Beam Us Up?

So I'm talking with our buddy Mike Ogle the other day (the guy no one has ridiculed yet for naming my blog "blog cabin"). And he tells me that he had read a story which said the government approved money for research of teleportation. Seriously.

So that's weird, I'm thinking, and then Ogle drops this: The story completely glossed over the fact that the government was earmarking a whopping $25,000 for the research of teleportation. Twenty-five Gs! That's it!

It is at this point that I begin laughing. Was this just one of those things someone snuck onto a bill in Congress and it slipped through? Then I thought, 'Wow, the teleportation lobby in D.C. must not be so strong if that's all it could muster.' (Well, to be honest, first I giggled bemusedly at the idea that there might even be a teleportation lobby.)

Think of what we spend on some random-ass shit. For many inconsequential projects and programs, our government can drop tens of millions of dollars every year (not saying these projects/programs are unimportant, but we spend a lot, as a nation, on stuff that we probably never think about). Yet the teleportation people went in and said, 'Yeah, you know, if you could give us like, oh, I don't know, $25,000, we could make teleportation happen. Sure.'

Never mind that a crew of three guys doing road construction (only one of whom, by rule, can actually be doing work at any particular moment) makes that in a day of standing around and congesting traffic.

Hmm, that would be some quality irony: If we stopped spending millions upon millions of dollars for road repairs, which invariably fall three years behind schedule during the first week -- because we could teleport!

And why do I keep italicizing "teleport." Or putting it in quotes for that matter. I've also been on a big exclamation-point kick lately. It's fun!

On that note, I leave you with some other thoughts on teleportation, er, rather, teleportation:

Prof. Frink: I take it from that little impressed noise that you are interested in purchasing that matter transporter, sir.

Homer: Ah...er...two bucks!? And it only transports matter!? Well, uh, I'll give you 35 cents.

Prof. Frink: Sold! But I must warn you this devices carries a frighteningly high risk of catastrophic...

Homer: I said I'll take it!

Give Me a Name, Atreyu

So in the long quest for a name -- anagrams notwithstanding -- it appears we have a winner, at least for now.

While I might continue to rotate names, Mike Ogle is the big winner thanks to suggesting "Blog Cabin." Feel free to comment ripping Ogle. He likes that.

The Ol' Baby on the Doorstep

So I'm sitting here working peacefully in my apartment when I hear this wailing. I mean wailing. It's coming from outside my front door.

Immediately, my thoughts turn to Three Men and a Baby. I figure, great, there's going to be a baby abandoned on my doorstep, and what the hell do I do then? Where the hell are Steve Guttenberg and Tom Selleck when you need them, right?

So I open the door, and standing there is a little Hispanic toddler (definitely under two years old, I'd say, but she could walk). She takes one look at me and is instantly confused. This, no doubt, stems from the fact that she has no idea who I am. Nonetheless, she figures it beats the porch and toddles into my hallway. I am on the phone, so I say I have to go, and I turn my attention to the crying child in my apartment.

I pick her up, and she stops crying and just stares at me. Babies love me, this is a proven fact, although I have no idea why. Now the question is, what do I do? I ponder calling the cops, but I figure this baby couldn't have come from anywhere far away. She can barely walk, much less drive, so I'm sure she's local.

So, I carry her out of my apartment and down the steps. I ask two Mexican workmen -- who are apparently so busy in their re-roofing tasks, they failed to notice a wailing child on my welcome mat -- "Hey, did you guys see where this baby came from?" Lacking the ability to speak English, one of them points in a general direction I'll call "away from them."

So I wander down a bit, and sure enough, two staircases down from my townhouse, is one with an open door. Surely, this is where this baby came from. I walk up the stairs, and in the hallway is a small Hispanic man holding a laptop. He looks at me as if I'm supposed to say something, even though I'm standing there holding his daughter. So I say, "She yours?" He nods and I hand her off as her older sister (probably about five) stands there watching.

