Subdivided We Stand Meets Marathon Man

We Don't Get Much Call For It Around Here, Sir

Had a delightful lunch with Mrs. Subdivided today.

A lunch made all the more delightful by the fact that when she wasn't looking, I stole a bite of her sandwich.  And it was yummy.

Was it the turkey?  No, that was rather pedestrian.

Was it the roll?  Well, it WAS a nice soft roll, but with a bit of a chewiness to it, which I like.  But still, no, that wasn't it either.

The thing that took her turkey-and-cheese out of the realm of the ordinary can be attributed to one thing, and one thing only...the thing that I've got a hankerin' for a hunka, a slice or piece or chunka, a hankerin' for a hunk of...

Cheese.

What, you say?  Surely no run-of-the-mill sandwich cheese could be so spectacular that it inspires a blog entry, could it?

Well, dear reader, if it was your standard Swiss, or the ubiquitous cheddar, or (god help us) "American," well then I'd tend to agree.

But no.  The thing that made Julie's sandwich gooda was gouda.

Damn, that's a good cheese on a sandwich.  Hell, it's good anywhere (especially the smoked variety which has been ground up and included with gobs of mozzarella on a nice wood-fired pizza), but it's especially good on a sammich.

Which leads me to my latest cause.  I'm starting a new organization, and I invite you to get in on the ground floor of the...

Group Opposed and United against Dull American, Inane Swiss, and Gross Other Dreck, aka GOUDA IS GOOD.

My friends, it's time we took a stand.  Demand that your local sandwich shop provide you with Gouda.  Today.  Do it.  You'll thank me.

Drinkin' the Hatorade

There's a reason I don't participate in memes, and it's much the same reason that I didn't go to the annual girls-ask-the-boys-to-the-dance dance in high school, and subsequently made fun of those who DID go...

Nobody asks me.  *sniff*

At least not until now.  The lovely Cynthia over at the lovely My Brilliant Mistakes tagged me with the following listy-memey thingy, and although I've posted enough of my quirks during my five-plus years of blogging that I'm surprised the men in the white coats haven't shown up at my doorstep, I'm always game for a little more self-indulgence.  For starters, here are the rules:

1. We have to post these rules before we give you the facts.
2. Players start with eight random facts/habits about themselves.
3. People who are tagged need to write their own blog about their eight things and post these rules.
4. At the end of your blog, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names.
5. Don’t forget to leave them a comment telling them they’re tagged, and to read your blog.

Awright then.  With no further ado, here are 8 random facts of me.  I've actually narrowed the topic a bit -- let's call the following "8 Things I Hate."

1. Ciabatta bread
   Seriously, this stuff is the worst.  The taste is unremarkable, and the texture is downright nauseating, made worse by the thin dusting of anthrax powder on the top.  And it's everywhere.  Every Tom-Dick-and Applebees tries to hip up their menu by slapping some crap (preferably with a chipoltle mayo) onto a ciabatta roll, and while it may look tempting, I'm here to tell you that it's going to disappoint you.  Big time.
   
   You wanna piss me off?  Offer me something on ciabatta bread.  I dare you.
2. Chalk
   I just hate the way it feels -- especially really chalky chalk, like the kind my kids use to draw on the driveway.  My hatred of chalk prevents me from enjoying the game of pool.  I can't stand chalking the cue.  I'm not joking about this.
3. Billionaire adventurer/asshole Steve Fossett
   Probably not the best time to bring this up, I suppose, since he's missing and all -- but man, I loathe this guy.  Maybe more specifically I hate the fact that everytime he ties some balloons onto his lawn chair in an attempt to break the world record in lawn chair aviation, the media crawls up his bum and pays attention.  I'm not wishing for his death -- but I AM wishing that he or his heirs pony up the dough to pay for all the search and rescue efforts that are going on. 
4. The Levitske Brothers
   
   If there's a stretch of road in America that's uglier than Route 51 in the South Hills, I'd like to see it.  Or NOT see it, I suppose.  And the primary culprits have slapped their names on nearly every ugly zit on the ass that is Route 51. 
5. The Point State Park Fountain
   Yeah, yeah, yeah, we all know the drill -- world's highest fountain (not really), fed by a hidden underground fourth river (not so much), a signature piece of civic pride for our lovely city...
   
