The Metallurgist and I are playing Monopoly. She keeps landing on free parking and getting the money we've put into the middle of the board. She repeatedly gets "Get Out of Jail Free" cards. She is building up houses and hotels while my properties are dwindling away.

I sell all my houses, mortgage my properties, lose all my money. I claim defeat.

"It's funny," the Metallurgist says, flipping through her deeds, "it's like I'm the republican of the game and you're the democrat."

So my blogging has been kinda sparse lately. "What gives?" you may be wondering. Or, if you're the prickly type, "What the hell, Josh?! I need some blog!" Well I'm sorry, I've been busy. But what have I been doing?

I've done a little bit of switching places with Byron (I imagine he's probably the Kirk Cameron and I'm the Dudley Moore*):

There was also a lot of quality time with the ol' Metalallergist:

There were days of apartment hunting, of which this was the cumulative effort:

(more on that later, folks)

And of course there's always some of THIS to be done:

All that business kinda leaves me feeling like this:

But I'll be able to relax about mid-October. Whew!

Yesterday afternoon the Metallurgist and I go out for Mexican. As we enter the restaurant the atmosphere is absorbed by a table of 10 twenty somethings - they're loud, obnoxious and drinking giant margaritas.

"Those people remind me of some of my friends you'll be meeting next month," the Metallurgist says reluctantly, taking a sip of her mojito. "Yeah, I say, "I kind of assumed as much." She shrugs and admits: "Yeah, we can just be kind of obnoxious sometimes."

You see, I'm a bit anxious about meeting this particular group of the Metallurgist's friends. Maybe it's because their idea of fun is drinking, camping and being loud (not that I'm knocking any of those things, the outdoors just aren't one of this city guy's favorite things). Or maybe it's because they're a group of friends that have known each other for years, and I'll be the new guy that shows up - an outsider of sorts. Or maybe (just maybe!) it's because her friends have already given me a nickname before they've even met me: NFJ, or No Fun Josh.

After a few minutes one of the people at the table next to us breaks a glass. They laugh about and loudly exclaim that they're really not that bad. People from the table are getting up and milling around and you can see the dread in the faces of the restaurant staff that these customers still haven't left. The Metallurgist makes a scared face - for my sake - realizing how close to her friends these people are.

"I really can't wait to meet your friends," I say, my fingers clinching around the neck of my beer for dear life. "You're going to be fine," Metallurgist assures me.

Another glass shatters at the table behind us, followed by a round of laughter. I bite my bottom lip and gnaw, Metallurgist's words of you'll be fine going through my head. I sure hope so.

Nicknames presidents may have given to their penis:

- Millard Fillmore - Ol' Filler
- Abe Lincoln - The Stovepipe
- Ulysses S. Grant - Union General
- Theodore Roosevelt - Big Teddy
- Warren G. Harding - Little Harding
- Harry S. Truman - The Dewey Beater
- Lyndon B. