 and then drops FEAZED (fazed) between the F and D for 38 to draw within 2, but I'm able to counter with YERK (to beat vigorously) for 27, which I then hook an S to two turns later with VISE for. Still, she's not done - her last rack, which I mistracked, was ILNSUPP (I had her for IINSUPP) and it turns out she could have won if she'd tried SUPPLING (she had also considered PULPINGS, which is no good), but chickened out and played SUPPING instead for 45, which gave me a 416-362 win and my first winning streak.

Frank greeted me our next game by opening with BATTY after I had drawn ??DEFIQ to open (the only 7 or 8 in that rack is SQUIFFED, meaning drunk). I passed FQ and (of course) drew UU...but I found the only double-double eight through T in that rack with a nifty qUIETUDe (the state of tranquility) for 78. He made VEX for 46, followed by BOW for 37, but I managed to play AGONIES on a triple for 90, putting me up 60. I slowly extended it with plays like ZILL 28 (plankton), UNRATED 27 and HIM 30 before he got back into it with SOUTANE (a clerical robe) for 72 and SPY for 37. Unfortunately, SPY enabled my 45-point SNEAKS and despite getting stuck with the Q again against him, I escaped with a 424-410 victory and a heady three-game streak going into the last game of the day.

And what a game it was. My opening rack of ?IIMRTU didn't look promising, but I found one of two bingoes with TRIvIUM (the singular of trivia). She came back with READYING from the R, and my ACHELRU went through the N for RELAUNCH. She then tried SPOUTED/TRIvIUMS which got challenged off, but since she had two places to play (SPOUTED or OUTSPED in another spot, and OUTSPEEd elsewhere) the best I could do was ROLF...although if RELAUNCH hadn't blocked the G in READYING, I would have had a 204-point ROOFINGS! She then played SPOUTED for 78, and my AIINNOS slotted through the M in TRIvIUM for INSOMNIA and my third bingo in four turns. She wasn't done, though - down came ZONER (one who makes zones) for 68 (triple-letter double-word) followed by JAPE/PRELAUNCH (double-letter triple-word for 79) and a 300-268 lead after a mere 5 turns each. BAM for 31 put her up more, but a 48-point VAST/ZONERS pulled closer. GOX 38 (gaseous oxygen) for her, FROW 30 (a cleaving tool) for me. She drew the other blank and used it for VEgETATE 64, I responded with HAVEN for 45. But despite a 37-point YO and 28 more for ICKERS (a head of grain), she was able to hang on for a wild 529-486 victory, my highest losing score ever. The irony - it wasn't even the highest losing score of the tournament; that honor belonged to a 505-488 game at the head table. We eventually figured out that SICKO would have scored more on my last rack and I could have lost 511-491 but just the fact that we'd obliterated 1000 total points in a game was enough for us.

I had been debating going down to Southport to see blues harmonica legend James Cotton but decided against it as I was tired. So instead I stayed up playing anagrams. The big challenge of the night was finding a 12-word triple anagram of ARTHROSCOPE, CRAPSHOOTER and PROTHORACES, though OVERPASSED/EAVESDROPS, HARMONICAS/MARASCHINO and NECTARINES/TRANSIENCE were time-consuming as well. I stumped a few people with ENUMERATION/MOUNTAINEER, and spotted DECORATION/COORDINATE right away, but despite the spirit being willing to continue, the flesh was weak and I finally called it an early morning at 1:30, finally ending day 3 with a 7-10 record.

Perhaps that title should read "Th lost wknd, day 2" - today was tremendously short on E's. There are 12 E's in a Scrabble set, and in my first game against Frank T, I got a grand total of two. One of them was in my first bingo, SORBENT for 63, and the second one was two turns later, after a 46-point YOUR, I played LINED for 26. Then despite passing twice over my next three turns and Frank getting down cRUSTIER for 74 againt me, it was still only a 40-point game when he threw in four tiles of his own (and he had exchanged four on his first rack as well). His exchange was met with my 86-point DIdACTIC for a 30-point lead. Despite the Q still being in the bag, I didn't pick it after bingoing...but after playing GRAZE through R__E for 30, I drew it, and he held the final U. He was able to get just enough points to close to within 21 points of me...and the QLD on my last rack netted him 26 to eke out a 386-381 win. It should have been more, as he missed the front extension of CHINA to KATCHINA (a deified ancestral Hopi spirit) for 48 a couple turns before the end.

