Plays out of the Social(ly) Offensive Playbook, Part 1

The Worst Wedding Gift Ever

Not too long from now, my little sister will be getting married. Even sooner, she will have a shower thrown for her where she will be lavished with gifts of all sorts in advanced celebration of those impending nuptials.

Therefore, it seemed only appropriate that I trot out one of my all-time favorite stories. It is also my sure-fire "go-to" story in social situations that require a little punching up. It's a story about the time my wife and I got the most bizarre, damaging, and possibly insulting gift in the history of weddings. It's the first and only gift I've ever received that I would term a "net negative gift".

Let me first take you back 10+ years to a time right before our wedding when we were mulling over whether or not we should start inviting people off of our "B" list.

Big mistake.

The "B" list, as I'm sure you could surmise, is a group of reserve names that one feels iffy about in the first place so they don't make the original cut for the invite list. Over time, RSVPs come back, some people regretfully decline, and spots open up.

Now, over time, what I've come to realize about the "B" list is that while it may seem like a good idea at the time, it never ends up manifesting itself that way. This is because magically these people are the ones that seem to generate the most chaos around an event and end up doing something that everybody remembers them for after the fact... and not in a good way. In a lot of cases, these are the people who get the most drunk and your friends start asking "Who is that guy???" I wish we had gotten off so lucky. Basically, I think the maxim of this is that if they're not good enough to invite in the first cut, there's probably a reason for it, and you probably should avoid them altogether.

It is from one of these such "B"-listers that "The Worst Wedding Gift Ever(TM)" came from.

The day after the wedding, my parents, one of my two best men, and my cousin were kind enough to bring over carloads of wedding gifts from the reception to our apartment. During the course of the unloading process, we were beginning to notice that some of the presents were wet. As more and more gifts were being unloaded, we were noticing that some things were very wet, including a box that contained our guest book and a number of other trinkets from the reception (the cake cutter, some mini-bottles of champagne that were on the tables). We took one look at the guest book and saw that the cover was ruined and was already starting to mold a bit. The ink from some of the signatures had run as well to the point where you couldn't make some of them out anymore. This made us a bit frustrated, but since we could not ascertain the source of the wetness, we couldn't as of yet blame anybody.

Over the course of the next couple of days, we went through the process of opening all of the presents. When we got close to the end, we came across this box that was wrapped in baby-pink wrapping paper with a note taped on top in mixed-case hostage letter font that read:

"Prepare to enter the mindless zone"

Dear God. What the hell was this? As I unwrapped the paper from the box, I saw myself staring at a 24-pack of Molson Canadian beer. Already this was a bit unorthodox, but hey, I like beer, so I could probably live with this no questions asked. However, upon further inspection, the flaps of the box were not sealed down, but instead opened quite easily. It was then that I noticed that not all 24 bottles were in there. Instead, the outer rim of the box had bottles and there was another, smaller box in the middle, with another note taped to the top. I picked it up and read it:

"In celebration of Jesus's miracle at the wedding party in Cana, where he turned the water into wine, I decided to drink these beers with a minister and replace them with water. You may now kick the bride."

Holeeee sh*t.

We now officially have a mental patient on our hands. We also now had the source of the water that had gotten all over the place and ruined our guest book. For you see, he had in fact filled the bottles back up with water and had attempted to put the caps back on.

And there was still one more box to go.

It was at this point where I turned to Cindy and said "There had better be a pretty f*cking amazing gift in that box".

I opened it up. There were two power bars and a note. (Yes you read that correctly). Here's what the note said:

"I think of the two of you as having unique personalities. That's why I've included two powerbars, one vanilla and one chocolate. It's up to you to determine which one of you is the vanilla and which is the chocolate."

That's it?????? What the f*ck?!?!?!?!

There was no gift. There was no certificate for a gift. Just a leaky box, three notes, and two powerbars. And it ruined our guest book, which if you look at the cost of it as well as the sentimental value versus what we gained with those two powerbars, it was a NET NEGATIVE GIFT.

I looked at Cindy and said, "I don't remember registering for that one."

Days later, in an attempt to squeeze some lemonade out of the lemon that was "that gift", I tried eating one of the powerbars. I took a bite out of the chocolate bar and my mouth rejected it as not even being food. I spit it out. I couldn't even get THAT satisfaction out of it. I threw the powerbars in the trash, put the empty beer bottles out for recycling (yes, I had to open and empty each one) and washed my hands of the whole deal.

