the wrong song

May 102012
 

So this morning I was awakened at 5:30 a.m.—like I have been for the last 6 or 7 days in a row—by the shrill chirping of a bird outside my window.

Now I know you might be thinking, “Wow, what a light sleeper!” but this particular feathered “friend” (possibly straight from a perch next in Satan’s aviary) and its “song” are so loud that it also woke up my wife, who can sleep through the godless racket that is my snoring. That should give you an indication of the volume. This thing puts the Harpies to shame.

As I lay there *not* sleeping, I considered what might be the most satisfying way to bring about the demise of this creature—you know, because interrupting my precious beauty slumber is a crime worthy of death.

A few ideas came to mind:

  • Getting a pet owl to hunt it down, catch it and rip it apart with its razor-like talons—they are killing machines, for what it’s worth. Of course, then I might have to deal with the owl hooting all night.
  • Using a flame thrower to incinerate it—it’s got to taste like chicken.
  • Snapping its avian neck with my bare hands, you know, because there’s nothing sweeter than crushing the life out of another creature with your bare hands … er, or so I hear.

Even though we have a pet parakeet of which I’m pretty fond (it was that or a hairless cat—uck!), overall, I’m not a big fan of birds, unless they’ve been deep fried or covered with bacon, stuffed and roasted for hours. When I used to work at Frank’s Nursery & Crafts back in the day, I could never understand why people would regularly spend hundreds of dollars on bird seed. As direct descendants of dinosaurs, these winged pests have been for millions of years—they hardly need our help to survive. Trust me when I tell you that if you were starving to death, they wouldn’t help you. As a matter of fact, buzzards would hover above while you expire, then they and all sorts of other carrion would feast on your corpse.

In short, I agree with Buddha*—birds can go flock themselves.

[*It was in the 3rd chapter of his autobiography, I believe, after the part about “Lead, follow or get the heck out of the way!” Or was that Ted Turner? I get all of Jane Fonda’s exes mixed up.]

Anyhoo, my mother likes to feed the birds, and for years, has tried to lure hummingbirds to her feeder, but without much success. Last summer, when we were in Colorado and staying at the infamous Murder Cabin, there were a few hummingbirds around, which allowed to get me to get this kind of photo.

I’d post more, but I think that’s rubbing it in my mother’s face enough.

Speaking of my family and song birds, that is something we are definitely not: musically gifted. Actually, I’d say we are musically bankrupt, although my older son seems to be able to carry a tune and can play the piano by ear. (Freak!) For a long time, I questioned whether my younger son was of my direct lineage—his hair was on the blonde side, which doesn’t even remotely match me or my wife—until I heard him really “sing.” Although enthusiastic, the experience erased *all* doubt that he was descended from my tone-deaf bloodline.

Obviously, I have no illusions about how bad my singing is—and trust me, it’s truly putrid. When it comes to having to sing “Happy Birthday,” I can guarantee you that I’m pretty much lip-synching and letting others carry the tune. Or maybe I’m whisper-singing, which masks some of the awful. Overall, I’ve been fairly successful in hiding my horrific warbling, except for one fateful night …

[*cue rayality flashback waviness … or just flicker your eyelids a bit, thanks*]

A few of you may have heard this story already—I know my friend Milo is already giggling since he was there when this fateful event unfolded. Some of the basic details are fuzzy, possibly obscured by the mists of time or, more likely, blocked by a brain trying to forget away a traumatic moment.

Anyway, Milo and I were at this live show in a local hall—I want to say his now-wife Ivette was there also, but again, I’ve desperately tried to forget the details. (Sorry Ivette, either way!) It was a variety show of sorts, with  local singers entertaining the crowd.

At some point in the evening, one of the women got up and started channeling her inner Diana Ross, breaking out into “Reach Out and Touch”

For the proper effect, please play this while you continue to read.

If you’re not familiar with the song, it’s popular sing-along, which, if I had known at the time, would’ve sent me scrambling to the men’s room to hide. But I was completely oblivious, so I was caught up in and enjoying the moment as the singer rolled through the chorus:

“Reach out and touch somebody’s hand, and make this world a better place, if you can …”

After singing it a few times, she began to work the crowd like the supreme diva, walking around, throwing in some comments to pump everyone up and extolling others to sing along with her. Before I really could process what was happening, she was standing in front of me.

Smiling at me, she sang the lead up to the chorus and then—

[Oh. my. god. NO!]

—she took the microphone and put it right in my face.

And I mean right in my face, about a millimeter from my lips.

I froze. Nowhere to run, no time to react, no chance of dematerializing into a puddle of carbon atoms and water on the spot. Then she nodded as the musical cue came around.

I didn’t know what else to do … I took a deep breath and—

“REEEEEEEEEEAAAAACCCCCCHHHHH OUT AND TOUCH

SOMEBODY’S hand …

make this world … a better place …

if you …
… can …”

Mere words on a blog can’t convey how awful the noise that came from my throat was. It was like nails on a chalkboard + a moose being crushed in a trash compactor + Fran Drescher after gargling glass x 1 billion to the billionth power. Or worse.

Needless to say, Milo was hysterical (and even now, decades later, he still laughs—hard—about it, as well he should). The singer was a real pro, almost able to mask the shock on her face with a smile that’d make Chuck Woolery jealous. She nodded encouragement, but her eyes were pleading, “Child, for the love of Jesus H. Christ, please please please never sing another note as long as any of us live.”

The only good part for all of us is that it was only a one-time event. That freakin’ bird will be back there tomorrow … maybe I should try serenading it. Maybe that will change its tune!

 

campfire memories

May 072012
 

So this weekend, my son went camping with his scout troop. On Sunday, I volunteered for transport duty, so I had to drive up to Goshen to retrieve him and a few of his fellow campers.

During the ride up, I made sure to enjoy the peace and quiet because experience has taught me that there’s not a much more chaotic environment than a car full of tween boys jacked up on pixie stix. I arrived at the camp, found where my son’s troop was and proceeded to load my car full of damp gear and three rumpled scouts. Bracing myself, I started the car for …

… the quietest. ride. home. ever!

Seriously, two of them fell asleep after about 15 minutes while the third stared out the window in some sort of catatonic state. At first I wondered if everything was all right, but then, in the silence, I drifted back to my days of camping trips and remembered: Nothing was more exhausting than an active weekend that included, if I was lucky, about 8 total hours of sleep split between the two nights.