Game 2 against Debbie S enabled me to double my E total from the previous game, although two of them were on my last rack. Perhaps my poorest game of the tourney, I had a phony 3 challenged off (FAB is no good...too much Bravo watching, I quipped), one E went down for MOIETY (one of two approximately equal parts) on turn 8 (!) and the other formed part of my only bingo, LEASINGS (also GAINLESS and GLASSINE) which almost drew a challenge. Fortunately, it didn't matter, as she was up almost 120 by the time I played it, thanks to a 44-point ZED and a 73-point bingo of cORnETS. Only two plays over 29 points led to a 392-316 loss.

I actually scored even fewer the next game but don't feel like I played poorly, just drew poorly. With CFLOOPS on my first rack, I jokingly considered passing, hoping he'd play a W for COWFLOPS, but no such luck.I once again managed two plays over 30 - OCTET for 31 and AXON (a nerve cell process) for 38, while my opponent Mitchell B. was hammering away with AROUSED 68, BUGS 54, QAT 47 and HENRY (a unit of electrical inductance) for 38. Final damage, 399-297 and my fifth loss in a row.

Last game before lunch was against Larry S, whose brother ended up winning the event for the fourth year running. Larry had had a good run of luck entering the tourney and it seemed it would continue as he managed AQUIVER for 60 points early on. I had a 44-point response of TROY (as in troy weight) but he came right back with GESTURAL for 63. I replied two turns later with TOENAIL for 64 and that set off a volley of high-scoring plays - his VIEW for 35, my BIRTCH for 30, his FICIN (a substance obtained from fig trees) for 49, my FIBS for 35, his PAW for 30, my DOGEAREd for 63 and his DOZE for 39, which gave him a narrow 335-326 lead. Looking at my rack and the tiles unseen to me, there was a chance I might be able to bingo out but if he didn't, I knew I could still win if I stuck him with some valuable tiles still unseen (the J and K were still unseen). Since my rack contained three E's - difficult to go out with quickly - I decided to dump two with NEE and take my chances with the last tile. At first my play looked bad as he hit the spot hard with JOKED for 35 and a 32-point lead. However, JOKED allowed a play of hELIOS (a signaling mirror) underneath it for 18 points. Combined with the 16 points on his rack, and it made for a narrow 372-370 win that withstood a recount. My first win of the day!

Lunch was an unwelcome break as I came back for game 5 against Dominic G and fell back into my E-less ways. I did make a nice LAZULI early on for 30 and EASY for 32 the next turn, but he hit me with JARINAS (the hard seed of a palm tree) for 56, DIRGE for 33 and TOYED for 32 while I was making EAU and then having another fake 3 challenged off (DES, no good). I was able to play DAFT for 32 but he came back with QUOTH for 45. I made PLASH (to weave together) for 58 - keeping the blank - but he beat me to the hook and made RERISE/SPLASH for 32. Still holding a blank but with nowhere to play a bingo, I was forced to open up the board with VOID for 12...which he promptly used to play ECONOMIc for 76. It allowed MIKED for 54 but it wasn't enough as it only drew me to a 356-332 loss.

The tiles turned well in my next game against Dave K - after an opening of QUID, my reply of STOOD and his DAW (to dawn), I turned EINOOPZ into EPIZOON (an animal parasite) and played REMIX for 45 the next turn. I then stupidly tried JEANS/EPIZOONS, but the plural is EPIZOA, which cost me a turn and he immediately closed the board down. My next four plays yielded 9, 6, 8 and 13 points as he slowly clawed back into the game, eventually playing ReVEALER for 72 instead of REVoLTER, which he wasn't sure of. ReVEALER enabled me to play KORATS (a Thai cat) for 33 and draw ?AEERST, which gave me HEAThERS (an evergreen shrub) for 80 and the win, 399-352.

