I haven’t posted anything since December? That’s pretty crazy. Maybe I’ll post my thoughts on Hunger Games this evening… because MAN do I have some shit to say about that.

In an effort to make every day more enjoyable, I have challenged some of my co-workers to a game of Mustache Chicken. While the name sounds disgusting, and the game can end up getting pretty disgusting towards the end, it should be pretty fun.

Basically, on January 1, we will all shave our faces clean and begin growing out the hair on our upper lip. No trimming will be allowed, but sculpting wax may be applies for style. No beard hair or sideburns are allowed, either, as they might draw attention away from the ridiculousness of the ‘stache.

I anticipate it will be just like our senior years in high school, where we tried so hard to grow a nice mustache and failed miserably. I also anticipate many laughs.

I might take pictures…

I’ve got a bigger post coming, I promise, which will attempt to explain the long absence. For now, though, I give you this:

Dear Makers of DVDs,

I use Netflix, despite the price increases and drop in inventory, to watch movies. I watch these movies for the actual movie portion. Over the past few years, you have increased the number of commercials before the movie, and you’ve disabled the fast-forward and menu buttons during these commercials. You even advertise the Blu-Ray format on a Blu-Ray disc. No shit, it’s better. That’s why I’m watching it. Your Marketing departments will be able to back me up on the following statement: Commercials are the worst form of advertising in existence. People have trained their brains to shut off during a commercial, rendering them pointless. Now, I realize this complaint should be addressed to the actual makers of the commercials, and not to you, as all you’re doing is selling the air time to these companies. Still, it needed to be said because it’s ridiculous to force me to sit through them.

This latest “feature” you’ve introduced, however, pisses me off to no end. You’ve started disabling bonus content on “rental versions” of the movies. Again, I really only care about the movie portion of the disc, but to show me a bonus features menu after the movie finishes, and then to laugh and tell me you won’t show them to me is just wrong. Don’t include the bonus content menu if you’re not including the content at all. Just put up a commercial saying how nice it would be if I bought your movie because then I’d be able to see the alternate ending to Hanna.

Try as you might to make viewers angry with Netflix, I can honestly say that I have a Netflix account for television shows, not for movies. You’re not going to drive me away from them. And Netflix? Don’t give up.

Sincerely,
Stuck

I checked out xkcd’s latest strip today, and found myself almost crying.

I don’t talk about it much, but my mother was diagnosed with colon cancer back in the early 90s. Not to downplay her struggle, which was not easy, but it was a rough time for me. I’d just finished high school. The prospect of losing my mother wasn’t due for at least another 30 years, right? In the end, it seems she was just too stubborn to let cancer win. (That isn’t true, though. Cancer can’t be beat by pure stubbornness. In the end, we just got lucky.)

In the years since, though, I’ve been especially sensitive to friends who are facing cancer in their own families. One of my very close friends lost his mother to pancreatic cancer a few years ago. My childhood neighbor lost his mother to breast cancer a couple of weeks ago. Every time someone tells me about cancer striking their family, I feel as terrible as I did on the day my mother told me she had it. But also, in the very back of my mind, I feel a little bit guilty. Maybe it’s because my mother survived, and there’s no certainty that my friend will be so lucky. Or maybe it’s because I feel like there’s something more I can do to help.

So this morning, I did something I’ve never done before. I sent money to a charity. I’ve always felt like throwing money at a problem is an impersonal solution, similar to giving money to a homeless person just to make them leave you alone. But maybe in this case it’s an investment. After all, I’m probably due to get the “Big C” diagnosis in the next ten years myself, right?

And I’m proud to be and American,
where at least I know I’m free.
And I wont forget the men who died,
who gave that right to me.
-Lee Greenwood, ‘God Bless the USA’

I remember having to sing this song back in fourth grade or so. It was one of those giant chorus deals, where it didn’t matter if some of us were off-key. It’s funny, really, since both the person to my left and right were off-key. Anyway, the most important thing I remember about singing that song was that I actually felt a strong sense of pride. It was overwhelming, as if Ronald Reagan himself would burst out of my chest at any minute, waving the American flag. (What? He was the president back then.) Today, though, I am older. I am jaded. I am cynical. Disenchanted. Grumpy. Bitter. Hell, pick any curmudgeonly word you want. That’s me.