When filling out thank you notes some time later, we struggled with how to phrase it for this special case. "Thanks for the sh*tty gift." we thought about as one option. "Thanks for two disgusting powerbars." was a slightly more diplomatic one. Fortunately, during the time we had tabled sending out that thank you card, the story had become so famous that the maid of honor confronted the person in question and explained aobut the damage that had been done, and in the end he man'd up and sent a real gift.

Having Twins Leads to Stupid Questions

My wife and I hosted a mother of twins group picnic at our house this weekend, and it reminded me of all the nonsensical things you have to deal with when you're out with your twins in public. Before I proceed, you should all know that I am the father of soon-to-be 3 year old twins, one boy and one girl.

Now, whenever we're in public with the kids, and we've got them both in the same stroller going to God-knows-where, we become a target to be stopped by strangers and asked ridiculous questions. I'm not a social priss who's offended by being stopped by people... that's not my issue. My issue is the stupid things that come out of people's mouths when in the presence of my kids.

The first question I get asked is, "Are they twins?".

What I want to say is: "No, they're circus midgets of varying ages. He's actually her father, but you can't tell due to his testosterone deficiency. As you can imagine, he's terribly upset about having to be in a stroller."

Of course they're twins, they're exactly the same size! And usually, they're wearing cutesy matching clothes.

That's not even the dumbest question, because what usually follows is, "Are they identical?"

What I want to say is: "Yes, except for the c*ck. He's got one and she doesn't. Otherwise, they're completely identical.

It's not like we have a tomboyish girl... she looks and dresses like a girl. I think people just don't understand what the word "identical" means. Coming from the same vagina doesn't make them identical... looking identically like each other makes them identical.

Geesh.

No Joy in Mudville Today

I think my site meter is taunting me. I signed up for many moons ago to track traffic to this site. A few days ago, I got my "statistics" email from the site meter folks and it told me that 0 (zero, zip, zilch) people visited my site last month... and also for the last 12 months. So not even I have been visiting it. It's that bad.

Anyways, the occasion for this writing is the apparent lack of sense of humor at my place of business. For Christmas, my wife got me this really cool Office Space kit which I loved immediately and wanted to decorate my cubicle with. Yes, it comes with a "Jump to Conclusions" mat. Yes, it comes with sample T.P.S. Report Covers. Most importantly for me, it came with that cool banner that says "Is this good for the COMPANY?"

At the risk of being goofy and/or nerdy, I decided to put it up. I also put the mat on the floor for use in difficult decision making, although I don't know what to do when I land on "???" or "Moot". I had assumed this whole experience would be "funny". I guess I probably assumed that lots and lots of people have seen the movie. I even left the box out on my desk so that people would associate the decorations with the movie.

Instead I got more questions than enjoyment.

"Is this good for the company?".... "what's that supposed to mean?".... "are you a company boy now?" Somebody thought that since I hung it over pictures of my kids that I somehow meant that breeding was good for the company. (Nottingus Shittingus, Latin for "I shit you not").

All in all, I think I've had about 4 or 5 people get the reference and about 30 blank stares. Oh, and somebody also told me that my Jump to Conclusions mat was a safety hazard. So I had that going for me too. Since the decorations have ceased to be funny, I took them all down. I don't want to spend all day explaining it. As with any joke, if you have to explain it, it's not funny. And I no longer am getting anything out of this now that it's not funny. Also, I feel that my productivity should increase now that I don't have to take time out to explain it....

...unless I get any more questions about the picture of my father in my cube. People still ask me about that. As I work in a cube farm, I thought it would be pretty sweet to have a picture of my father working in his cube farm. The good news is that when my father's office was moving from one building to another a while ago, they found an old picture (circa 1984?) of him at his desk on the phone and looking very serious. He's surrounded by several other cube farmers as well. If I could take a picture, I'd have one taken of me working in my cube with dad's picture up on the wall in the background so that my son can have it to take to his place of work. It's that cool. At least to me it is.

But that's no longer fun now either, as I have to tell everybody who passes by:
a) Who it is
b) Where the place of work is
c) How old (roughly) the picture is
d) What kind of computer/printer/phone is in the picture

So basically, I can't have anything cool up in my cube without having to devote time to it. I've become like a museum curator... or a park tour guide.