The last game of the day against Lou started off well - THRIVES on my second rack netted me 70 points, and I was able to answer his 53-point ZAX (a cutting tool) with RIOJA (a Spanish wine) for 60. He followed my 50-point FROG with RODENTS for 67m and I clung to a 25-point lead going into the decisive play of the game. There were two bingo lanes open and I blocked the easier one to use, deciding to force him to play an eight-letter bingo. Which he promply did, blasting me with RAMeKINS (a baking dish) for 104 on his way to a 420-370 win, dropping me to 2-5 on the day and 3-7 for the tournament.

Since I was flying solo for the weekend - my brother had originally signed up to go with me, but instead opted to go to a tourney in Phoenix instead - I had checked the local music venues to see if there were any shows worth seeing. A band called rane was playing in Manchester, CT, about an hour's drive from Danbury, and after my poor showing that day I had no interest in the late-night game room, so after a frustratingly slow dinner (a group of 12 went to a local Chinese restaurant and had the gall to ask for separate checks... fortunately, three of us retained our sanity and paid on one bill) I made the trek up north of Hartford to the Main Pub to see the show.

I arrived about five minutes before the band was going to take the stage (a running theme for the weekend), and when I noticed someone putting his drink down on a road case, I asked if he was with the band, and if he'd mind if I taped the show. Turns out I had chatted up Alan, the lead singer and guitarist, and he introduced me to their friend and (I assume) archivist, who already had his rig ready, and I was able to set up right next to/above him by clamping my mics to the support beam of a Guinness sign hanging 7 feet up on a post 4 feet from the stage. I was CLOSE.

I'd never actually heard the band before; Mrs. Dave had seen them opening for Guster ages ago. Between the first two sets (they played three, each around 55 minutes long), I chatted with Alan some more, and when I mentioned the show - which had happened in 1998 - he just laughed and said how old-school that was...they had only been together for a couple of years at that point, so the band was young indeed.

The music was good and the guys were very friendly and welcoming; I stuck around to chat a bit after the show and got the setlist from Alan. Show is tracked out and will be up on the LMA if anyone wants a sample (I'll change this link when it's up).

The real adventure of the night was driving home, however - at 1:30 in the morning. Around exit 48 near Hartford, I'm idly in the left lane to stay on 84 through the city and glancing at the headlights passing on the other side. Then I slowly notice a pair of headlights coming towards me. RIGHT towards me. GOING THE WRONG WAY. Forget anything you've ever heard about your life flashing before your eyes, or things going in slow motion, or any of that garbage. I yanked the steering wheel to the right, blasted my horn (like THAT'LL do any good) and then swerved back left to avoid rear-ending a car in the lane I had pulled into. It was at least ten minutes before it occurred to me that I should call 911 on my cell phone, but probably too late. And another ten minutes before I even started to hum along to Bob Schneider on the CD player again. Pulled back into the hotel right around 2:30 and was out as soon as I hit the pillow, thankful to be alive and have my 2-5 day put into perspective...

Although most of you who read this regularly have never played a Scrabble tournament (and have no plans to), I'm sure you can all figure out that it's not a good thing when the highlight of a 20-game tournament comes in game 1.

Of course, getting there was an adventure in itself; after planning on leaving work at 5 on the dot, I left at about 5:20, went home to give Mrs. Dave one last bit of weekend affection (get your mind out of the gutter), and hit the road a half-hour late. Hit some traffic on 495 and the Pike but nothing too serious, and then majorly broke some speed limits while hurtling down 84. Seriously officer, I thought 84 was the speed limit, not the route number.

Finally rolled in at 8:27. Games started at 8:30 and I was matched up against Matt G, the second seed in the top division, who I don't believe I'd ever played before. Gulp. Fortunately, CEMENTS came down on my second rack, SUNDIAL on my fifth, and after playing TWIGS for 39 and keeping ERS on my eighth rack, I've never been happier to see IQVU fall on my rack. QUIVERS for 96 put the game away though he did manage GASELIER (a gaslight chandelier) for 60. Still, I managed a 452-334 win.

And then began the Bad Things.

Scott A started things off with a 54-point JOKEY, and after I replied with HAUNT for 27, I was faced with a rack of AAAEEII. I passed seven, and held AAITTOO. Not my game - I had doubled A's, O's or I's on every single one of my first nine racks, and despite passing up ADMIXEs (to mix in) near the end to make EXAM for 52 followed by READInG for 77 and drawing within 27, I still fell 400-362 when he was able to play the Q for 35 at the end. If he can't play it, I may have a shot at winning, but 'twas not meant to be.