Yeah, we were go go go back in the day, and we were even more exhausted after a full week at Camp Sequassen. I wasn’t very good at earning merit badges, but I was always a full participant in other activities, from boy scout-sanctioned activities like hiking, archery, shooting (with real guns!) and using my knife to cut and whittle stuff, to less official activities such as burning stuff, smashing stuff, burning stuff and using my knife to play slightly less dangerous variations of mumblety peg.

But camp was a time of wonder and fun. Among the things I learned at camp:

  • Everything gets damp at camp – I don’t care if you keep your clothes, matches and sleeping bag and in hermetically sealed bags, as soon as anything hits the night air in the woods, it immediately turns to uncomfortable mush. Pillows were the worst—and if you’re a light sleeper than me, nothing would keep me awake like having to flip my pillow over a few dozen times in the hopes of finding a small dry patch. And once things get damp, they never ever dry out.
  • Bears may crap in the woods, but it’s no fun for the rest of us – If you’ve never actually had to do it—and fortunately, I’ve only had to do it a few times—having to empty your bowels over a hole in the ground is about as awful as you might think. At least at camp there were latrines, which I think they gave a fancy French-sounding name to disguise the fact that they were no more than a covered fenced-in pen with a board that had a toilet-shaped hole that barely stopped you from falling into a crap-filled pit. On the plus side, I learned to catch daddy long legs with my bare hands and flick them away while in a latrine because you don’t have many options when your pants are around your ankles and you can’t exactly jump up and move.
  • Kids desperate for something sweet will promise anything to get it – Being a quasi-responsible, cash-conscious little urchin, I used to budget the $10 my parents gave me to last the entire week of camp. That meant I had about $1.40 to spend a day, give or take, which was enough for three 35-cent treats from the trading post a day—one in the morning, afternoon and evening. I was always able to stick to my budget, but other kids usually burned through their money pretty quickly, and later in the week, would come to me begging for cash. Most were good about paying me back, yet for a reason I don’t care to understand, I remember that Billy Olah still owes me 35 cents from a chocolate eclair he wheedled me into buying him. Let’s see … ten percent interest compounded over 35 years means he still owes me … well, almost enough to buy an eclair from an ice cream truck today.
  • Don’t feed the racoons – The first year, Jeff Doering, one of the kids in my lean-to, wanted to see raccoons up close, so he left food out and was amused when the raccoons came around after dark. A few hours later, I was awakened by screams, and when I switched on my trusty flashlight, I saw a giant raccoon jumping up and down on Jeff’s head. They were both screaming, now that I vividly recall it.
  • You need two oars to row a rowboat – Not something you realize until you lose one to some other scouts goofing around and you spend the next few minutes going in circles.
  • Don’t volunteer for the greased watermelon competition – On the Friday of camp week, there always was a camp-wide competition that included various tests of scout skills but ultimately ended in a melee with such carnage that it’d put the Battle of Thermopylae to shame. The rules were simple: There were no rules other than whoever was holding the greased watermelon at the end of five minutes won—everything went. I’m pretty sure there were kids who spent the week smelting metals to forge brass knuckles to use during the adult-sanctioned brutality. I tried to mix it up, but unless you count letting the other kids drown me as a distraction for my buddy Bobby Paradis, who actually won it for our troop one year, I was about as helpful as Jeff getting mauled by the raccoon.
  • Give your son the same name as you if you grew up in Brooklyn, NY, and never learned to swim, that way he can pretend to lose his highest-level swimming tag and then re-take the test in order to get a second tag that you can use – Isn’t that right, Dad?
  • Sex – But not from any actual experience, you sick bastards! One night while a bunch of us were hanging out in one lean-to and one of the older teenaged scouts, Bobby S. told us all in graphic detail about the birds and the bees. Most of us were like, “What? It goes where and *what* happens?! NO WAY!” I thought what Bobby S. sounded a bit farfetched at the time, but it turns out he was 100 percent correct. Who knew?

And of course, my favorite scout discovery story is this one about the time at camp I learned I would never soil myself in a moment of extreme fear and duress. (Always good to know that, by the way.)

Although I encourage you to read the whole story when you have time, I do offer this aside from it:

Quick aside: I am a pyromaniac. Period.

No joking. I can’t tell you how many hours I spent building perfect one-match camp fires that I would ignite, stoke into raging (yet contained) infernos, then use to burn anything else that I could find around the campsite. This is where I learned that almost anything sent with a child to camp—extra underwear, cereal boxes, cereal—will eventually burn, with the possible exception of toothpaste tubes, and by the flames of Hades, I tried everything to melt those b#stards! (Plastic garbage bags, if wrapped around a stick and properly torched, will drip drops of bright blue-orange flame that are absolutely mesmerizing.) Earlier this year, I took my family to Sequassen for a visit, and even some 20 years later, I was able to build a fire with only bark and sticks that lit with two matches. Then we toasted marshmallows. My kids were a little disturbed that I liked to set my marshmallows lovingly on fire for a few seconds, charring them ever so slightly, before blowing them out and eating them .. .

Maybe I should have a bonfire at home tonight. Hmm …

 

The Friday Five: Get My Motor Running

May 042012
 

Now that I’m older than I was (thanks again for all the good wishes), it’s time to get cranky …

So as any of you who have enjoyed the wonderful fortune of riding along with the best driver on two continents [*cough cough ME cough*] can attest to, I am …. well, let’s go with *PASSIONATE* about driving.

Consequently, I truly love to be behind the wheel, and wish that many of the other drivers out there would share my … attention to detail … and … interest … in what occurs on the road. It’d be nifty if they—

Okay, enough of this charade!

Let’s get right to the point—there are two kinds of drivers out there: ME, and the rest of you fracking yahoos!

To help get the rest of you up to where I am, and thus make the motor touring experience more betterer for everyone, I propose everyone brushes up on these

5 SIMPLE DRIVING RULES

1. PUT THE PHONE DOWN AND FRACKING DRIVE!!! Seriously, if you don’t read another word beyond this sentence, just do me this one favor: PAY ATTENTION! You are handling a 2,000-lb. hunk of metal and glass that is capable of traveling in excess of 80 miles per hour and that can easily end multiple lives as a result of the simplest of operator errors. Please, despite thinking that you are special and the world revolves solely around you, I can promise that you are not; you are also not the only person on the road, so please concentrate on the task at hand. Chances are you are not texting the nuclear launch codes to the president or giving step-by-step instructions to Dick Cheney’s heart implant team, or anything of real importance. Just drive, baby.