He smiles to me and gives me -- get this -- a thumbs up. Now call me old fashioned, but I think the thumbs up is a gesture better suited for presidential motorcades, movie reviews, and the Olsen twins when they were on Full House. It is NOT, however, an appropriate subsitute for, "Thank you for finding my lost child, who I apparently didn't even notice had wandered out of my apartment, down the long flight of stairs, up another long flight of stairs and into your apartment. It will never happen again. Thank you so much!"

He didn't even look the least bit concerned. Before leaving this stupid-grinning schmuck, I say, "Hey, guy, you might want to keep that door closed. Or at least keep an eye on your kids."

I went with that only because, despite holding a minor in Spanish, I do not know how to say, "Act like a parent, you irresponsible douchebag."

So now I'm back home, pondering calling up Guttenberg's publicist to see if ol' Steve wants to come live with me in case it happens again. I mean, what else has he got to do? The guy hasn't worked in years.

Where Have You Gone, Sexy Underwear?

Evan loves you more than you will know...woah woah woah....

So anyway, I was reading this story today, and it said that in Australia, thongs and other such alluring undergarments are having their rightful place in the pantheon of sexiness usurped by, get this, a comeback of granny panties. Worn by non-grannies!

"There was a time when everything had to be a G-string but that has swung around to now when everything has to have a boy-leg," said Calvin Klein underwear sales and marketing manager Judith Anderson.

Well, needless to say, my, ahem, "boy leg" is none too excited about this development. I mean who doesn't like sexy girl underwear?

It reminds me of a time I visited my friend Janet up in NYC, and Janet complained to her older sister Laura about Laura's clothes-drying rack sitting in the bedroom window populated by big (relatively, since Laura was quite petite) underwear. "Laura, everyone walking by can see you wear granny panties, and they're not going to talk to us!" Janet complained.

And no one ever talked to them again. (OK, that's not true.)

This is also sad news, I suspect, to another NYC chum of mine, Tamer, a booty connoisseur, who had the unique talent of being able to tell exactly what type of underwear a woman was wearing simply by looking at her pants.

In the interest of full disclosure, no pun intended, I'm a boxer-briefs man. It's the best of both worlds. They provide security for your junk without being overly constrictive. Now, I realize that constrictiveness is not such an issue for the ladies as is the wedgie. But whatever undies they're wearing are going to ride up some anyway. Why not take the crack by the horns, so to speak, and just give it the thong?

There's probably something else to be said on the matter, but it will invariably involve the phrase "dumps like a truck" so I will simply leave it at that. Sorry Sisqo.

Bob Sanders

Bob Sanders is a rookie cornerback for the Indianapolis Colts. I bring this up only because today, sitting watching football with my brother, I told him the Colts’ had scored on a fumble return by Bob Sanders, whom I had never heard of.

But that moment I decided Bob Sanders is a great name – just not for a football player. It’s a great name for some secondary-character type people.

Por ejemplo: I’d love to lend you my circular saw, but I already lent it to my next door neighbor, Bob Sanders.

Or… I’m not sure if those are the right forms; have you checked with Bob Sanders down in Accounting? I’m sure there are endless others.

So how does a young man – he’s a rookie from Iowa – with a name that reeks of such next-door-neighbory (this, clearly, is not a word) return a fumble 37 yards for a touchdown?

I don’t know. But on a side note, we were watching the Jets-Ravens game, and the Jets were about to punt for the fifth time (in five possessions) in the second half. I grew angry.

I began to boo as Curtis Martin ran into the line for no gain. Why was I booing the television? Can’t help myself. But then the fans on TV started to boo along with me. And this is why I love New York. If you run the ball up the middle 1,000 times in a row, the fans (consumers) have a right to voice their displeasure to the team. To wit:

“Boo” is just a short way of saying, “Dear Sir or Madam: We have found ourselves dissatisfied with your product. If you could eliminate the portion of your playbook that sucks, it would be greatly appreciated. We look forward to doing business with you in the future. Sincerely, The Guy With His Chest and Face Painted Green Even Though It’s 30 Degrees Out.”

This is why I love New York. And I also love the name of that guy….what was it? Oh, yeah, Bob Sanders.

Fore-what?, Fore-who?