Sal P was my next opponent, and things went even more poorly. This time, instead of seven vowels, I had seven vowels on my first rack - DMNPRTW. He banged down ADVENTs for 69 followed by FAQIR (also spelled fakir) for 37 more and he was off to the races. I went on a tear with MURIATED (treated with muriatic acid) for 65, JIAO (a Chinese coin) for 36, FIZ for 30, DAGO for 37 and KORS (a Hebrew unit of measure) for 32, but in the meantime he was playing GRASSING for 66, a triple-word dWINDLES for 92 (when SWINDLEd would have been safer), WITHE (a flexible branch) for 49 and XI (Greek letter) for 38. End result, a 482-316 spanking, a 1-2 start and a spread of -86.

Licking my wounds, I decided to call it a night and hit the hay at around 11:30, just about as soon as the games had ended.

Valentine's Day dinner was at a new local restaurant called Evenfall - I think it used to be a steakhouse but was taken over not too long ago and changed into more of a schmancy place.

Last night, they had a special fixed-price menu, $50 per person. Two of the entrées were two-person meals - a seafood paella (which we had, and rather enjoyed, despite my initial misgivings about the scallops; I've never been much of a scallop fan) and a garlic-lemon-rosemary roasted chicken. Now, if you've never had paella, you might not realize that it's just not a one-person meal that you can whip up for yourself in five minutes at home, but I would argue that just about any person with half a brain will realize that if you order a WHOLE CHICKEN, it's not a meal that one consumes by oneself at one sitting. However, the nice folks at Evenfall even went the extra step to label each of the two-person choices among several others: the first-course Fontina Fondue FOR TWO, the second-course Garlic-Lemon-Rosemary Roasted Whole Chicken FOR TWO or Paella FOR TWO, and the dessert Chocolate Fondue FOR TWO. You're getting the drift here, right?

In the middle of our meal - well past the 5:00 seating time that we were 10 minutes late for - walked a middle-aged couple along with an older couple, and they were seated next to us. Now presumably, given that this was Valentine's Day, and there were specific seatings outlined on the restaurant's web site, these were people who had made a reservation ahead of time, and were aware of the special pricing for the night's meal. We judged them to be fairly well-off after hearing the younger couple mention a couple of times that the evening's meal would be on them. But then it started.

The waiter was a nice guy who had been more than willing to put up with our small talk and my obnoxious jokes (if you've ever eaten out with me, you know what I mean - making silly requests like asking the wait staff to wrap up the powdered sugar left over on a dessert plate, or asking for a Coke and a water, but specifying that they be in separate glasses. Y'know, the usual gut-busting stuff that elicits eye rolls from all who witness it. Can I help it if my humor is ahead of its time?!) But for some reason, our new neighbors just couldn't seem to fathom the idea of two-person entrées, despite the MIND-BOGGLINGLY CLEAR DESIGNATION ON THE MENU...a designation that reall wasn't necessary in the first place for those familiar with the gargantuan proportions of your average roasting chicken. And so they indignantly peppered him with questions about what they viewed as nothing short of a price-gouging scheme.

"So if we get the chicken, two of us have to share it? And it's $50 per person?"
"Yes. It's a two-person meal, not a one-person serving. It's enough food for two people."

My brain cells slowly begin committing suicide as they sensed their brethren at the other table being miserably underused.

"Ok, so tell me this. What if HE orders the chicken, and I don't order an entrée? Is it still $50 each?"
"Yes, that's right."
"But why? We're only ordering ONE entrée!"

Resisting urge to go upside this woman's head with our two-person paella pan...

"Well, it's not for one person...it's two portions. There's enough chicken to serve two people. It's for people to share."
"So...we could EACH order an entrée and pay $50 per person, or the two of us could get ONE entrée and STILL pay $50 each?"

Please God, just make it stop. I promise I won't giggle the next time someone says "trespasses" in the Lord's Prayer.

"Yes, because the chicken is for two people. You could get the 'hearts & sole' and he could get the veal, or you could get the filet and he could get the salmon."
"It just doesn't make any sense to me. I don't get it."