   Well, it might be, if the damn thing ever worked.  Which it usually doesn't.  Most of the time, it just looks like this (see Mr. Happy Arrow in the picture below....)
   
   See?  Just a big, wet concrete doughnut.  And when it DOES work, the automated regulators that govern its height based on the amount of wind at any given time slow the thing from a mighty geyser to a puny little gush that I can recreate in my backyard with a garden hose. 
   
   I say we replace it with something that REALLY represents us -- a statue of Myron Cope that plays Donnie Iris tunes 24/7 and spews cheese that we can dip our fries into.
6. Chain restaurants where a signature element of the "experience" is people behind the counter who yell a lot in attempts to be "characters."
   Moe's and Fatburger, I'm looking in your direction here.  Give me my food.  Stop yelling.
7. Having my belly button or Adam's apple touched.
   Seriously.  Don't do it.
   
   Of course, my kids have learned this and now get the biggest chuckle out of sending dad through the roof via a nice belly button poke.
8. Dragon Tales
   I've learned to either tolerate or even almost enjoy most of the programs my kids enjoy.  Not so with Dragon Tales, though.  My God it's insipid.

There you have it -- 8 Random Things About Me.  Not quite what the initial meme was supposed to be, I think, but since I've already done my quirks to death (such as here and here and here), I thought I'd take a different tack.

Now then, here's the part where I'm supposed to tag 8 other people.  I'll get to work on that.  For starters, let's tag Marathon Man, my pal Aimee at Motionary, my pal Jackie at My Corner of the World, and...ummm...I'll get back to you shortly on the five others.  Please feel free to volunteer....

Secret, Secret -- I've Got a Secret

Like Kilroy in the abominable "Mr. Roboto," the time has come at last -- to throw away this mask....

I've been keeping a couple of secrets from you, dear friends, and its time to come clean on a couple of things.

A few weeks back, yellojkt participated in a meme -- something to the effect of "reveal something about yourself that you've never revealed before."  I participated, but my revelation wasn't particularly revelatory, especially to anyone who has known me or even read this blog for any length of time.

Since then, I realized something about myself that I've never revealed to anyone.  Until today.  So here goes...

I, Robert L. Braughler, am such a wuss that I can't bring myself to "kill" words, or even letters.

Doesn't make much sense, does it?  Allow me to explain -- no, wait, there is too much.  Allow me to sum up.

Let's say I've just typed something.  A phrase, for example, such as...oh...."My desk is cluttered with candy wrappers and artwork by my kids."

Now, after re-reading that sentence, I may decide that a better way to say that is "Candy wrappers and kids' artwork clutter my desk."  (And that's actually NOT a better sentence, but it's all I could think of at the moment.  Bear with me here...)

Now, the easy thing to do would be to simply delete the original sentence, and then type the new one, right?

Yes, it would -- but it's not what I do.  Instead, I will delete the words from the first sentence that are no longer to be used, but keep the words that I'm still using, and then type the new crap around it.

Pointless?  Yes.

Inefficient?  Oh my yes.

Sign of a much more deep-seeded problem?  Testify, brother!

I have no doubt that this pointless habit costs me greatly in terms of productivity, but I can't stop.  Sometimes, I'm even compelled to "conserve" individual letters.  Some little part of me feels bad when I wipe stuff out of existence, even "electronic" stuff that has no tangible existence other than as a string of ones and zeros on a hard drive. 

I'm pretty sure that this stems from my mom -- who was, God bless her, a fabulous woman in every way imaginable, but she did instill an empathy for inanimate objects in her son that haunts me to this day.

For example, let's say that there was a dinner roll that didn't get eaten.  Mom would say something like, "Oh, poor little dinner roll -- nobody wants him."  And of course, you'd eat the dinner roll.  Toys that had been outgrown, records that were no longer played -- all of these would receive the "Oh, poor little...." treatment.  So you can imagine my horror when Julie fills up a bunch of garbage bags with toys the kids no longer play with, for delivery to Goodwill.  As much as I tell myself, "Oh, good, let's get rid of the clutter," there's still something in the back of my head that says, "Oh, poor little plastic fire house -- nobody loves it."  (Note here to those of you who happen to be my wife: please don't let this stop you from getting rid of stuff.  If it was up to me, we'd be over-run with crap.)