2. When entering highway traffic in normal conditions, enter AT HIGHWAY SPEED! For example, if everyone is going 70 miles per hour—and you can damn well bet that every motorist is doing that on any given Connecticut interstate, at minimum—then the basic laws of physics suggest that if you try joining the flow at traffic at 40 mph (maybe because you are on your cell phone, are not paying attention or are some sort of brain-dead fracktard who got your license as a prize in a box of Moron Munchies), bad things will happen! Either you will be in an accident, cause an accident or cause the brain of the guy behind you (most likely me) to a-splode!

3. When you are turning right, it is *NOT* necessary to come to a complete stop first. Because they usually have the right of way, most times, there is absolutely nothing physically preventing drivers from making a right turn. Yet over and over and over again, when challenged with the prospect of moving their cars in a rightward direction, many drivers feel the inexplicable need to stop first, maybe because they feel that momentum will carry them straight rather than in the direction they intend. Hey Miss Daisy! See the big round thing in front of you? If you turn it with some effort to the right, your vehicle will go into the parking lot of the Piggly Wiggly without you having to stop it first. Oh the simple joys of technology!

On a side note: Do not suddenly change the stopping rules to the road without telling anyone else. Look, I know you want to be nice and let that old lady and boy scout cross the avenue, but if you’re the only one who suddenly stops to do this and everyone else is still driving like normal, either you are going to wrecked from behind or there’s going to be a few extra seats at the bingo hall and the next pancake breakfast.

4. Please use your turn signals. You know why the Amazing Kreskin is so danged “amazing”? Because he’s the only who can fracking read minds! The rest of us have no clue that when you drift to RIGHT and slow down, it’s because you need to a wide berth to make a LEFT turn so that you don’t spill your beer or drop your cell phone—we assume you’re going to make a right turn and start to logically pass you on the left. Imagine our surprise when you suddenly speed up and go left? If only there was some way you could SIGNAL  the rest of us as to which way you might TURN … OH WAIT THERE IS, AND IT’S ONLY ABOUT AN INCH FROM YOUR LEFT HAND! It takes more effort belch up half of your Taco Bell drive-thru burrito than it does to use your turn signal. Come on!

5. The left lane is for passing only. Section 14, section 230 of Connecticut state law dictates: “Upon all highways, each vehicle, other than a vehicle described in subsection (c) of this section, shall be driven upon the right, except (1) when overtaking and passing another vehicle proceeding in the same direction, (2) when overtaking and passing pedestrians, parked vehicles, animals or obstructions on the right side of the highway, (3) when the right side of a highway is closed to traffic while under construction or repair, (4) on a highway divided into three or more marked lanes for traffic, or (5) on a highway designated and signposted for one-way traffic.”

In other words, you are NOT allowed to just cruise along in the left lane at 50 mph because it’s easier to concentrate on your cell phone, you can’t be bothered to move over for entering traffic or you’re just too fracking stupid to live!!!

Okay, can’t wait to see you out there on the road, you know, so I can shake my fist and curse at you!

/cranky old guy rant, over!

 

best. present. ever!

May 022012
 

So as many of you know, I absolutely hate my birthday—I don’t need to be reminded that I’m more than halfway to Betty White’s age, thanks! In addition, I already know that if I’m absolutely lucky and manage to survive all sorts of disease and misfortune, the best I can hope for is another 170 years or so before the odometer runs out and I drop dead, which isn’t nearly enough time to get everything I need done.

Of course, when I was younger, I was like most kids and enjoyed my fair share of birthday parties. The one that jumps out at me—literally—was the surprise party my parents threw for me when I was 13.

I truly had no idea it was coming, and was completely oblivious that Friday night my father and grandfather took me out shopping for a weight-lifting bench. I should’ve known something was up—it was the only time ever that the two of them had taken me to a store that didn’t sell building supplies or hardware. They were both straight arrows, and both were acting pretty goofy; at one point, they grabbed a football and were throwing it around the store, which in retrospect, I realize was to stall. At the time, it was just fun.

Anyway, when we got home, I noticed our dog Smokey was in his crate in the dining room, which was odd, but before I could think about it too much, my parents told me to take the carton with my new weight bench into the basement. I went down the short but dark stairs—the switch was at the bottom—and flipped on the lights and stepped into the room.

I should mention at this point, like many kids, I always had a slight fear of going into the dark basement.

As the lights came on, there was an eruption of what *probably* was celebratory screams. I’ll remember to my dying day—which I thought had come at that moment—one of my friends at the time leapt off the couch and directly at me. Of course, I recognized him immediately, but the incongruity of him suddenly appearing out of the dark of what I thought was an empty basement and then hurtling like a banshee through the air at me was a bit … well, SURPRISING! I literally fell over backward in shock.

Apparently, my “loving” mother had told them that she was going for “heart attack.” Mission accomplished! If that happened to me today, I’d drop dead of a coronary.

But lucky for you all, I haven’t. Yet.

My other particularly memorable birthday was 19 years ago, when I turned … uh, well the number isn’t important. Suffice to say it was more than 13. This time, I was the one planning the surprise.

This was back in the day when my wife Sue and I were still dating. It was 1993, and after two-and-a-half years of exclusivity, we both knew we were the “one” for each other. We’d had open discussions about getting married, and knowing that some day we’d get engaged, my wife made me promise two things: 1.) That I don’t tell anyone first and it be a surprise for her and everyone (because my sister’s husband had told us all before proposing to my sister, which sort of took some of the fun out of finding out), and 2.) That I not ask her father’s permission first because she was not “some piece of property, like a cow, to be bartered for.” (I should’ve *known* right at that point, right?)

So in January of 1993, while my then-girlfriend Sue and I were driving around, I came up with a plan. “You know what I want for my birthday this year?” I said at some point after having conveniently steered the discussion in that direction. “Rather than any gifts, I just want you to take me out for a nice dinner somewhere.” She agreed, and the pieces started falling in place.

Right after Valentine’s Day, I went and bought the ring (they’re cheaper then, by the way), and spent the next three months checking on it every day, like some sort of Señor Wiences routine. (“You still in box? Sí. S’all right? S’right.”) As my birthday got closer, I finalized the details for my special dinner—we were going to The Rusty Scupper by the water in New Haven on Sunday afternoon. As pure luck would have it, since it was my birthday, my grandparents decided to invite all my family and Sue’s family to their apartment for later that night to celebrate me getting older; they had no idea that they had played right into my hands.