Once they managed to place their order - we had finally ended up tuning them out, fearing for the life of our remaining brain cells - their round of cocktails was served. Given their zeal for pinching a penny or 2500, we were surprised to see that everyone at the table had ordered some ridiculously fancy drink, the kind you usually don't see without a little plastic sword or an umbrella garnishing the glass. I was surprised they didn't each demand a crazy straw. The glass of wine I'd had (Penfolds shiraz, highly recommend it) had cost $8, so even at a conservative $6.25 a drink, that's a cool $25 that the middle-aged couple would be tacking onto their bill for the right to sip something that looks like it should have combs soaking in it. And yet they're quibbling over their God-given right to order an outlandishly-sized entrée and take HALF A BIRD home with them. It's a doggy bag, not a doggy backpack.

We left a fairly generous tip...we figured our waiter could use it.

Sometime over the weekend I was struck with an idea...find a random "have you ever?" question on the web somewhere, and answer it. So much of what I write is about stuff that's happening right now in my life, but some of the best entries I've read on other people's sites consist of them remembering things they did when they were kids, or growing up, especially through the lens of experience. So here goes nothing.

Have you ever hit someone forcefully?

Not as far as I can recall. I'm not a particularly violent person to begin with - if I ever hit anything, it's a pillow. I took karate classes when I was in middle school - just a couple of years' worth, I think - but I can't say I've ever used any of it, or if I'd even remember how to if the situation arose. Thankfully, I tend not to put myself in situations where a fistfight would come up; I've never been particularly into the bar scene or drinking myself into an aggressive, loudmouthed stupor. I'm also quite sure that my trash-talking skills are so woefully underdeveloped that I wouldn't be capable of inciting anyone to get to the point of wanting to knock a tooth out in the first place. There were always the wrestling matches with my next-door neighbor's older brother and the noogies, dead-arms and meltdowns administered as part of growing up male, but nothing beyond that. A meltdown, by the way, is administered by slapping your open palm as hard as you can between someone's shoulder blades. Stings like a sumbitch and doesn't go away for a while.

I can only remember one time ever being punched myself - my freshman year of high school. Our music teacher was notorious for being late to class (his students would always note with much amusement that his last name, Nardi, rhymed with tardy), so things would often get a bit rowdy before he even showed up. There was one kid in class who sat near me, a little pudgy, tremendously thick glasses - his eyes always looked HUGE through those lenses - and not the most graceful in the world. We'd known each other for a few years and were basically only friendly because our names were both Dave. At any rate, a couple of wiseasses in the class started ragging on him - for what, I don't remember, but who really needs a reason at that age? - and I must have had something to add to the conversation.

It must have been the last straw because as I turned back to face him after saying whatever it was that I said - it's been 12 years now, I haven't a clue what it was - I saw his fist coming right at my cheek. It wasn't a particularly hard hit, or it would have left a mark, but I do remember my head spinning around and the room getting awfully quiet after that. Mr. Nardi was still nowhere to be found, of course. And I just remember Dave's face, his lips tightly drawn up, almost daring me to say something else. I must have decided that I deserved it, as I didn't go after him, and within a week we were probably back to having lunch together in the cafeteria. We moved out of state at the end of the year and I've never seen or heard from him since. A web search just yields what must be his father, a professor at a local college (the last name is rather unique) but nothing about him as far as I can tell. And thus ended my career in violent crime.

Four different geeks trying to top each other in a recent messageboard thread...

"Hm... I just got my wife a 5 gig mini iPod last week..."

"5's don't exist yet. You mean 4?"

"It's just a Shuffle duct-taped to a Mini."

"You're wrong...they use Apple's iDuct-Tape."

"Yeah, it's white, incompatible with 95% of ducts, and costs $59.95 a roll."

I hate the feeling of things in my pockets. I'm not sure when or why this started, but I have somehow over the years developed a severe aversion to having anything in there rattling around, jabbing me in the thighs, poking me in the hips, shifting around while I walk. So I carry the minimum in my wallet, don't stuff my pockets with cash and change, and absolutely abhor large keychains. As a result, the key ring I do carry is rather small, and when I got the largish fob that came with my Passat, I came to realize that there was just no way this thing was going to fit on the key ring...or even if it did, the monstrosity it created was NOT going into my pocket. So instead I carry my house keys on one side, and my car key on the other (pickpockets, take note). Since it's winter, I'm wearing my fleece, providing me with an extra layer not between my skin and the elements, but between me and my keys - they're in my fleece pockets. And rather than taking my keys out after I get home and running the risk of misplacing them, I just leave them in the fleece on the coat rack. Ok, enough exposition. The scene is now set.