That picture is staying up though. That's my dad. And it's on the wall so it's in theory not a safety hazard. Unless I end up hitting somebody over the head with it. Then, it pretty much is.

Let me win, but if I cannot win... f*** your mother!

Based on an experience I had last night, I'm reminded of a story.

First things first, the experience I had last night was officiating a Shrove Tuesday a.k.a. Mardi Gras "pancake race" at my church. The event is for children of the congregation to run a lap around the church hall with a pancake on a spatula. If at any point, the pancake falls off the spatula, the person would have to stop and put it back on before continuing the race, losing precious time. The other monkeywrench in this is that at any given time I would yell out "Stop!" and "Flip!", and the participants would have to flip the pancakes and catch them back on the spatula. Well, about 10 children particpated in it, and a good time was had by all... that is until we got to the final race.

The final race pitted three children of different ages against each other, and since in this case age was indeed a factor in "talent", the race finished in the expected order of oldest to youngest. As the youngest girl finished the race, she started balling her eyes out. I felt bad for her and I wasn't really sure what to do to console her. I crouched down and whispered, "It's okay. You did great!" One of the other event helpers came to bail me out. Together, we tried giving her one of the toy Mardi Gras crowns. She didn't want it... pushed it away. We tried giving her a certificate that said she was a race "winner", which was of course a bold-faced lie. She pushed that away. Finally, we were able to get the winner of the race to give up her first place crown to the little girl in order to get the crying to stop.

That story's not so funny. This one is.

Something similar happened to me about 9 years ago. Although, in this case, it involved adults. Adults with mental disabilities.

My fraternity in college helped out with Special Olympics basketball every spring, and as president of my fraternity, I was in charge of MC'ing it this particular year. I didn't have to give any exciting speeches or anything, but I was in charge of reading off names and giving out awards to the top finishers. At the beginning of the day, to start the festivities, one disabled adult is chosen to read the Special Olympics Motto, which goes something like this:

"Let me win, but if I cannot win, let me be brave in the attempt."

This in and of itself, is a very heartwarming statement. However, I'll never look at it the same way again after that day.

When it came time to read off the names of the winners, I stepped up to the podium and noticed the table of gold, silver, and bronze medals, as well as ribbons for 4th through 6th place. My fraternity brothers and sisters (we were co-ed) were lined up alongside me to place said ribbons and medals over their heads. This was to be the culmination of a spiritually fulfilling day of friendly competition.

That was before my verbal tongue-lashing at the hands of one of the competitors.

I don't remember any names, nor do I remember the event I was reading for at the time, but whoever it was that I called up to the stand was supposed to get a 4th place ribbon, because you know, he came in 4th place. My fraternity sister Melissa went to put the ribbon around his neck, and he ducked away and instead made a bee-line for the award table.

As he tried to make a smash-and-grab for one of the medals, I kinda half-heartedly put my forearm out to block him from doing so, waving it around over the table in a defensive posture. I said to him, "You came in 4th place. You get this ribbon right here." (pointing to it) What happened next was unthinkable.

The guy starts screaming at me:

"Shit! Fuck! Fuck you! Fuck your mother!"

as I stared with a look of horror on my face. I turned to look at the event coordinator and he says to me

"Keep reading names!"

My sheepish response back was, "Yeah, but is this going to be a problem?".

So he calls for some people who care for this guy to come help escort him away from the podium. As they try to grab him, he starts squirming and shaking them off. This is turning into a real scene, all the while the guy is still swearing and cussing.

"Fuck you! Fuck your mother!"

In the end, they had to carry him out. The rest of the ceremony went off without a hitch. As we were leaving at the end of the day, I turned to my friend Steve and said:

"I think I've come up with a new Special Olympics Motto.... 'Let me win, but if I cannot win, fuck your mother!'"

Steve replied:

"Oh yeah. And by the way, that wasn't the worst of it. The guy shit his pants too."

Classic.

Okay, so we really didn't "do" Balma

This blog, which has been idle for God knows how long.... (2 years?) finally got a response from a friend of mine. A story came up in passing that she didn't remember about the time all of the college seniors in our crowd and "soon-to-be-outta-there's" got sauced one night at "The Arc" in Watervliet and decided it would be a good idea to go to the sophomore dorm and hang out with that crowd.