Cut to me, twiddling my fingers á la Mr. Burns: “Exxxcellent.”

I also helped sell the surprise. A few days before the question was to be popped, I was talking on the phone with Sue, and mentioned how someone I knew had gotten engaged. I said I was jealous and wished that I had saved up enough money to get a ring, and that she shouldn’t worry, I’m sure it would happen some time “closer to the end of the year.” She said that was okay …

Hook successfully baited!

The big day finally comes. It’s a bright, sunny and warm afternoon, which I realize suddenly presents me with a problem: If it’s too warm to wear a jacket, where am I going to hide the ring box? If I put it in my pocket, someone might accidentally notice the big square lump and inadvertently ruin the surprise.

I think for a few seconds about how to conceal it, and come up with a plan: If police could conceal guns in ankle holsters, then why can’t I hide an engagement ring in my sock?

I tuck the ring into my left sock just below my calf, and to make sure that it doesn’t fall or move around, I use masking tape to hold it in place. My loose-fitting Dockers provide enough space to hide any bulges. It’s perfect!

So I go to Sue’s house to pick her up, and not surprisingly, no one notices that I’m sweating more than normal or the unusual bulge in my pants leg. (Hmm … that doesn’t sound right, does it?) As we’re going to the restaurant, I suggest we stop along the way at Savin Rock in West Haven since it’s a gorgeous weather—we often go for walks down there and watch the old guys play bocce. She agrees, so I drive there.

We stroll along the boardwalk for a while (as I surreptitiously check my sock every 30 seconds) and I finally spot a vacant bench near the point by Savin Rock. We sit down, and I start saying nice things to her—this being back before we were married, it didn’t raise as much as suspicion as it would now. If I was this complimentary to her now, she’d instantly be on her iPhone with the insurance company asking out how much she’d be cashing in for as she’d figure I was dying.

Eventually, I get around to how I want to spend the rest of my life with her. “I know we’ve talked about it a bunch of times,” I say, feeling my pulse beginning to rise, “but if I were to ask you to marry me, you’d say ‘Yes,’ right?”

“Of course,” she says. I can see she has absolutely no idea what’s about to happen.

“Hmmm … good,” I say, nodding my head and reaching down to hike up my pants leg. “So if I were to reach into my sock … like THIS”—I tear the tape off of my leg—”and pull out a ring … like THIS”—I produce the box and snap it open—”… you’d still say ‘Yes,” right?!!!”

“OH MY GOD!”

She is stunned and fumbling for me to put the ring on her. We kiss.

“So that’s means ‘Yes,’ right?” I ask.

“Of course!”

And then she takes me out and for my birthday dinner. You know, because I’m a genius like that.

Happy birthday to me!

 

commanders, assemble!

Apr 292012
 

Unless you’ve been living in a cave, you know that later this week Marvel’s long-anticipated The Avengers  finally hits movie screens across the nation. Featuring comic book heroes Iron Man, Captain America, Thor and the Hulk (as well as Hawkeye, Nick Fury and the Black Widow), it promises to be an action-packed big-screen event.

If the movie is decent—and the early reviews indicate that it is—then this should be an absolute blockbuster, making a bajillion dollars and, of course, spawning a sequel (or two).

Since Marvel and Disney *apparently* have all the rights locked up on this franchise and its characters, I thought in order to cash in, I am working on a variation of the theme that might make for “corporate synergy” (if I can throw a term out that I would never use in real life but big studio suits seem to eat up like Kobayashi visiting Nathan’s on the 4th of July). Plus, it also uses established well-known names—which studios love because name recognition = easier marketing = more $$$ in their pockets to spend on cocaine, Porsches and cat jugglers—and makes for easier cross-branding.

So, taking Marvel’s Avengers franchise and mixing it with Disney’s Hall of Presidents, I am proposing to create a new super hero team—and lucrative film franchise!—called:

THE COMMANDERS!

(You know, like “The Commanders-In-Chief” … fer crying out loud, do I have to explain everything here?)

Okay, so to ease the transition, I thought I’d move existing presidents into roles that already exist in The Avengers, both the movie and the comics. So, starting at the start for both groups:

Capt. America, First Avenger meet George Washington, First Commander!

Yeah, this one’s a gimme. Both are true American icons, both are military men, both are unquestioned leaders, and I’m pretty sure Captain America’s shield and Washington’s dentures were made of the same material. Or they will be in the movie—when Washington gets in trouble, he’ll pull out his teeth and fling them like ninja stars at enemies! Maybe groom that wig into little wings like Cap has … come on, this stuff writes itself!

Next …

Teddy Roosevelt is Iron Man!

At first, it seems that the old Bull Moose and Rough Rider might make a better Hulk, but Teddy Roosevelt is Iron man because like Tony Stark, he carried unwanted metal in his chest: Before a campaign speech in 1912, he took a bullet to the chest during an assassination attempt, and not only proceeded to give his entire speech before going to the hospital, but wound up leaving the bullet in rather than having it removed. Also like Tony Stark, Roosevelt was a charismatic maverick. Bully!

Okay, speaking of bullies …

William Howard Taft as The Incredible Bulk ... er, Hulk!

Sorry, but when you are known as “the fattest president ever,” (335 pounds!) that makes you the prime candidate to take on the role of The Hulk. And really, who wouldn’t want to see this former commander-in-chief turn green with rage, rip his shirt off and shout, “TAFT SMASH!!!”

Going (slightly) more sophisticated …

Abraham Lincoln: God of Thunder!

Yes, the beard is an important part of this, and although U.S. Grant had an equally impressive set of whiskers, the ol’ Rail Splitter gets the nod because he could handle an ax like Thor wields the mighty Mjölnir. In addition to towering over rivals, Honest Abe was also a bit of a badass, and allegedly had freakish strength from all those years chopping logs. Also like Thor, Lincoln had an affinity for distinctive headgear—can wings be added to a stovepipe hat?

Next up …

Andrew Jackson takes dead aim at the bad guys!

These two are a perfect pair in that both are usually overshadowed by more flamboyant members of the group, but to overlook either would be a mistake. Both lost their parents at fairly young ages and used those events to become something better than normal men. Jackson was a legitimate tough guy with a chip on his shoulder, fighting in the American Revolution as a 14-year-old and subsequent other scraps (including leading ragtag American forces to victory in the decisive Battle of New Orleans), earning the nickname Old Hickory in the process. He also may or may not have shot an apple off a goat’s head at 300 paces, except no one outside of my own imagination can seem to verify it.