And now, revelation numero deux, and I pray to the Flying Spaghetti Monster that none of my high school band friends read this...

For the past few years, I have been attending an annual Drum Corps competition.  And enjoying it.

While for most of you, this particular bit of information merits nothing more than a shoulder shrug and an "eh," believe me -- if you had been among my circle of associates in high school ("band fags," our classmates labelled us, and it was a name we accepted and eventually embraced), this confession would be right up there among the worst things you could possibly ever own up to.

Yes, we were IN the band.  And yes, basically our entire social lives revolved around being in the band.  But dammit, we refused to accept or even acknowledge the fact that maybe, deep down somewhere in a hidden recess, we actually LIKED being in the band.

We were the band REBELS, dammit.  Outlaws.  The ANTI-band, if you will.

So believe me, every time I'm attending a DCI competition, a little bit of me is keeping an eye open for anyone I know, just to avoid being seen.  To get to the competition, we have to walk a short distance on Route 51, which is a busy artery -- and every time we make the walk, I'm trying to make myself as invisible as possible, just in case one of my old band-fag compatriots might be driving by.

Pathetic, ain't it?

But no more.  I am band-fag, hear me roar!  I'm OUT OF THE CLOSET, BABY, AND LOVING EVERY MINUTE OF IT!

And as final proof of my new lack of self-loathing, I leave you with a video from a DCI competition, just in case you have no idea what I'm talking about.  Following is a performance by The Cavaliers from last year's DCI finals.  Just to put it into a little whit of context for you, the performance is called "The Machine."  Enjoy.

(Since I've already stolen from yellojkt, I'll go ahead and steal his patented...)

Blatant comment whoring^tm:  What's your big (or little) secret?

Moon Over Pittsburgh

Dear UPMC;

Let's talk, shall we?

I understand how these things happen.  You start out, all noble and non-profity, and things go along swell for decades.

But then, an expansion here, a hostile takeover there, a cost-cutting move from Jello-brand gelatin dessert to Royal-brand on your patients' trays -- and next thing you know, it all adds up to a $459 million-dollar profit.

So what's a non-profit to do?

I work for a non-profit, and I understand how these things work.  At the end of the year, that balance sheet has to total to zero -- meaning that big profits have to equal big payouts somewhere down the line.

And that sort of thing is what leads a non-profit into renting office space on the top floors of the priciest building in town.  And when even that doesn't consume the profits -- heck, I can understand the temptation to want to dump some money into some shameless self-promotion, like erecting your logo on the highest point Downtown.

But here's the problem.  I, like many others, happen to like our city's beautiful skyline.

Unfortunately, in the past decade-and-a-half, that skyline has become increasingly cluttered with gigantic billboards at the top of our tallest buildings.  Mellon got the ball rolling, followed by FreeMarkets (which was eventually swallowed by Ariba, whose own attempts at stamping their name to our skyline didn't work out so well), the Post-Gazette, and  God knows who else. 

I like you, UPMC.  When my myocardial decided to infark two years ago, you folks were right there to get me back on my feet.  You are our city's largest employer, and that alone would be enough to merit the respect of one and all.

It's for these reasons and more that I was thinking today that I'd just see what happened if I asked, politely, if you would kindly reconsider the gigantic logo thing.

But as I was drifting off to sleep tonight, the thought struck me -- I'm a pimple on the ass of UPMC, and I'm sure they could not possibly care less what I think of their logo.  So I thought that perhaps there was a way that I could sweeten the deal.

My first thought was that I would offer, free of charge, to host their logo on my Web site.  Dozens of people stop by daily, most of whom are searching for the lyrics to a particular Thomas the Tank Engine song, or information regarding the divorce of some squeaky-voiced guy who used to do commercials for American Equity Mortgage -- but still, an ad on my site would be a lovely, non-invasive way to get the word out about UPMC.

I then thought I'd take it a step further, and ask my fellow 'Burgh bloggers to join me.  Surely, if the UPMC logo were to adorn the lovely sites of the lovely 'Burgh bloggers over there on the right, that might equal the might of a logo on top of the U.S. Steel Building -- right?

No.  Not right.  Not even close.