This past weekend, Mrs. Dave caught a whiff of said fleece, and declared it was time to wash it. Apparently the garment was a few seconds short of jumping off the wall and throwing ITSELF into the washing machine, such did its own stench offend the nostrils. She took the house keys out of one pocket, and...well, you see where this is going. It wasn't until we heard what sounded like a billiard ball ricocheting about in the dryer that she realized the error of her ways. She rescued it from the machine, but the damage was done. The fob is dead, long live the fob.

Just for the hell of it, I took it back to my back office and performed a post-mortem on it. The circuitry was a little powdered over, which I swabbed off with a Q-tip. The two little WAFFER-thin batteries (sorry, I can't just say "wafer" normally after watching The Meaning of Life one too many times) were a bit rusted out, but otherwise, things looked pretty much ok. Because I'm the geek that I am, I took the other fob and opened that one up too. It looked much cleaner inside - ironic, since it wasn't the one that had been through a dual spin-cycle and half of a medium-heat tumble dry. After some mixing and matching of parts, and testing from the safety of our kitchen window - I didn't feel like traipsing down to the driveway to test, but our kitchen is within range - I determined that the batteries were the most likely culprit, and off to the local drugstore I went.

After finding the random batteries in the most remote section of the place, I walked up to the counter with my find. At this point, there were two registers open: one with two people in line, and one with one. As is human nature, I stood in the shorter line, and waited patiently while the person in front of me paid for her purchase. As the cashier was handing the customer her bag, she looked up, looked straight at the second person in the OTHER line, and said "Can I help the next person, please." (And no, that's not a question, that's a statement. I never understood the practice of turning questions into statements - why not just say "I can help the next person."? A personal favorite is waiters stating "Hi, how are you"; it's an integral part of the customer service Mad Lib. But I digress.) So upon hearing the cashier make her proclamation, Granny in line two moved over, cut in front of me, and began her transaction. Ok, I said to myself, she was here before me, she's sweet and grandmotherly, no big deal. As I had gotten in line, I had noticed another woman who looked like the mutant offspring of Dee Snider and Rapunzel - such was her four foot long blonde frosted ponytail - looking through the candy rack that stands across from the cashiers. Sometime during the last 30 seconds, she had slid into second place in line two, and just then it dawned on me that I was now stuck behind someone doing a return. A return. At CVS. Who values their time so lowly that it's worth their while to return a pair of drugstore tweezers?

Meanwhile, the person at the front of the other line finished up her purchase, and then in super-slow-mo, the cashier looked up, smiled at Mrs. Rapunzel Snider, and (to quote Daniel Stern as Kevin Arnold in "The Wonder Years"), it was at that moment I realized that the two cashiers did not share the same philosophy on where exactly the next person in line stood. Suddenly My Little Pony was at the head of jer line, without giving a thought in the world to the person who had obviously been standing there before her, who had watched bemusedly while she pawed the Peppermint Patties. Granny was STILL processing her deal with the cashier - apparently she needed to shift the 59 cents into her offshore Cayman Islands account - and I was stuck in drugstore limbo behind the oblivious and the inconsiderate.

Giving Twisted Sister the benefit of the doubt, I imagined she had some medical emergency or other urgent matter to attend to, so out of pure curiosity, I leaned over to see just what it was in her clutches that could necessitate an outright violation of the Convenience Store Line Act of 1873. I expected to see something like a bone saw and a roll of duct tape, or a "Do-It-Yourself Appendectomy Kit". But instead, I see DEODORANT AND BLOW POPS.

Standing this close, I'm not immediately aware of any bodily odor that would kill a houseplant at fifty yards; nothing that would portend an imminent hospital visit. And if she was somehow hypoglycemic, blow-pops (two bags!) would seem to be an odd choice given they'r emore of a slow-release mechanism for the sugar she so desperately needed... especially since we've already established that she had already personally fondled each individual bag of candy in the facing display.

