Yes, The Rumors Are True.

I am a gigantic nerd.

Need proof?

I see this sign every morning on the train on my way to work.

And every morning ... I mean every single morning ... I am seized by the urge to add: "EXCEPT ON PARTY BUSINESS."

Hobbiton represents, bitchezz.



Till next we meet ...

I've Finally Figured It Out!

After many, many years of wondering, I think I've finally figured out Charlie Brown's Halloween costume.

He's the ghost of Clyde Barrow!

(With thanks to The Missus for the photoshopping.)

Or maybe he's supposed to be the Ghost of Sonny Corleone.

Not sure how big a cinefile Chuck was.



Till next we meet ...

The Stick-er Man (Stick Figures in Peril!)

If only Nic Cage had seen this warning label on the welcome sign of a certain secretively insular, neo-pagan, honey-producing island lady-commune.

NOT THE BEES!!

So much bear-suited lady-punching could have been avoided.



Till next we meet ...

The Perilous Wrongness of Being (Stick Figures in Peril!)

You!

Stop!

Bad!

You're being!

What did we tell you about that?!

Do not be!

Till next we meet ...

The Circle of Life ... The Rectangle of Death (Stick Figures In Peril!)

The zebra has the lion.

The cape fur seal has the great white shark.

The airborne salmon has the gaping, toothy mouths of grizzly bears.

And, of course, unattended cake has John Goodman.


Mother Nature, it has oft been said, is red in tooth and claw. The great, deadly dance of predator and prey is old as Time itself.

Life on this blue-green orb, it seems, is fraught with Peril.


And so it goes, that for every Stick Figure ...

... there is a Hurtling Rectangle of Death*.


Just waiting for its moment.

Its opening.

Its chance to pounce.

Whether from above ...

"Oh, my skull!"

Or from the left ...

"Oh, my innards!"

Stick Figures have no greater natural foe.


And, unfortunately for the Stick Figure population ...

Rectangles are also wily and ruthless pack hunters.

"Oh, my everything!"

So you watch your back out there.


Or is that your front? (I can never tell.)

__________________
*NOTE: The Hurtling Rectangle of Death should not be confused with the Skittering Cube of Inconvenience.

"Oh, my phalanges!"

Till next we meet ...

I Wonder What's On PBS ...

Well, that's peculiar.

Why is the soundtrack for this episode of NOVA nothing but wakka-chicka-wakka 70s porn music?

Let's click that info button ...

Oh.

I see.




Well ... as you were, I suppose ... eh ... Doctor.


Don't let me interrupt your ... eh ... club-wielding.

(ahem)



Till next we meet ...

It's Like I Don't Even Know Me Anymore

So this bizarre thing seems to have happened to me.

For no particular reason -- and I mean NO reason -- I've started waking up without the aid of an alarm clock at precisely 6:00 AM. Every day. Even weekends.

Now, as anybody who's ever lived with me can attest ... parents, siblings, pets, college roommates, grad school roommates, post-grad school roommates, The Missus ... this is HIGHLY unnatural behavior for me.

Waking up too early is just not a problem I've ever had.

I'm nocturnal. A late sleeper. A night person. A bat. A night owl. A complete and total slugabed. (Yes, that totally is SO a real word. No, I didn't make it up! Shut up! No, YOU shut up! Yeah-huh! Is so!)

In fact, the caffeine blast generally necessary to propel me first into a vertical position, and then to send me shambling forward through a typical work day ... well, it's roughly the equivalent of what a few kegs of black powder and some Mythbusters might generate.

"But Mooooom! My ass IS out of bed!"

So it's something of an understatement when I say that not once in my four decades of life have I ever been a morning person.

Until about a month ago.

It's like a switch was flipped.

The weird part is, I have changed absolutely nothing about my routine. No changes in exercise, diet, caffeine intake ... nada.

My body, it seems, has engineered a bloodless coup d'etat and has seized control from my brain. I have been in charge, it seems, for quite long enough. I can no longer be trusted to operate myself.

So there's a new sheriff in town and now it's lights out at 11.

Gone is the 3 AM channel surfing. Gone is Twittering till dawn. Even if I want to stay awake, it's just not possible. It's like C-3PO when he gets switched off. I'm OUT. Down. Gone. One minute I'm there, the next I'm not. (Amusingly, I'm told this often happens mid-sentence.)

So what's the deal? Why the hell is this happening?

The way I see it, I figure there are three options:

1) It's just possible, I suppose, that this might potentially perhaps just be a sign that I'm getting ... you know ...... old.

"Grrrr ... Letters to the Editor, prostate glands and opinions about new music!"

Or ... and I personally believe this is the FAR more likely scenario ...

2) Maybe, just maybe ... I shouldn't have poked that thing I found next to the bed with that stick.

"Maybe it's filled with candy! Wait ... OH, GOD! That's not candy! That's not candy at all!"

3) Of course, it would be irresponsible of me to rule out the possibility -- remote as it may be -- that I'm actually an avatar being driven around by a wheelchair-bound space marine.

One must cover one's bases, after all.

"Wait. So last time I got to operate a bad-ass, ten-foot, blue, monkey-cat-alien on a mind-blowingly fantastical jungle planet ... and now I'm driving around in a little fat guy in Jersey? You suck, James Cameron. Hard."

Oh, well.

(sigh)

See you in the morning, I guess.



Till next we--- (snore) ...