And that's when it hit me.  By placing their logo atop the tallest point in the Golden Triangle, it was as if UPMC was presenting itself as our God -- to be worshipped by one and all, preferably from a prostrate position.

So...if it's supplication you want, UPMC, it's supplication you shall have.

Here's my offer.

Agree to abandon your idea of putting your logo on the building, and you, UPMC, shall have in return -- my ass.

That's right.  I'm putting my ass on the line.  I will have your logo tattooed upon my ass, in full color and in as large and as colorful a font as can possibly be managed. 

Furthermore, I will do everything in my power to ensure that my ass is seen, in as prominent a position as I can manage, in all Pittsburgh events.  Not a Great Race shall be run, not a Pirate Bobblehead Night shall pass, not a parade shall be marched and not a cake shall be funnelled without the presence of my ass.

As a man firmly entrenched in his mid-40's, the time is coming near when I shall soon be undergoing regular prostate exams.  Now tell me, UPMC, is there a proctologist within your mighty network whose heart WOULDN'T beat faster to perform his duties on a UPMC-logoed ass?  I highly doubt it.

Or, if you prefer, we could really stick it to your dwindling competition when they stick it to me.  Say the word, and I shall get my exams from some West Penn/Allegheny system doctor, who no doubt will be filled with shame at seeing the evidence of your benevolence and might displayed in such a manner.

I am inviting all other civic-minded citizens to join me in this quest.  How many asses will it take, UPMC, to get you to stop this madness?  Just give me a number, and I will find the asses.

I Left My Pants in San Francisco

"What goes to Vegas stays in Vegas," or so the ad slogan almost goes.  Unfortunately, that misstatement currently applies to my pants -- as well as the rest of my luggage.

Yours truly has been in The City By the Bay, The City Built on Rock and Roll now for a grand total of 71 hours, and with the exception of the last 45 minutes, every single one of those hours was spent in the same pair of socks. 

Oh, no, wait, I don't sleep in my socks -- so I guess I've spent...aww, screw it, I'm not doing the math.  Suffice it to say that I've worn the same socks now for close to four days.

As of this moment, US Airways still has no idea where my luggage is.  (Update -- it's now 12 hours after I began this post, and still no sign of my luggage.)  The plane that I took from Pittsburgh to Phoenix was headed to Vegas, so it's my guess that my pants are currently somewhere in the vicinity of Wayne Newton. 

I did manage to have the presence of mind to buy some underwear the other day, and some toiletries -- unfortunately, I didn't think to get any socks.  Hence my current foot-stink.  But I have a question for you, and it's this -- why can I not buy underwear without being made to feel as though I'm buying gay porn?  Why must every bulging package of men's drawers have a close-up of some male model's bulging package?

I appreciate that the fine folks at the Calvin Klein corporation want me to get an idea of what the underwear will look at in action, but must they photograph them in a way that makes me feel so...I dunno...actually, I think this conversation should be abandoned immediately.

Other than the luggage thing, it's been a good trip so far.  I spent my Sunday afternoon in the Haight, where I fit in approximately, oh, not at all, and then Sunday night in the Castro where I fit in far, far less.  Big fun in both places, actually. 

I've been buying clothes as I need them, primarily at the nearby Old Navy since everything else in this city would burn through my $250 allowance from USAirways with one small purchase.  So the end result is that I'll go home with $250 worth of Old Navy rags, which in typical Old Navy fashion will be worthless after about three washings.  Old Navy stuff isn't really clothing so much as it is a series of random pieces of similarly-colored thread which happen to be occupying a shirt-shaped area for a few days.

Not much else to report yet.  A female co-worker and I found ourselves without dinner plans last night, so we took a walk to Chinatown -- fully aware of how "coupled" we looked.  That "coupled" look got even worse when the restaurant we selected chose to seat us at a cozy little romantic booth where we had no choice but to sit side-by-side.  We sat there and hoped against hope that none of our co-workers would see us, since it would've looked pretty darn scandalous if they had.  Especially after we ordered a bottle of wine. 

The meeting is going pretty well so far.  We actually recruited a couple of our grad-student members to blog the meeting, and the results have been pretty interesting.  Although I doubt that many of you will be interested, it's here if you want to take a look.  I did contribute one short entry -- it's the third from the bottom.