Now we didn't always get along with that crowd.... by that point in our collective college careers, we were old and curmudgeony and the sophomores were young and carefree.

Although, at that hour of night, we were drunk, so it kind of evened the score.

When we rang their phone, we weren't even sure they'd let us in. When they did decide to let us in, the look on their faces was priceless. It's like we were animals at the zoo... they didn't know what to do with us.

After shooting the shit for a few mintues, we decided it was in our best interests to get out of there as everybody seemed to be completely wierded out. On the way out the door, our friend Steve stops in the hallway and says:

"Hey, where's Balma?"

"He's asleep."

"Hey, I've got an idea... let's do Balma!" (accompanied by pelvic thrusting).

At that point, we all fell out. And that's the only detail any of us really remembers. The rest was a blur.

Why I'll never be on Fear Factor

Well, amongst other things, I'm probably no longer considered cosmetically good-looking enough to be on the show. Seems they are now gravitating towards supermodels, or women who look good in bikinis. Well, I fit into neither category, so I guess that rules me out.

But the #1 reason I would never go on the show, as I re-discovered last night, is the "disgusting eating contest" that they have every week. See, it's not just that you would have to eat goat scrotum in front of millions of viewers, but you have to be the fastest goat scrotum eater of them all. I would hate to swallow my pride (amonst other things), dig in, chow down, and then lose the competition. I mean, seriously, who wants to be the second fastest goat scrotum eater at the table? Doesn't it have to be all or nothing? Wouldn't you hate to finish that disgusting task only to discover that you're still going home because Billy Bob from Sheep's Ass, Nebraska beat you out with his last-second gulp down?

And then you lose and get to go home, no prizes, no money, just the ignominy that comes with having the whole country watch you chow down on goat scrotum. I don't even know if they validate your parking after that. You're gone. History. Winner gets $50,000, which I still haven't determined to be enough money for somebody to have to go through that. But they do.. every week. Somebody out there wants to do it. It's just not me.

And in case you're wondering, yes, this article does set a modern-day record for using the expression "goat scrotum" the most times.

From Cursed to First

What a difference a year makes. At this time last year, I was sitting at my desk, near catatonic, reflecting on the latest in a series of crushing Red Sox losses. It's funny how the demise of your favorite sports team makes you sit and reflect upon all that's good in your life. Thankfully, I had a lot of things to be well, thankful for. There was my loving wife of now 6 years, a huge Red Sox fan, almost as disconsolate as I (if not more so). There was our brand new puppy, a mini-dachshund named "Fenway" Frankie that helped take some of the sting away. But all in all, it was a bleary time for me, us, and the rest of Red Sox Nation.

But something changed this year. I don't know, maybe the fact that the guy that used to live in Babe Ruth's old house got hit by a foul ball off the bat of Manny Ramirez. Maybe it was the fact that that same house in Sudbury got bulldozed before the start of the playoffs. Maybe it was all of the Sox fans doing their little idiosyncratic things, like always wearing their "lucky" shirt or "lucky" hat or sitting in their "lucky" chair. Or maybe it was the fact that our center-fielder looked like Jesus.

But regardless of how it happened, something really tremendous happened. The Boston Red Sox won the 2004 World Series. Read that last sentence again. Yes, Boston's most beloved team finally came through when it mattered, and made history in the process.

A few weeks ago, we were all feeling some of that same pain from a year ago. "Damn, those Yankees are going to beat us again, and this time we're not even going to win a game!" And with team doctors telling us all that Curt Schilling might not pitch again this year, didn' t you think this team surely had to be cursed? I mean, who else does that ever happen to?

But Schilling came back, and so did the Sox, giving us all the most memorable ride in Red Sox history in the process. To come back from a 3-0 deficit against your arch rivals, that bully that's been shoving your head in the toilet all those years, was breath-taking to say the least. I like many others, watched every inning of those last 4 games as we all refused to let go of this team we all loved so much. Not only could we not stand to see them lose, we couldn't stand to see them not play any more this year. They meant too much to us.

