Inexpressibly cool

Just in case you haven't seen it -- and chances are, most of the people who read this blog have -- you must see Tony vs. Paul.

I'm not sure how they did it -- though I think that they use the same techniques that claymators used back when there was claymation -- but my guess is that it took an astonishing amount of work.

Music

I thought Talking Heads had disbanded in 1992, but for some reason they reunited and made a new album in 2005. For some reason, though, they changed their name to "Clap Your Hands Say Yeah". Still, if you liked the Talking Heads's old stuff, you should like this.

Housekeeping Matters

This post is to be kept confidential.

I'm talking to you, Mom. You'll see why when you read the post.

The Bobcat household has had cleanliness problems in the past. I won't go into them, but suffice it to say they're Dad's and my fault. More Dad's fault.

Before delving any further into the history of my family's mess, I should say that I started out as a clean boy. I would make sure to put my shoes--and everyone else's shoes--into the proper place; I would clean up my toys; I didn't have any papers to organize, but if I had had them, you can bank on the fact that I would have organized them.

What happened to me? My family; my Dad was a relentless messer-upper (he remains unrepentant to this day), my brother was the same during my growing up (he has since changed), and my Mom had given up by about my fifth or sixth birthday (I think she's become a little more hopeful in recent years). So, being a child, I must have concluded that I was doing something wrong by being clean, and I have looked upon non-filthy places with moral disgust ever since.*

Anyway, we got a housekeeper lately. A friend of the family, in fact. Call her L. There's no need to go into L's history--well, no need beyond this: she's from Romania, and she became an adult during Ceaucescu's regime. Consequently, she had to deal with some excesses of communism. So cut her some slack.

Also, she has forearms like steel scepters (from mountain-climbing). I just thought I should mention that.

So, the conversation I'm about to relay is one I've never told my Mom. And once again, I ask her to keep it confidential. So here goes...

One day, of fairly recent vintage, I was home alone with L. L was getting ready to do some housecleaning. I was eating, and the family cat, Bullitt, jumped up on table and started sniffing at my food. I didn't mind, but L shooed him away.

Me: What's wrong with Bullitt?
L: Ach, he iz not clean. You should not let him near you.
Me: How is he not clean? He's such a neat-freak that he licks the filth off his genitals and his smelly place.
L: Bobcat, I haf never told you zis, but ven I vas in Romania, you remember, I was a coroner.

It's true. I mean, it's true that she's told me that many times.

Me: Yes, I remember you telling me that.
L: And I saw sings. Sings I will never forget.
Me: Okay.
L: Once, I vas looking at a man's body, and I vill never forget zis ... no, vait, it vas voman.

I don't think I need to comment about that sentence. She continued:

L: In her liver, I found a cat-hair. She had swallowed one and it killed her.

Really? When you swallow cat hairs they go straight to the liver? Maybe in Romania they connect the liver to the stomach so that the booze will work faster?

L: I can tell you, efen ven it doesn't kill you, you will be praying for death.
Me: Oh. Wow. I'm surprised it doesn't happen more.
L: Vell, ve didn't lif vit cats and dogs for sousands of years. You think everyone was stupid in ze past and zat zey are smart only now?

Actually, I was thinking that the most economical explanation was that L didn't know what she was talking about. But even if she was right, she apparently thinks it's okay to assume that while not everyone was stupid in the past, everyone is stupid now.

Me: Oh, well I better tell Mom.
L: No, don't tell your mozer. Promise me zat you won't.
Me: Why not?
L: Becauze she will not like to hear zat she can't be around her cat.

Somehow, I don't think that's what Mom will conclude. She might conclude that L has a weird sense of propriety--I mean, if I really thoughts being around cats killed people through their livers, I would spread this gospel far and wide. Even if it meant mildly upsettin them. I guess that's where L and I disagree. But of course, I'm assuming even she doesn't believe what she said.

She's a generally nice lady, though. And she helps keep the house clean, which is really nice. And she grew up in a totalitarian society, after all; such societies usually scapegoat somebody. I guess in Romania it was the cats.

*--That's not true; I just like the idea of looking upon non-disgust with moral disgust.

Fantastic Adventures!

There I was, sitting at home with my flickering lamp.

"Damn that lamp. I don't know why it flickers so", thought I.

Wait; let me give you some background.