Urine Big Trouble

As (I'm hoping) other men will attest, on occasion when you're using a urinal, the stream will veer off in a direction that you didn't quite expect.

This morning, as I'm going, this rare-but-not-unheard-of occurrence happened to me -- and unfortunately, the direction it headed was due south.  So naturally, my first inclination is to check and make sure it's not getting on my pants.

Now the ladies among you may not be as familiar with the workings of a urinal as us fellas -- so let me tell you, there's a big hunk of chrome piping at the top of the urinal.  It's where the flush mechanism lives.

So what do you think happens when you nod your head towards the floor while standing at a urinal?

That's right.  You whack your head against the chrome fixture.  In my case, hard enough to see stars.  And now, I have a big red welt on my head.  But fortunately, my pants are clean.

In other news, for those of you who've been hiding under a rock during the last news cycle, Reverend Ted Haggard has completed his three week seminar, and has been completely cured of gay.  That's right!  The gay demon has been exorcised right out of Pastor Ted.

We have an exclusive -- the first look at the demon who was forced to flee the reverend's body.  Behold WhooHoovius Fabulucifer, Devil Second Class:

 

Maybe it's just me -- but if you've been snorting crystal meth off a male prostitute's ass, are you sure that the gay is the first issue you need to address?

Hell's Workout Mix

One of the earpieces on my headphones recently gave out -- meaning that I'm hearing my music out of my left ear, and whatever horrific music the gym is playing in the morning out of the right.

Normally, the dead earpiece in my right ear is enough to block out the offending gym music (which, as I've discussed before, appears to be aimed at roughly the same demographic as your average Assisted Living Center.)  Unfortunately, however, there are a few machines that I use that are stationed directly beneath a speaker -- and that's when the confluence of my own music and the gym dreck becomes unbearable.

For example, this morning I heard the following combinations:

Left ear:  "Over the Hills and Far Away," Led Zeppelin
Right ear: "Please Mr. Please," Olivia Newton John

Left ear:  "Santa Monica," Everclear
Right ear: "Silhouette," Kenny G

Left ear:  "Signed, Sealed, Delivered," Stevie Wonder
Right ear:  "Tell It Like It Is," Aaron Neville

Left ear:  "Funky Ceili," Black 47
Right ear:  "That Piece of Crap Ballad Whose Name I Can't Recall By," Mike Reno and Linda Ronstadt

Speaking of the gym, I recently experienced yet another in a lifetime filled with George Costanza moments...

I've just fetched one of the giant workout balls from its resting place by the window, and am taking it over to do some crunches on it.  In transit, I hear this lovely little older woman asking a big beefy guy who's using a similar ball if she can have his when he's done.

This woman is a regular at the gym.  She's a sweet little woman, and she works out pretty hard considering that she has some sort of condition that makes her walk almost exactly like Tim Conway's little old man character from the Carol Burnett Show. 

Now the guy who she's asking about the ball has headphones on and can't hear her.  So, when she sees me approach, she asks me the same question.  I tell her that of course she can have it, but also that if she wanted one now I'd be happy to go over and get her another one from the wall.

No, she says, she'll be perfectly content with waiting. 

Ok, then.

Meanwhile, big beefy takes off his headphones to talk to someone, and the little lady asks him if she can have his ball when HE'S done.  Of course, he says, and then he makes the same offer that I did -- he'd be happy to go over to the wall and get her one now.

No thanks, she says.

"Are you sure?" asks beefy.

"Well -- ok!  YOU ARE AN ANGEL!"

She then proceeds to shuffle around the gym, telling everyone who'll listen what an angel the beefy guy is.

Dammit, that should've been me.  I want that credit for being an angel.  Seriously.

Flap Flap

If there's one thing I've learned in 4+ years of blogging, it's that people can't get enough of underwear-themed content.  In particular, my post regarding my Millenium Underpants is still a high-water mark for readership on a particular day.

It's with this in mind that I delve into today's topic.  Specifically, I need to know from the males among you whether you're an "over the top" or a "through the flap" guy. 

It wasn't until I got to college that I even became aware that some guys didn't use the flap on their underpants, preferring instead to pull down the elastic and take care of business in that manner.  I was taught to use the flap, dammit, and that's what I did.