That's how the personality of this team was this year. You couldn't dislike them. And they never played tight either. As this team went on and won the World Series, I couldn't help but think: they probably would have won the '86 Series as well. I mean, they just never got worried, never got down. They always knew how to take one game at a time. If this group of players had lost Game 6 of the '86 Series in the same manner that it played out in reality, I've got to believe that they would have bounced back and won Game 7. That's just the kind of crew they were. That's just the kind of faith they inspired.

On the eve of the Series-clinching win against the Cardinals, the famous Red Sox message board on SOSH (www.sonsofsamhorn.com) had a thread about for whom people wanted the Sox to win the Series. Last I checked, it's at about 54 pages long. I could barely make it through the first page. There were people who wanted to dedicate the win to people like Johnny Pesky (held the ball too long in '46), Bill Buckner (didn't get a hold of the ball at all in '86), and Mike Torrez (who let Bucky get a hold of one in '78). But more endearing were the fans who wanted the Sox to win it all for their father, who died of cancer the year before and didn't get the opportunity to see it happen in his lifetime, or for their grandfather who rooted loyally for them for many, many years and never saw that effort bear fruit. I immediately thought of my two grandfathers, both Red Sox fans who were the ones who really turned me onto to following baseball and the team. Both of them have been deceased for some time now, not getting to enjoy the Sox finally make it to the top of the mountain. On Saturday, after the parade, I made sure to buy them each a pennant to place on their graves in celebration. My wife Cindy gets credit for the idea, as she herself bought one to put on her grandmother's gravesite.

But that's what citizenship in Red Sox nation is like. Everybody walks, talks, and thinks that way. I'm sure when we go about the business of visiting the gravesites that we will see many before us who have already had the same idea. I couldn't tell you how many co-workers during the time of the playoffs came by to talk about them with me at length during the course of the day, some of them even invoking their deceased relatives who were attempting to wrestle the curse out of Babe Ruth up in heaven. There was the number of work-less hours due to some caucusing to concoct a game plan for how the Sox were going to come back from a 3-0 deficit... if only they could get their pitching lined up right. Or then there was my morning ritual during the playoffs of going to McDonald's to get breakfast (because they seemed to win when I did that, another part of being a crazy Sox fan) and talking for a few seconds with the cashier about the game coming up that night. There was the drunk fellow that we bumped into at the victory parade, so giddy with success that he decided to buy my mother-in-law breakfast because he felt like that was what he could do to contribute to the celebration. Last week, when I was in Florida, thousands of miles away from Boston, I saw many of the people there wearing Sox shirts or hats commemorating the championship and exchanged knowing glances with them as they noticed me in the same gear.

It's one big family. One big crazy, superstitious family. But now we're not dysfunctional anymore. We've finally done it. (And yes, I can say 'we'.) All of the superstitions and rituals and praying finally paid off for once. The curse is finally broken. Babe Ruth can rest in peace, never to meddle in the affairs of our beloved team again. We've lost our inferiority complex and we've lost the terminology "Wait till next year!". This was the year. No more will we have to hear the chants of "1918" or see pictures of the Babe hung up all throughout Yankee stadium. No more documentaries on us being "loveable losers" who can never win in the clutch. Weary, bleary eyes can be replaced with tears of joy. As Bill Simmons from ESPN's Page 2 so adequately puts it, "we can go back to just being a regular team, just like everybody else".

After the World Series was over, one of my co-workers said to me, "I finally opened that bottle of champagne that I started chilling back in 1986".

I asked him how it tasted.

"It was the best glass of champagne I've ever had".

I raise my glass along with him and many, many others, and toast the Boston Red Sox, 2004 World Series Champions.

Drunken Bowling -or- The Time Peter Ran for Troy City Council

Back in the college days at good ol' RPI, our group of friends had a tradition on Saturday nights called "Drunken Bowling". Now I'm sure that we didn't invent anything new, as many before us must have been able to come up with the brilliant idea of getting drunk and then bowling. However, it was still fun to see what kinds of havoc you could wreak at the bowling alley when you're totally intoxicated. Especially when this alley is in downtown Troy, NY.

Drunken Bowling or "D 'n' B" as we also affectionately called it, would typically begin at about 9 or 10 at the bowling alley bar. You see, the actual bowling alley promotion was that starting at midnight on Saturday, you pay like $7 and then you get shoes and unlimited games until about 3am. They kill all the main lighting and fire up the laser lights and the disco balls and the loud rock music. It was that kind of cosmic party bowling for people who really could give a rat's ass about their scores.