Okay, reaching outside of the movies—

Thomas Jefferson understands the genius that is Ant Man

One of my issues with the new Avengers movies is that that have discarded a few of the characters that have traditionally been part of the team in the comics and the animated TV show (which I watch with my kids). First is Ant Man/Giant Man, a.k.a. Dr. Hank Pym, who is a sometimes aloof scientific genius that can shrink and grow to various sizes in order to fight crime. Jefferson is known as genius for his vast intellect and wide-ranging abilities—of all of the presidents, it seems as though Jefferson would be most likely to tinker in a lab and accidentally discover a formula that could shrink or grow him as necessary. Both characters also had issues with women; Dr. Pym was often busy slaving away in the lab and was abusive to his wife while Jefferson often got busy with the slaves rather than his wife.

Speaking of infidelity—

Bill Clinton takes to action as the Black Panther

It only makes sense: the nation’s first “black” president dons the cowl as the Black Panther, one of the first mainstream black superheroes. Similar to T’Challa (the Black Panther’s alter ego), Clinton’s father died when he was very young; also like T’Challa, who is the king of the fictional African nation of Wakanda, Clinton seemed predestined to rule. In terms of super hero skills, Clinton has unusually strong powers of persuasion, although I haven’t quite figured out how getting trailer park mamas to disrobe in the back of an El Camino for a quickie can be used to fight evil. I’m sure it probably doesn’t hurt, although there are some who might disagree.

Speaking of (again)—

Hillary Clinton as The Black Widow

After everything he put her through, there’s no doubt that the wife of the “first black president” wishes she really was a Black Widow. [*insert rimshot*] Okay, Hillary is nowhere as sleek, sexy or mysterious as the comic or movie version of the Black Widow, nor is she a former Soviet spy (or so she claims) but let’s be honest: Is there anyone who has been in the White House in the past half century who you would fear more in an actual street fight than our current Secretary of State? Seriously, she scares me—I can picture her tearing my beating heart out of my chest and taking a bite of it, then standing there laughing while I expire. And does anyone else out there think she really hasn’t killed a mate or two after she was done with them?

Finally—

Barack Obama: Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D.

I can make all sorts of comparisons between Nick Fury (the hardcore leader of the comic-book team and Avengers support unit, S.H.I.E.L.D.) and the current President of the United States, but let’s be honest: Obama is the coolest president we’ve had since Teddy Roosevelt, and if you’re going to step into a role being personified by Samuel L. Jackson, you better bring a little swagger with you. Plus, they both look good in black.

All right … time to start working on that script. COMMANDERS, ASSEMBLE!

the friday five

Apr 272012
 

Okay, trying out something new here, a weekly post to brighten up the end of the week.

Ideally, each time, it’ll be something fast and fun and five—you know, because I love lists and alliteration. Videos, songs, comments, thoughts … with “five” being the only real theme.

I thought about “Monday OneDay” “TWOsday” “Three for Thursday” and “Wednesday Marmoset Madness,” but ultimately, this won out. (The marmoset madness isn’t off the table, by the way.)

So to start things off, here are:

The Friday Five: Fun Songs

Okay, these are far from “hits,” but they are some pretty amusing music videos.

1. Garfunkel & Oates: This Party Took a Turn for the Douche [NSFW language]
Warning: If you never heard of Riki “Garfunkel” Lindhome and Kate “Oates” Micucci, after watching this, not only will you fall in love with them, you will start seeking out all their other clever, snarky songs and videos like “Sex with Ducks,” “Pregnant Women are Smug” and of course, “Hand Job, Bland Job, I Don’t Understand Job.” [All NSFW language]

2. Storm Large: “8 Miles Wide” [Again, NSFW langauge]
How this song isn’t some sort of American anthem is beyond me.

3. Golf Boys: “Oh Oh Oh”
Simply, the greatest golf music video ever, mainly because it’s the only golf music video ever. Plus, all the proceeds from the song go to charity … and yes, that’s your 2012 Masters winner and major champion in the blue overalls with no shirt or shoes. Ooh lolly lolly!

4. The Lonely Island: “Dick in a Box” [All right, the NSFW language has been bleeped out in this one, so other than guys singing about dicks in boxes, it’s okay.]
Yeah, this still cracks me up, you know, because I’m juvenile.

And of course, the Greatest. Video. Ever!

5. The Hoff: “Hooked on a Feeling.”

Enjoy your Friday!

my draft

Apr 262012
 

So one of my all-time favorite events occurs this week: The NFL Draft!

I’ve been watching it live every year for decades (with the exception of last year, when I boycotted it in protest of the NFL lockout). I’m such a draftnik that I even went to New York City to see it in person back in 2008, when the New York Jets had the sixth pick overall and took pass-rushing linebacker Vernon Gholston out of the Ohio State University … who turned out to be an absolute bust. A workout warrior and not much of an actual football player, he is now already out of the NFL—you know, after getting paid $17 MILLION in three years because of his high draft position.

Nice almost-work if you can get it, right?

Okay, I know some—if not all—of you may be saying, “What’s so great about watching the grown-up version of picking teams in gym class?” I have no real answer for you. In addition to marking halfway from last season to this upcoming season, I guess part of the allure is sort of like Christmas in that you know your favorite team is going to get new presents/players, but you don’t know what/who they’re getting until the moment the name is called out over the public address system in Radio City Music Hall.

For me, the draft is also appealing because there are no real losers because every team will walk away with new players full of potential and hope. Like in the old Super Bowl commercial, the old season is over, it’s a new season again and very team is undefeated! Even the J-E-T-S JETS! JETS! JETS!

The NFL Draft is also a lot like fantasy football, you know, except real humans are involved, and then they actually play football after they make teams. But the picking is the same. Sort of …

Anyway, I thought it might be nice to have my own draft, you know, to build my own fantasy blog team. Of course, there is no actual competition or opposing teams or even real logic behind this, now that I think about it …

Okay, let’s go with this: Since the NFL Draft has 7 rounds, here are 7 people from the intrawebz that I’d like to have here as part of team rayality,

1. Jenny Lawson (The Bloggess) – In all sincerity, The Bloggess may be the most entertaining person on the world wide web (after me, of course), and now that her first book is finally out and already in Amazon.com’s top 25 (and rising), she’s about to break through to the mainstream. Got to get her before she blows up, as the kids say. (Well, not *my* kids, but someone’s kids, somewhere. You know, cool kids.) She’s also my idol by turning her blogging into full-time independent success, and even managed to get random celebrities to take pictures of themselves hold twine, spatulas and more along the way. Now that’s true power.