Until college, I guess, and the consumption of mass quantities of beer.  At that point I learned the beautiful, time-saving simplicity of the over-the-top method, and have stuck with it ever since.  It never even occurs to me anymore to use the flap.  (Exception -- the rare occasion when I wear boxers, which isn't often.  The flap on boxers remains eminently usable.)

Until last night.  I'm not sure what possessed me, but for some reason I decided to go through the flap -- and that's when I discovered that modern underpant flaps are merely for decoration.  Unless you're Reed Richards, or perhaps Ron Jeremy, there's no way you're getting Mr. Happy through the elaborate maze that is the modern underpant flap.

So my question to you, dear Calvin Klein, is why even put a flap on there at all if it's not usable?  I for one would not be averse to buying flap-free undies.  In fact, I think I'd prefer it.

In other news related to my junk, Adam walked in and saw me peeing last night.  After a second or two of inspection, he told me that my bidness looked like a palm tree.  Personally, I would think that "mighty oak" is a more accurate description, but that's just me.

Buy, Buy, Buy

I'd like to take a few seconds today to recommend a couple of fine products to you.

Not so much because I care about YOU, mind you -- although I do, and I mean that -- but more because I care about me.  Specifically, I care about reversing my track record in regards to products that I like. 

You see, I'm a product jinx.  The Schleprock of marketing.  The kiss of death for new product introductions.

I've lost track of the many, many fine products that I've embraced over the years, only to see them disappear forever due to lack of sales.  Today, I'm asking you to help me reverse this trend by purchasing the following products:

C2

Mock if you will, but I've almost come to prefer the less-sweet taste of this 1/2-the-sugar version of my sweet Coke addiction.  It really, really, truly doesn't suck.  However, judging by the scant space it's given in the supermarket aisles, I'm constantly concerned that it's going to disappear forever.

Please buy some.  In fact, buy a lot.

Some of you may recall that I pledged to give up caffeine a while back.  And I did.  Two whole months without my sweet baboo, my caffeinated lover.  All that ended with the bout with vertigo, however.  There's something about being sick that, for me at least, DEMANDS caffeine.  So I'm back off the wagon.  But at least what I'm drinking only has half the calories and half the sugar, right?

Well, technically, yes -- but in the back of my head, every day my mind tells me that since it's half the calories, I could technically have...

...instead of just my usual
.

And now, on to product #2, and I swear that this one WILL, in fact, make your life sublime...

That, my friends, is Oral-B's Satin floss.  Trust me when I tell you that this is the Cadillac (or insert your favorite luxury car model here) of flosses.

No shredding, no slipping out of your hands -- just pure flossing satisfaction.  Yes, it costs a little more -- but aren't your teeth worth it?  If Jesus was around today, this is what he'd floss with.  WWJFW?  Oral-B Satin, without a doubt.

Back to the calories/weight loss issue...

I've kind of danced around this a couple of times, but I might as well come right out and say it -- your's truly has actually been going to...gasp...a gym.  Regularly.  Since January.

Yeah, yeah, exercise goes against everything I stand for, but when I topped 190, enough was enough.  I have a skinny guy's frame, but 190 pounds packed onto it was hideous.  Think "skinny Pillsbury dough boy" and you've got my general body composition.

Anyhoo, I've managed to lose 30 pounds, and feel pretty good about it. 

I bring this up not to brag or anything, because it's not that big a deal.  Instead, I bring it up to justify my iPod purchase.

I spent a few minutes without the iPod during this morning's workout, and here's what the club had on the sound system, and I swear I'm not making this up:

• Carly Simon -- The Spy Who Loved Me
• John Denver -- Sunshine on my Shoulders
• Julio & Willie -- Always On My Mind
• Olivia Newton John -- Have You Never Been Mellow
• Christopher Cross -- Umm, that one hit that wasn't "Sailing" or "Arthur's Theme" or "Ride Like the Wind."

Now I'm not going to dis those songs on their own merits, because like I always say, those were bigger hits than I'll ever have.  But as workout material -- Good Lord.

Then and Now

If you can stand one more post about the 25th High School Reunion...

Here's a photo of me with my next-door-neighbor Bill, circa 1968:

And a mere 38 years later...