I did, however, get the last laugh - while Cousin It was fumbling with change for her roll-on/sugar-high combo special, Granny had finished her complex financial transaction, and I was ready with the battery packages, UPC code side up, and a $5 bill. I was hauling ass out of there while she was still fishing for pennies in her change purse. JUSTICE IS MINE...and isn't it funny how a lack of extra crap in my pockets facilitated my quick getaway.

But not quite as funny as seeing a woman of at LEAST 85 years of age climb into a ragtop Mustang (not exactly the vehicle of choice for New England winters) outside the store and go rolling off with enough low-end muffler rumble to make me nearly lose control of my bowels.

Or as funny as taking the batteries home and testing them from the kitchen, only to scare the crap out of our neighbor by accidentally setting off the alarm. I just about blew her off her bike and into the snowdrift lining our driveway...

Last time it was taco sauce and a paper cut. This time it was me grating the shit out of my wounded finger with a Dobie which had just finished scrubbing a skillet previously used by Mrs. Dave to cook some spicy buffalo chicken, complete with a hefty dose of Louisiana Hot Sauce. I spent the next five minutes doing the dishwashing equivalent of a droop-faced beagle dragging its ass around on the carpet.

Why do I keep doing this to myself?!

The two years our VUE was under warranty, we had a few things go wrong with it, but nothing that was really cause for concern. Had the "Service Engine Soon" light come on, for what ended up being a fairly harmless exhaust problem. Got a flat tire, which we paid to replace since it's not covered by the warranty. Even had some miscellaneous wiring problem go goofy on us, but nothing serious that rendered the car unsafe to drive.

Over the past 11 months since the warranty expired, we've dropped nearly $1000 on fixes that seem to be things just plain going bad, which really shouldn't happen in a car of its fairly youthful age. First the rear windshield wiper stopped working, and rather than asking that it be fixed WITHIN the warranty - since it went on the fritz before the warranty expired - we waited until the next time we brought it in for an oil change, and casually mentioned it then. Ding, $200.

Then the NEXT oil change, they were doing the typical fluid maintenance, when the technician opened up one of the tanks and noticed that it didn't so much resemble coolant as it resembled Yoohoo. So unless someone with a chocolate drink fetish did our last antifreeze drain and refill, we had ourselves a healthy (or, rather, unhealthy) dosage of oil in the cooling system. And the last thing you want in your cooling system - i.e. responsible for keeping your engine from reaching the temperature on the surface of Mercury in mid-July - is something inherently FLAMMABLE. Diagnosis, I can't remember, but ding, $600. And that's AFTER the dealer supposedly haggled the price down with Saturn HQ (apparently from $47 billion). And oh yeah, the next time we took it in, they noticed a little bit MORE oil in the coolant system, which had better be just stuff left over from last time, or someone's getting a syringe of antifreeze in their subclavian.

Finally, last week it snowed (you might have heard) and as a favor to Mrs. Dave, I went out, cleared off her car, started it up, and left it running for her to warm it up. Oddly, by the time she got out to the car, it had stopped. Stalled. Something not good, whatever it was. But it started back up and she took it to work, no problem. Then Friday, she got it as far as work before it just refused to start up that evening. Tried jump starting it the next morning, nothing. Tried calling Saturn, oops, they're closed Saturday afternoon, can't do it. Called Monday, can they send a tow truck? Nope, they don't do that. Have to resort to AAA, who takes two hours to get us a flatbed (oops, can't tow an all-wheel drive, duh). Finally call at 3:30 this afternoon to tell us that we need to replace the crank positioning sensor. Fighting back the urge to tell the guy that I don't care WHERE he has his drugs positioned, I just smile and nod (which on the phone doesn't communicate too much) when he tells me, ding, $190.

Bluh. No wonder Mrs. Dave is going for a VW next time around.