Oh and while I was typing this, Jenny’s book Let’s Pretend This Never Happened just went to the #1 on The New York Times bestseller list. Talk about a top pick paying off quickly!

2. Mark Zuckerberg (Facebook) – Every great enterprise needs seed money to start, so who better to fund my virtual empire than the guy who launched the billion-dollar social network that currently rules the cyber world? Even without the Winklevoss twins, “Zuck” (that’s what his non-Facebook friends call him, I imagine) should bring something to the table.

And yes, I know you’re thinking that given his habit of possibly pilfering great ideas for his own, I think he might have a hard time trying to convince a jury that he randomly came up with something called “rayality.”

One a side note: I’m not sure if it’s come up, but I can’t claim credit for coming up with the term “rayality.” Back a century ago when I was working in financial aid, I was working with a woman named Denise. One morning after I went off on one of my patented “imaginative” tangents—I can’t recall what it was about, other than it must’ve been a doozy of some sort—she looked at me, shook her and loudly announced, “Dude, you’re brain is not right. It’s like you’re off in your own RAYality.”

It was literally like this in my head—

You know, without the god part.

3. Jeff Bezos (Amazon.com) – As you may have noticed, my “brand” isn’t very strong at the moment, and my “retail,” is, well, non-existent. With my CT Jerks book coming out in September, who better to have on my team to help promote it than the guy who runs the biggest bookstore in the world?

4. Josh Fruhlinger (The Comics Curmudgeon) – I like the funny, and like The Bloggess, Josh provides classic snark in heaping doses, although he brings it on a daily basis, which is no easy feat. Inspiration + Funny + Stamina = Exxxcellent.

5. Bent (The Jets Blog) – In addition to being one of the best and brightest football analysts anywhere, let alone in his native England, he’s also incredibly snarky and well-versed in subjects I often reference, including Mets beisbol and pro wrestling. And like The Bloggess, he’s also released his first book, although to slightly less fanfare (so far).

To let you know how much appeal and power Bent has: He has 144 Twitter followers despite never having tweeted. (Yes, that sound you heard is me grinding my teeth in jealousy.)

The additional irony of including him here in my first draft is that on The Jets Blog, there’s an annual contest where everyone is invited to try and guess who the Jets will draft. Every year, I put together a list of people that in the past has included the likes of The Honky Tonk Man (smacking people over the head with a guitar always has a place in the NFL), Jose Reyes (every team needs a speedster, even if it’s from another pro sport), Justin Timberlake (always a playah) and Lindsay Lohan (a wide receiver, from what we’ve seen). For some reason, I’ve never won—hard to believe, right?—but more importantly, Bent has sworn that he will never let me beat him. It only seems right that I have him here in my draft!

6. K8 & Steve (Damned Connecticut) – Gotta *officially* have my web master and my mentor on my team, right? K8’s also a great photographer and Steve sings like … well, like no one else I’ve ever heard. If you’re not following the two of them on Twitter, you’re missing out. If this writing thing doesn’t work out, I am getting a video camera and just recording them all day—they are that amusing.

This also makes it easier for me to “ghostwrite” for Steve … and by “ghostwrite” I mean that I come up with all the ideas and do all the work, but only because he lets me. That’s why he’s such a great inspiration and partner!

7. Senior Smoke (rayality) – It wouldn’t be rayality without my biggest critic to keep me honest, right? I’m sure he’s already pissed that he wasn’t #1. Maybe next time!

All right, not exactly The Avengers, but quite a team I’ve assembled … now if I only had some actual competition.

 

manning up

Apr 222012
 

So if you haven’t quite picked up on it yet, my mad parenting skillz are always “in development.” Many nights as I lay awake staring at the ceiling, I ruminate upon all the ways I’ve undoubtedly screwed up my sons, impaired their journeys to manhood, utterly failed as a father and all the hours of therapy they’ll have to endure to remedy my paternal incompetence.

And then I have a day like Saturday.

My wife and older son were off to a day-long bicycling event in New Haven, which meant it was only me and my younger son for the day. He’s a bit of an introvert and not the easiest to communicate with at times, but once you get to know him and “unlock his code,” so to speak, you discover that he’s terrific company. A day with him is always well spent.

Anyway, like any Saturday with kids, there’s always an activity going on, and for my son, Saturday is karate day. He loves it and has been doing it for years, even picked it over soccer, which he didn’t suck at. He has worked his way up to red belt, and has even presented forms and sparred competitively in a few tournaments. (And no, he hasn’t had to sweep the leg.)

Another tournament is coming and the class has been preparing for it. Last week, my son had an off presentation of his form, and because he’s a Rain Man-like math whiz and had kept track of everyone’s scores, was very upset because he got the lowest for the day. We went over it all week, including one more time on Saturday. It seems better, but that may be wishful thinking on my part.

Usually, Saturday morning is also the time when I really step up on the “man” front and we practice sparring. By “practice sparring,” I mean I sort of stand there with no pads throwing occasional slap punches and half-kicks in his direction while he uncorks on me with all of his might. Even though he’s “only” 11 and wearing boxing gloves and footpads, he punches *hard* and kicks *even harder*—that soccer leg is still in there. A few months ago he caught me clean in the gut with a kick so strong that it dropped me to one knee; since then, like any kid who got the better of a parent, he’s been trying to duplicate it, which means I’ve been battered like Glass Joe.

Despite his success in kicking my butt in the basement, in the past few weeks, he’s been struggling in class. He twice had the wind knocked out of him by kicks from older black belts—they were going easy, but sometimes accidents happen—and then he had a series of poor matches against other kids his size, including one very good student named Gabe, who is a little dynamo. Consequently, his confidence has been at zero. He has constantly been backing away from opponents, almost to a comical point one time where he was literally running in circles to avoid getting hit.

Fortunately, his sensei has gotten him through the worst of it and his confidence has been slowly ebbing back, but it’s not to the level where it used to be. He’s still been a bit combat shy, and it doesn’t help that he’s among the smallest kids in the group. Still, he always wants to go to class, which is good. I think.

