Subdivided We Stand Meets Marathon Man

False Hope

There is a seriously long, detailed and most likely excrutiatingly boring blog entry building up. Not yet, though.

Instead, let's just say -- how 'bout them Bucs?

Nice to see the locals winning some games, even though it's virtually impossible for them to get back in the race this year. Not that there'll actually BE a race this year. I expect MLB to walk out the day after the Bucs reach 500.

I don't think I've ever been to fewer Pirate games than this year. Maybe three. Maybe. Usually I'm good for about 15 - 20 games a year. Last year's dismal performance, combined with the idiocy of the front office (raise ticket prices after losing 100 games? sheesh.) really dampened my enthusiasm. Last year, for the first time, attending Pirate games was just no fun. Bleak. The new stadium is beautiful, and I'm sure would be loads of fun if the team were even remotely competitive, but yikes. Just awful. I even managed to enjoy the George Hendrick/Sammy Khalifa era -- but last year was about as fun as a trip to the dentist.

Who, come to think of it, I'd better visit while I still have dental coverage.

How's that for issue avoidance?

In Which I Make Thinly Veiled References to Issues At Work

Yup. Expected it. Been expecting it for weeks.

The good news is that, in spite of some soreness in the rectal area, there has also been a significant clearing of previously-clouded vision.

In the long run, what happened today is a good thing. An EXCEPTIONALLY good thing.

Doesn't make it suck any less in the interim, though.

Wanna Fanta

Within each of our chests, there beats a fist-size lump o' muscle that keeps us alive. No heart beats = no more grape popsicles, doggy belly rubs, glum masturbation, and no Web. And for each of us, that tiny blob o' muscle has a finite number of beats. When that number is up -- that's it.

Which is why it pains me to say that I just wasted about 200 of my precious heartbeats looking at the official Web site of the Fanta girls. Like most Americans, "Fanta"-brand beverages drifted out of my conscious thought somewhere in the late 70's, along with Lemon Blennd and Koogle.

But, just like Alf, Fanta is back. But not in pog form.

The latest attempt to move Fanta to the forefront of our cerebral cortexes involves a vaguely techno-sounding soundtrack, accompanied by images of gyrating bimbos.

A co-worker is a big fan of the Fanta girls -- I assume in an ironically-detached man-o-the-21st century kind of way. He just showed me the Fanta Girls Web site, complete with -- well, fatuous, made-up crap about these fatuous, made-up women.

It's a perfect analogy for the rest of the Web. Lots of flash and noise, but all the substance of a can of sugary soda water.

I've said it many times -- the only things people want from the Web are porn and dancing hampsters. The Fanta girls combine both of these into a new art form.

The Mysteries of Oakland

On the railing on a staircase in my office (three prepositonal phrases in a row -- beat that!), there is a towel. For unknown reasons, this towel has been draped over the railing for about a month now. No explanation, no purpose -- it's just there because it has to be someplace, and somebody somewhere decided that this would be the someplace that it would be.

Yesterday, however, the mystery deepened. The towel was spread out across the giant rock that guards the back entranceway to our office. Who spread it there? Why is that rock there? And why does the towel look exactly like the towels that I packed up and took to college in the fall of '81, which I still use to this day?

Today, the towel is back in its rightful place on the railing on the stairs, and all is right with the world.

Workin'

Work is stupid.

A friend of mine once said "Working is for squares," and every day I see more wisdom in those words.

That's all.

Obligatory Self-Important First Posting

Why in the world would anybody -- ever -- need a Blog? (For the uninitiated, that's web-geek for "WEBLOG," or, in other words, an online diary.)

For the most part, bloggers are self-involved, self-important, self-centered folks who labor under the false assumption that the world is aching to find out their innermost thoughts about the minutia that plague our daily lives. Popular blog topics include "What I did last night," "My navel lint," and "Why I hate (fill in the blank with the name of a pop cultural icon, city, activity, bodily function.)"

This blog will be no different.

Provided that I get the time, and find the interest, I'm going to endeavor to update this page daily -- answering once and for all the question, "Do I actually have anything to say?"

It's gonna be interesting. Here's a little secret for anyone who happens onto this page: although writing is my profession, I find it to be about the most goddamn painful thing in the world to do. I have to force myself to get out every word -- and once I do, I hate 'em and never look at them again. You wanna see me squirm? Start reading something I wrote out loud to me. Ugh. When I die and get sentenced to hell, Beelzebub will have a grand old time reading back the verbiage that plagues a misbegotten site that I wrote named "Shopping in PA."

DISCLAIMER: In no way should the above discourage you from actually shopping in PA. It's a terrific place to spend your money. I do it daily -- provided you consider strolling up to the A-Plus Mini-Market for a tiny tub o' mac n' cheese and a gigantic bottle of Coke shopping.