I have lost my faith in this country. I used to believe in the system. I used to believe that the ‘bad’ politicians would get voted out and their wrongs would be righted in the next term. But it seems like, really, we only have bad ones to pick from anymore. Seriously, all of them are businessmen who are voting in their own interest. They’ll pass any regulation (or deregulation, as it seems to be more often) that can fill their coffers, whether or not it hurts the rest of the country. The ’1%’ rules the country, and they’re only looking out for their own interests.

After the most recent economic recession, I did enough reading to figure out the basics of how it happened. A couple of weeks ago, I watched Inside Job, a documentary which filled in whatever gaps I had left in my knowledge. It’s disgusting, really, how we keep putting these crooks into office. (Also, I recommend the documentary to anyone interested.)

But what can I do about it? My vote doesn’t really matter. I probably couldn’t even win an election for something local, like city mayor, much less a national office, so I can’t bring about the changes myself. And even if I COULD get into Congress, my voice would be drowned out by the others, much like what is happening now. There are some reasonable suggestions being made, from both parties, which are being childishly dismissed.

In case any of you Washington types are reading, feel free to call me and I’ll explain how to fix this problem without going into a second Depression. But really, doing nothing will also solve the problem. Once the economy crashes and the Depression sets in, we’ll start getting our regulations back into place to prevent this sort of nonsense from happening again.

So what can I do, really? I could prepare for the worst by selling my stocks off and pulling my money out of the banks, stashing all of it into shoeboxes and burying them on some remote beach. I could try to organize a not-so-massive protest, which might get one minute of press coverage before being immediately forgotten. Or, I could follow through with something that struck me this morning…

I started looking at the actual costs of moving overseas. I have reached the point of frustration that I am willing to renounce my citizenship, and move thousands of miles from everyone I’ve ever known. And the worst part about that solution is that it’s the most reasonable one.

So, I wrote a new chapter for the Nice Ass story last night. Two chapters, actually. You remember that story, right? The one where I wrote about my experiment in the dating scene and changed the names, dates, and some of the facts to keep it all a secret? Odds are good, according to my traffic statistics, that it’s the reason you started reading this at all. So, anyway, I wrote two chapters last night.

The problem is that they come well after the last chapter that I’d written, and I have no idea what to write to fill that gap. Three years in a serious relationship will screw with your dating life, let me tell you. This missing “in-between time” is a little bit sensitive, and it’s so tempting to gloss it all over. But I can’t do that. I’m not really a gloss-over kind of guy. Those three years have changed me in ways I did not think I could be changed. I will give you one example.

A couple of weeks ago, I went on a date. I didn’t mean to, really. I had decided a week before the date that it was time to move on and, at the very least, start flirting with people again. This flirting landed me a number on the first afternoon, at the grocery store. (Really. It was in the cereal aisle.) And because it was a grocery store person, and not some faceless stranger in a club, I felt obligated to give her a call and set up the date.

So we went out for dinner. (Those of you who remember older posts, might recall that I used to advocate drinks as a first date, not dinner. This is relevant.) We sat down and chatted for probably five minutes before the waiter even came to our table. The conversation was light, witty, and enjoyable. Then she ordered a glass of wine, and for the rest of the date, I felt like I might throw up at any minute.

I used to be drink at least once a week. I know that it’s acceptable to drink alcohol. I know that it’s a fairly common occurrence. I know that ordering ONE glass of wine should not set off whatever alarm system I’ve installed in myself. But there I was, like some post-traumatic stress sufferer, deep in the middle of a flashback. What the hell can I do to fix that?

On a lighter note, a couple of months ago I went out with CSI-Guy and his wife to a big alcohol-soaked house party, and got tore-up drunk while surrounded by other people drinking. I don’t know why it was fine then. Something is broken inside my brain.

So back to the point of this… how can I write about the events that caused this shift? I suppose I could drop out all the facts and play the blame-game, but I don’t believe that’s way to go about it. First, I don’t really want to air out that kind of laundry again. But more importantly, I’m not sure it’s anyone’s fault but mine. I knew the facts going into that relationship and ignored them. (Worse, I think I honestly believed it was “a phase.”) So to point a finger would be pretty asinine.

Maybe I have to gloss it over. Just write a chapter that says “And three years went by…”

If this guy had a nature show, I’d buy a damned Tivo so as not to miss an episode ever.