On Saturday, after he finishes beating me like a rented mule, I try to pump him up. I remind him how he’s scored against everyone in class, and that the kid who regularly pummels me in our basement is in there and needs to come out and pummel others. He looks at me and says, “No offense Dad, but you’re not a black belt hitting me back.” Grrrr!

We go to class, and his sensei announces that both sparring and forms are on the agenda. A small knot forms at the base of my stomach. No escape this week.

Like any father, I want to see my kid enjoy success for his own psyche, but like many of those dads who scream mercilessly at their kids on baseball, soccer and football fields, I guess I’m also living vicariously through him. I could deny it here, but the truth is that on some level that’s probably higher than I want to admit, I see his struggles and failures as mine, as self-absorbed as that sounds. Of course, I like to think that I differ from those Great Santini-type dads in that rather than scream and abuse, I’m trying to guide my sons to manhood through positive reinforcement. You know, to a point.

So forms are first. Except while waiting his turn, my son is called out by his sensei to do 20 pushups for fidgeting too much. Not a good start, I think as I watch him count them off. Fortunately, his turn comes quickly, and he goes out there and presents his form. Maybe it’s me or the pushups, but he’s more focused and it’s much better than the prior week.

The sensei and older students agree, giving him higher scores. As he goes to sit back down, he glances over with an almost smile on his face. Nice!

After everyone is done with forms, it’s sparring time, and as my son gets on his equipment, I lean in close. “Just like we practice,” I whisper. He nods and scrambles back out onto the floor. The sparring starts, and as the sensei starts pairing the kids, a new knot forms in my gut as I see my son is going to have to square off against the dynamo Gabe.

The match starts, and as Gabe goes forward throwing wild punches, my son starts backing away. Aww crap, not again, I think as my heart sinks. But it’s only for a moment—as I have been telling him, his feet are dangerous, and if he can connect with a kick or two, it will stop anyone’s attack. Sure enough, he’s backing away to bait Gabe, and is able to connect with a solid kick to slow the assault and score a point. From there, he stands tall and battles Gabe hard. The three-minute time limit expires and the one point stands. Winner, winner chicken dinner!

After sparring, he comes over and gives me a fist bump before taking off his equipment. On the way home, he says, “That was a good class.”

I nod, and suddenly feeling a Mike Brady-like zen and that I should strike while his confidence is high, announce that we’re going to the old gravel track to work on him learning to ride his two-wheeler.

For a number of reasons (maybe I spent too much time playing games while on my butt?) he has never really been interested in riding a bike. Not wanting to make a big deal over it, I never pushed the issue until last summer. After having spent hours running alongside him helping him with his balance, he was getting close to riding on his own but wasn’t quite there yet when we ran out of decent weather.

Now, when he hears my suggestion, he makes a faint protest, but agrees. We get to the track and no one’s there but us. We roll out his bike, and I briefly mention how close he was last year. He gets on and grabs the handlebars, and I get ready to put one hand on the seat to steady him but … he just rides off!

I stand there stunned for a second, and then run after him.

But he really doesn’t need me—for whatever reason, something apparently has just clicked and he can suddenly do it on his own. He asks me stay near, but it’s all good. Before he thinks about it too much, he’s gone one, two, three quarter-mile laps without incident. Near the start of the fourth lap, however, he wobbles and crashes hard, ripping up his knee.

“It’s okay,” I say, splashing some water on the cuts. “Let’s do one more lap.” He reluctantly agrees, but gets right back on and puts in another strong lap. Suddenly, my son can ride a bike on his own!

We get home, and feeling the fatherly testosterone now flowing strongly, ask my son if he wants to help me take apart an old dresser … with a sledgehammer.

“Ohhhh yeahhhhh!” he says. “Let’s smash stuff!”

As he’s breaking apart the drawers, I quietly wipe away a tear and grunt once or twice in approval. As I see it, there’s only one last requirement for the day to earn a full punch on our man cards:

My wife and other son join us for this, but my younger son is sitting next to me during the film. Halfway through it, while laughing like every real guy does at The Three Stooges, he reaches over and puts his arm around me. “This is great,” he says.

Yes. Yes it is.

 

new school

Apr 192012
 

So after NOT winning a Pulitzer Prize (yet again), I’ve begun to question my “career” choice. As some of you may have seen on Twitter/Facebook, I was toying with the idea that I might be better suited to being a human cannonball, although I was pleasantly surprised that no one really suggested that the idea of shooting me out of a cannon was an excellent place to start.

Anyway, I realize that writing is probably what I should be doing, but I figured that re-training might be in order, which would mean going back to school. Of course, the idea of me heading back to campus at my advanced age is laughable on many levels—heck, as my son likes to point out, I was there when they first came up with the idea of counting.

Me: “How many fire we need to cook mammoth?”
Thag: “More fire than we have, like fire plus more fire.”
Me: “Fire plus more fire? How that?
Thag: “We could … count number of fire needed to cook mammoth by using fingers. One fire finger, two fire finger, five fire finger …”
Me: “Oww, head hurt thinking this … let’s just have sushi again.”

I thought it might make more sense for me to look into online courses. I went to my alma mater’s website to see what they offered via the intrawebz … Business administration? Computer science? Education? Nursing? Really??!!

What type of practical areas of studies are these in this Internet Age? Really, what needs to be offered by any school truly interested in becoming online learning relevant are courses that would be better in tune with how people are living nowadays, which is pretty much online.

As always, I’m here to help, you know, because I continue to be a giver.

In that spirit, here are—

The Top 14 Online Courses That Should Be Offered in An Increasingly Intrawebz-Centered World

1. The Psychology of Vaguebooking
2. Winning on eBay Isn’t Always Winning
3. (Very) Basic Punctuation and Grammar for Message Boards
4. Anatomy and Dissection of LOLCats
5. FARK Memes and Impact on Post-Modernist Thought
6. Self Help Independent Study: Resisting the Urge to Tweet About Every Bodily Function
7. Internet Porn: Why Pay for the Cow When You Can Get the Milk for Free
8. The Gentleman’s Survival Guide: Feigning Interest in Pinterest
9. Dealing with the Stress and Reality of Fantasy Sports
10. Learning What NSFW Stands For Before A Visit with Human Resources
11. There’s No Cure for Going Viral: How To YouTube Your Own Groin Shots
12. The Art of Google Fu
13. Conspiracy Theory 101: There’s Really No Such Thing as Too Crazy
14. Rule 34: Learning How to Unsee Things

Courses are filling up now …

 

nerd night

Apr 152012
 

As most of you know already, Damned Connecticut was recently voted “Top Travel Blog” in Connecticut as part of the inaugural Websters, sponsored by the Hartford Courant. That now *officially* make me an “award-winning” blogger. As such, it’s time to start acting like a “winner,” which means taking my cues from my formative years (when I watched a lot of pro wrasslin’) and referring to myself from now on in the third person.