Three years ago, I bought my girlfriend a lamp for Christmas. Keep in mind, at this point in our relationship, I didn't realize that at Christmas, you were supposed to get romantic gifts for your special someone. M'lady had told me she wanted a lamp, and I took it upon myself to add "for Christmas" (try adding that to the end of fortune cookie fortunes!). Later on, though, I got her the appropriate "romantic" gifts: chocolates, flowers, miniature pigs having sex.

At any rate, Lampy, as I call it, had been giving us a good run; I had no reason to suspect that Lampy was the cause of the flickering. Naturally, I blamed his lightbulb. So I installed a new lightbulb.

Still flickering.

Well, you can read even in flickering light, so I grabbed Lampy by the scruff and started moving him to the table near where I read.

Then Lampy died.

He didn't die peacefully, like Ronald Reagan, or suddenly but painlessly, also like Ronald Reagan. Nope.

He exploded.

Let me tell you what happened. The lightbulb was flickering, so I picked up Lampy to move him, and then the lightbulb blackened; embers shot out of the top of the lamp, and, literally, a jet of flame, probably half a foot long, shot out of the light switch, while the lamp made a sound like a blender set to "putrify".

Freaking out, I started blowing on the flame. Amazingly, it worked; the flame went out. Then I ducked and started looking anxiously for the plug. The flame started shooting out again, the blender sound recommenced, and stood back up and blew out the flame again. Then, I grabbed the plug (encased in plastic, so it wouldn't electrocute me) and yanked it out.

The flame stopped, and was replaced by a placid smoke gurgling out of the lamp like a death knell (don't think about what that could possibly mean, as you'll be disappointed). Also, the enjoyable aroma of melted plastic filled up my apartment and, to be honest, my apartment complex.

Happily, the smoke detector didn't go off, so that was one less problem I'd have to deal with. Unhappily, the smoke detector didn't go off, so that's one more problem I'll have to deal with.

In the meantime, I looked back at Lampy's smoldering corpse. I grabbed him by the neck and dunked his head into the cold outside air, where he could smoke with some privacy. Eventually, I took him downstairs and put him in the dumpster area.

I lost a friend that day (my friend Brent died), as well as a lamp, but I got a good idea from all of this. When I'm nearing my end, I'm going to have one final surgery where the doctor takes out my appendix and replaces it with C4. Then, I'm going to get into a fight, lead with my appendix area, and blow up the place.



Brent didn't die.

Fight Fans

I just saw the Fedor v. Hunt fight.

First, it continues my string of unbroken mis-predictions. I thought Fedor would destroy Hunt in about two minutes. It ended up taking him about nine, and he certainly didn't destroy him. Arguably, if Hunt had fought Fedor a year from now, a different outcome would have resulted.

Second, it's only arguable that improving Hunt's game would have helped matters. For Fedor might be some kind of zombie or Frankenstein's monster. On the one hand, Hunt tested Fedor like I haven't seen him tested (though I haven't watched many fights of his). But on the other, what does it take to beat Fedor? He gets solidly punched in the face on two separate occasions by a behemoth puncher, he appears to have a kimura totally locked in and breaks out of it, and after being lain on top of for six or seven minutes, occasionally punched, and fighting against submissions, he just stands up and starts swinging like the fight just started. Does he not get tired? What's with him?

UPDATE: Apparently, Pride Refs really don't want to stop fights.

The Big Question

So I went back to Dayton for the holidays. After 19 glorious days of staying with parents, everyone has the same question: how much weight did you gain?

A fine question indeed. Exactly how much eating can one person do over the holidays? The answer, as it turns out, is a lot. I weighed myself after getting home from the airport. Flying, and the Mexican Beach Salad I ate at Jerry's Deli, added slightly to my total of... 16 pounds! Holy crap! I left LA weighing 230, returned at 246. If I was an actor I would have gotten the part of the fatter me.

The next morning, I had settled to a nice, round 242. Today after spinning, 239. The holiday weight comes off fast but still... Wow.

Anyway, I was rheuminating on some of the food that led me to my caloric predicament. The sliders with onion rings and fries at the Fox and Hound? Couldn't have helped. The Ben and Jerry's Cherry Garcia shakes? If one wasn't good for me then numbers two and three sure weren't either. The Coney dogs I got at Skyline Chili on the way home from a lunch of Chinese food? Pure folly in any estimation.

It'll take about 2 weeks to get back to 230. And then another month or so to get to 220. Maybe I'll go down further after that. Dunno.

Today I ate frozen dinners that totalled less than 500 calories and a salmon kabob.

Man, I miss Dayton.