It's one A.M. on a Saturday
A rather odd crowd shuffles in
There's a big group in the lunch room
Whipping up some more coffee again.
They say, "Son, can you copy the server now?
I'm not really sure how it goes
Though it's big and it's sweet, it will be obsolete
The second our company's doors close."
La la la, de de da
La la, de de da da da

Copy these files, you're the IT man
Copy these files tonight
Well, you know we can't do shit without you,
Don't care if it takes you all night

This guy in production's a friend of mine
He gets me in shows for free
And he's quick with a Mac or to download some flacs
But there's someplace that he'd rather be
He says, "Dude, I believe this is killing me,"
As a smile ran away from his face
"Well I'm sure that I could be a music star
If I could get out of this place."
Oh, la la la, de de da
La la, de de da da da

Now Boss is a photojournovelist
Who's never on time for a thing
She has two little boys who make lots of noise
And recently got a new ring
And this woman is practicing politics
As the editors slowly get bored
Yes, they're sharing a time they call job panic
But job searching they cannot afford

Copy these files, you're the IT man
Copy these files tonight
Well, you know we can't do shit without you,
Don't care if it takes you all night

It's an oddly big crowd for a Saturday
And my manager gives me a smile
'Cause she knows that it's me who can wrangle PCs
And forget about sleep for a while
And the server, it sounds like a buzzsaw
And I sure wouldn't mind a beer
While my wife sits alone, while she's reading at home,
Thinking "Why the hell isn't he here?"
Oh, la la la, de de da
La la, de de da da da

Copy these files, you're the IT man
Copy these files tonight
Well, you know we can't do shit without you,
Don't care if it takes you all night

Mrs Moore: What's that for?
First Doctor: That's the machine that goes 'Ping'!
First Doctor: You see. It means that your baby is still alive.
Second Doctor: And that's the most expensive machine in the whole hospital.
First Doctor: Yes, it cost over three quarters of a million pounds.
     --Monty Python's "The Meaning Of Life"

I don't have a machine that goes 'Ping!' but I do have a car that goes 'Feep!' when I lock it. Unfortunately, for quite a while, it actually hadn't gone 'Feep!' at all, since within a week of buying it, I managed to damage the trunk latch beyond repair. Somehow the spring that holds open the cheapo plastic catchpiece had failed, so I tried to close the trunk with said catchpiece closed, and snapped the thing off. Not realizing what I'd done, all I knew was that my trunk wouldn't close right, so I slammed it a few dozen more times. You know, if it ain't broke, force it. If it breaks, it needed replacing anyway. Finally I lifted the trunk lid up, inspected the catchpiece, and upon touching it with my finger, the offending broken piece of plastic tumbled out.

Oops. Needs replacing.

Unfortunately, replacing my front brakes and rotors took predecence over replacing a broken trunk latch, since I was less concerned about protecting the (lack of) contents of my trunk than I was about 88,000-mile-old brakes on the ice and snow of an impending New England winter, and the possibility of wrapping the newly-purchased car around one of the many telephone poles that line our tidy boulevard. But with the holidays ALSO impending, I wasn't exactly awash in cash, especially what with the car purchase. So I instead waited to get my Christmas bonus (woohoo!) and used most of it (d'oh!) to replace the brakes.

But then last week I took it back to get the part replaced, turns out it's too complicated to take apart, so they replaced the whole latch mechanism rather than the 4-cent plastic catch. Toss in an hour of labor, you're looking at close to $70. Bah. But the best part is the mechanic - he actually took the time to show me the rotors and pads he'd replaced when he did my brakes. This time around, he explained that in my urgency and fervor to close my trunk, I'd actually bent the striker (the crossbar that the catch latches onto), so while he was at it, he took that out, stuck it in a vise, and bent it back into shape.

And now I once again have my very own machine that goes 'Feep!'.

Sometimes I wish I had a laptop in front of me while I watch TV so I could just do a running blogmentary on the stupidity of advertising. Case in point, some "skin rejuvenation cream" ad running last night uses every euphemism possible - and some not possible - for "wrinkle". Like laughter lines. Unless you laugh with your hands, they ain't all laughter lines, lady. And "expression lines" was one I hadn't even heard. God forbid you use the word wrinkle, lest someone think they're actually aging...but wait! You get to the end of the commercial, and they show the packaging...the name of the product is "De-crease Wrinkle Cream". The word wrinkle is in the name of the product. And I'm sorry, but a crease is something on a pair of pants, or an origami crane, not really an image you want to give in a makeup ad. So to recap, the commercial is basically, euphemism, euphemism, euphemism, euphemism ... DO SOMETHING ABOUT YOUR SKIN, YOU SADDLE-BAG-FACED SHAR-PEI.