So first off, Ray would again like to thank all of you possibly unbalanced people who took the time to vote for Kate, Steve and Ray’s blog, Damned Connecticut. Ray would also like to especially thank the anonymous person out there (again, possibly unbalanced) who nominated us in the first place. Ray is just amazed that something partially from Ray’s brain could reach so many people—in the last year, Damned Connecticut has had over 250,000 visitors—and that so many of them actually liked it enough that they felt compelled to vote for it. Just crayzy, so to speak.

Anyway, to commemorate The Websters, the online staff of the Courant held a small happy hour party at Firebox in Hartford, and invited all the winners. Steve and Ray attended the event (Kate was home with her and Steve’s newborn son Daniel—pronounced “ray,” I think), which was like The Oscars, you know, minus the glitz, red carpet, paparazzi, throngs of adoring fans and Billy Crystal. (Pretty sure even James Franco was too busy for this one.) Still it was great of the Courant to do anything for Ray and the rest of us.

When Ray and Steve arrived—not “early bird” first, since Ray (a.k.a. “Mr. Compass Head”) actually underestimated the time it takes to get from New Haven to Hartford—a few of the other winners were already there. When Ray and Steve walked in, Ray is pretty sure the mental reaction around the room was like this …

Of course, this was coming from a room full of geeks. And when Ray says “geeks,” Ray does so lovingly, and in an effort to be honest. Everyone there was being honored for having “really cool” websites that they built and operate themselves, Ray, Steve and Kate included. If that’s not in the vein of true geekery—even if it’s actual respected journalism, as in the case of CT News Junkie—then Ray is not sure what is.

Upon arriving, they asked Ray and Steve to put on name tags, which Ray normally dreads and was exacerbated by having “Damned Connecticut” under Ray’s name—not that Ray isn’t proud of Ray’s website, but for the rest of the event, when someone came up to Ray and Steve, you could see them sneak a peek or two at the name tags, which was invariably followed by a sort of a “Oh, crazy ghost hunters” look and polite nodding.

For the record: Although there are plenty of haunted places mentioned in Damned Connecticut, Ray, Kate and Steve are not ghost hunters or paranormal investigators. Although Ray, Kate and Steve have visited many allegedly haunted places, Ray, Kate and Steve don’t have infrared video cameras or special microphones to record EVPs, nor have Ray, Kate or Steve personally reached across the spirit void to make contact with departed souls in psychic ways. As the website says, Ray, Kate and Steve are into “all that’s weird, unexplained or unusual in Connecticut,” from giant jack-in-the-boxes to mountain lions to UFOs that fall from the sky.

Of course, by the time Ray can explain this in conversation, people had usually already moved on to the sliders or sliced salmon that had been put out. (Great food at Firebox, by the way, although Ray is disappointed that Steve didn’t take Ray up on one of Ray’s patented $5 American challenges: To take one of the giant platters of bacon cheese fries off the buffet table, go sit in a corner of the bar and eat the entire thing by himself.)

Chatting it up with complete—or even incomplete—strangers at a cocktail party is (by far!) not one of Ray’s strong suits, so it’s good that Steve went along. He’s much better at going up to people and breaking the ice—if Ray had been alone, chances are Ray would’ve stood in the corner sipping his bar-brand cola trying not to make eye contact with anyone in fear of someone realizing that Ray (and his “award-winning” blog) didn’t really belong there.

The good news is that Steve doesn’t have these kind of hang ups, and he and Ray were able to mix, mingle and make a few new BFFs including Michelle and her posse from CT Working Moms, the crew from Local Band Review and Ian from Sox and Dawgs—you know, because Steve is a huge Yankees fans and nothing is more exciting for him than talking Red Sox baseball. (And yes, Ray did take great pleasure in eventually sneaking away from the two of them so Steve could bask alone in Ian’s Red Sox diatribes.)

Oddly enough, at no point during the evening did anyone ask Ray and Steve for their autographs. Probably too intimidated, Ray imagines.

They also may have been intimidated by being in the presence of a soon-to-be-published-again author. Steve, again demonstrating his promotional abilities, repeatedly tried to kindly pimp our upcoming book. (Ray says “our book” because very few people realize that Ray and Steve have an agreement where Ray so completely ghostwrites for Steve that it *almost* seems like Ray does absolutely everything to the untrained—and even trained—eye.) Despite Steve’s enthusiasm for our project, more than one person he mentioned it to sort of gave it that nod parents give their children when they tell them about something that happened on this week’s episode of “Pokemon.” “Oh Pikachu beat Raichu and you wrote a book about jerks? That’s nice, dear.”

Eventually the time came for The Websters to be presented, and Ray, being the brayve soul that Ray is, pushed Steve toward the presenter when Damned Connecticut’s name was called.

That's *pride* on Steve's face, not confusion over not seeing his name on the certificate.

Although Steve had planned a lengthy acceptance speech (and interpretive dance), and Ray had encouraged him to tebow when the time came, Steve opted for the low-key approach and just said, “Thanks.” Whatev.

Following the presentation, Steve asked if he should take the award home or if there was a way how Ray, Kate and Steve might share it. Ray told Steve to take it for three reasons: 1. They deserve it because no one would know about Damned Connecticut if Steve hadn’t been spiritually guiding it and writing nearly Pulitzer Prize-winning pieces, or if Kate hadn’t designed it so brilliantly; 2. Ray would probably toss it in the drawer of his old desk with his journalism awards, where it might see the light of day once every six or seven years; and 3. Ray knew if Steve brought it home, Kate would completely freak out, which is a pretty entertaining thought if you know Kate.

Sure enough, Ray hadn’t even gotten to North Haven on his drive home when Ray got a text from Steve: “First thing out of her mouth—u didn’t take the only award I hope.”

Who knows—maybe by next year Ray will have his own certificate for a top blog! (Yeah, and maybe Ray will stop referring to himself in the third person by then.) In the meantime—

Again, Ray says thanks to everyone.

 

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