This will be short and random, but here goes: Every time I use the word "forego" -- i.e., to abstain from, for you non-dictionary types -- I always seem to end up using it in some story I'm telling in the past tense. Then I freak out. Is it forwent? That doesn't sound right. Foregoed? Nope, even worse. So finally, I looked it up today. Turns out it is "forwent" -- note the lack of the "e", although the present tense can go with or without the "e" like judg(e)ment does. So while I still feel a little foolish saying "forwent" at least I know it's right now.

Why do I have the feeling that this entry will cause some to forego reading this blog in the future?

Are You Ikea-ding Me?

I just saw a story from the Arizona Republic talking about the opening of the first Ikea store in Arizona. Apparently, people have been camping out for the grand opening. Even if they're not really trying to buy something. They just want to be in first. And we wonder why people hate America?

The first guy in line, a 24-year-old named Scott Cesen, has been sleeping outside said store for eight days. I'm sorry, maybe you didn't hear me. EIGHT days. This is like the Hannukah of consumerism. So, by virtue of being the first in the store, he will win everything on the cover of the Ikea catalog, totaling about $1600. The first 100 people in line win a free $99 chair.

So this loser spent more than a week sleeping in front of an unopened store to win some chairs and end tables and whatnot? The only thing sketchier than that plan is the fact that, according to the story, this guy "took days off from his part-time job marketing sausages." Let's just hope that's not some kind of euphemism.

And to top it all off, the loser quote of the year, from 18-year-old Mesa Community College student Kitty Wells, "It sounds so hokey, but it really is pretty special. We get to be some of the first people in the store." The first people in the store?! It's a STORE, people. It's not the New World or Mars or something. Hell, it's not even the opening weekend of the first Batman movie (which was pretty crowded if I recall). It is a building where Swedes sell overpriced furniture! Get a grip people! Why are you in line for this?!

The more I think about this, the more it continues to boggle my mind. That said, I know people like Ikea. That's cool. No problem with Ikea here. But, citizens of the greater Phoenix area, this Ikea will still be there tomorrow. And the next day. And the next. Go home, relax on your non-Swedish couch. It's not that bad after all, right?

Your Name Here

OK, so on the first day of blogging, I focused on the blogging itself and not so much on the title of my blog.

Today, I decided I should have something pithy atop this monstrosity, and my bro Keith suggested finding an anagram of the original name "Evan's Blog." Problem was, the two best candidates were "Bong Slave" and "Bag Novels." While bagging novels would theoretically free up more time for people to read my blog, it just wasn't catchy enough. And while the other alternative was a little catchier, I didn't want to paint myself as some kind of servant of, ahem, tobacco water pipes.

So now's your chance to reply to this post and come up with a better name for the blog. I beseech you (something people haven't done since Shakespeare's day) to provide some alternative naming solutions (which, if I had an e-business, that would be the slogan of it). Have at it. Please.

Internet, eh?....Blog, eh?....Maude, eh?

So, here we are, the very first post in my blog. Why am I blogging? (And why does "blogging" sound dirty?) Not because I'm in Venezuela and am too lazy to email people every little random thought I have (hi Ian!). Well, I guess except for the Venezuela thing, that last part is true.

Mostly, though, I was thinking about blogging for some time, just didn't really have any motivation. But yesterday was a bad day, and I need something to take my mind off of things, so I am occupying my time with flinging shit into cyberspace and hoping some of it sticks to someone's brain. Or at least provides a chuckle or two.

So, to start things off, I just want to say that yesterday reminded me how awesome my friends are. From the three fellas participating (at least part-time) in my 12-hour drinking binge (Beard even brought me a 40!) to the people I talked to on the phone who cheered me up, it was pretty awesome. Even got an email from my boy Mark, who is in Japan, livin' la vida oishii (OK, OK. So the first part of that was Spanish, and oishii, which actually means delicious, was the only Japanese word I could think of. But I'm flying by the seat of my pants, here, so give me a break).

All in all, it was a pretty shitty day, but some old friends made it a hell of a lot better. So raise your glasses (figuratively if you're me and don't want to drink again tonight) to these fine people. I love you all.

OK, guess that's it for the first entry in my blog. Ha, blog. That's a funny word. Go ahead, say it out loud. Blog.