We would spend a couple of hours in the bar getting ourselves all liquored up and ready to bowl come midnight. Depending on our mood and motiviation, sometimes we would stay at the bar all night and forget to bowl... which is pretty sad since the bar has giant windows which look down upon the alleys. So it's pretty hard to forget where you are and why you're there. Typically, we would pass the time by playing drinking games or cracking the door to either the men's or women's bathroom and screaming "Happy Birthday!" (More on this later.. maybe). Drinking games would usually involve a rousing game of "I Never" or "3-Man" or simply playing pop-a-shot basketball in the corner of the bar.

Editor's Note: If you haven't played "I Never", it's the game that gives you a great opportunity to discover which states your friends hooked up with other people at what time and in how many ways. People would say something like "I never have hooked up with two people on the same day" and then anybody who had done that exact deed would have to drink. If the statement was so obscure that nobody had done it, the person who said it would have to drink. Since I used to like to drink and be a smart-ass at the same time, I would say stuff like "I've never spanked an Amish man"... because I had never spanked an Amish man, and typically no one else had either.

Okay, so about this Happy Birthday thing (why don't I just tell you what that's all about?), there was one time we were there to celebrate our friend Heather's 22nd birthday. We came down to the lanes with a big banner that happened to say "Happy 22nd Birthday Heather!" and hung it up in the bar where we proceeded to drink under it for a couple of hours. Well, one of the "guests" didn't realize it was a birthday party until he was leaving at the end of the "bar portion" of the evening. He looks at the sign that's been hanging there all night and says calmly, "I didn't know it was Heather's birthday." I should also point out that he was from southern California. With the birthday girl in the bathroom, he decides to run over, open the door, and shout "Happy Birthday Heather!". We were all dumbfounded. Drunk, and yet still dumbfounded. We of course then decided that it was funny to do to other people all the time. People I know still f***ing do it to me.

Well, when midnight rolled around, we'd get our shoes and our lanes and begin the task of entering our names into the electronic scoreboard. This was typically the highlight of the night as we would compete to see who could give who the most family-unfriendly nickname of the night. One of our female friends got the handle "One million served", while another got saddled with "Pledge F*cker". "Bent Choad" and "Amtrak Blowjob" also got some repeated play. So, you can imagine when a strike was bowled, how hilarious it was to look up at the scoreboard and see "Strike Pledge F*cker Strike!" flashing on it. It's amazing we didn't get kicked out.

As the games wore on and the drinks kept coming, our skills rapidly diminished. It didn't stop us from doing all sorts of trick shots that would end up two lanes over, clanking off the pin sweeper, and rolling halfway back down the alley. It's always fun to have to explain to the guy behind the counter that you need to get your ball back because you were being stupid.

Towards the end of the night they would hold a raffle based on tickets you obtained when you paid for your shoes. You could win all sorts of shirts and key chains with beer logos on them. Since we made up most of the clientele, we would usually rack up pretty well on the prizes. I think I still have 2 or 3 Twisted Sheila's Tequila or Honey Brown tee-shirts somewhere in a box in my basement.

At 3am-ish (and it varied from week to week), they would kick us out, forcing us to go to our next establishment: "I Love New York Pizza". This was a great pizza joint in downtown Troy that was open until around 5 in the morning. It was nestled between a couple of Troy's "finer" dance clubs and it was the only place we knew of that you could walk into and say "1 hot cheese/cold cheese please" and they'd know what the hell you were talking about. They would take some of their cheese pizza that had been sitting there on the counter, throw an ample handful of grated cheese on the top of it, and throw it in the oven for a minute. And I don't know if it was the alcohol or what, but at that exact moment, it was the most delicious thing in the world. My arteries harden just thinking about it.

As there was very little seating there, we would do what everybody else would do, stand outside and eat it on the street corner. The corner was usually packed too, as people from the clubs would pop over and grab something to eat. It was a pretty cool atmosphere down there.

At one point, our friend Peter started shaking people's hands as they were leaving the restaurant and saying "Hello, I'm Peter such-and-such, and I'm running for Troy city council". Awesome, just awesome. I don't know that anybody believed him, but they were probably all drunk too, so all bets are off. Either way, it was hilarious.

It's 3am, I must be lonely

Once in a while here at work, we have to test the software we write out on the actual system that it will eventually be running on, and that system is locked behind closed doors and you have to sign up for time to use it. Well, last week I signed up for a number of shifts out in the "lab" and waited with baited breath last Thursday morning to see what shifts I had been assigned. Turns out, I got no love.

Three midnight to 6am shifts on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday mornings. Ugh.

Oh well, I guess I'll make the best of it. I'll kill myself trying to stay awake, but I'll get some good work done and enjoy some nice quiet time.

So on Monday, I work a full day till about 5:30, come home, eat, and take a nap for about 3 hours. My wonderful wife Cindy had been out running around while I was taking my nap, putting together an "overnight survival kit" to bring in with me. It wasn't until I hopped in my car at quarter to midnight that I saw the kit sitting on the passenger's seat. I couldn't wait to open it up and see what was inside.

First of all, there were about 10 to 12 DVD's in there that I could watch on the PC with the DVD player. This is key, because in the absence of any live person talking to you to keep you awake at oh, ass-o-clock in the morning, you need the movies to provide a little background noise. There were many good ones to choose from... I picked "The Ladies Man" (severely underrated), "Zoolander" (probably accurately rated), and "Van Wilder" (one of my personal favorites after "Old School").

Secondly, there was enough food in there for me to actually live in the lab for a week. I'm not kidding. All sorts of yummy snacks from Poppycock (that's right, I said it) to Bugles to Milano cookies, a couple of different chocolate bars, Pop Tarts, Ritz cracker sandwiches, chocolate-covered pretzels, Jolt caffeine-laden gum (2 kinds), Vivarin, Tums, Excederin, Immodium... all sorts of good stuff. I was ready for bear.

So I get to the lab, unlock it, drop my stuff down, and get to work. I put on "The Ladies Man". Let me tell you, testing your software is fantastic when you've got Tim Meadows saying stuff in the background like "It sounds like you have a case of homo-unerectus, which means that your wang is huge-i-fied not by a woman, but by a man". Can't help but crack up when that comes on.

I'm snacking on Bugles, making good progress when the first movie ends. Now I'm so spoiled that when I leave the immediate area of the PC, I pause it because I don't want to miss any good lines. I put Zoolander on. That "walk-off" between Zoolander and Hansel is hilarious. "Stay out of this Billy Zane!" Priceless.

At this point, after the snacks I've powered down, and the 3 Coca-Colas I've chugged to stay awake, I really have to use the men's room. Problem is, lab procedure dictates that I have to put everything away and lock it back up when nobody is present. Which of course is a huge pain because I'm coming back in like 5 minutes to set things back up the way they were when I left. Oh well, at 3am I don't have the luxury of having anybody hold it open for me while I duck out.

Now, because they have continuous air flow in order to keep the system cool, the lab makes a lot of wierd noises. And in the middle of the night when you hear something creaking or crackling or whatever, your neck whips around to see what it is. Usually it was nothing. One time I thought I saw something move out of the corner of my eye and jumped a little, but it turned out to be nothing. I thought I was hallucinating. Oh, and I also had the lights off in the place. It was basically being lit by several monitors that were spread throughout the room. No need to fool myself into thinking it was daylight out by putting lights on. Wouldn't want to do that. Plus the movies looked better in the dark, so I figured I'd run with it.

For the record, I was surprisingly sharp for an overnight shift. I made all sorts of progress and all of my tests were passing. It was turning out to be a banner night. At 4am, "Van Wilder" goes on. It's made by the same people who did "Animal House" and it sure has that same look and feel. It even has the guy who played Otter from "Animal House" as the father of the guy who's the lead character in this one. From start to finish, it's an outstanding movie. Between that and the Jolt bubble-gum, I'm able to make it to 6am, when the next crew arrives to take over.

So I guess I made it through the night. By 8am, the lack of sleep hit me like a ton of bricks. I was out of it. However, I still ended up sticking around till about noon to get some other stuff done. Groggily, I drove home, stopping once to vote in the local primary. That's always fun... good thing I had enough faculties to remember what I was there for. It's an an old-age home too.. I might have very well asked for a room to crash in.

Thankfully, I finished everything on Tuesday morning and didn't have to play out the rest of the midnight to 6 shifts. But man, between the movies and the hallucinations that was that one rockin' time!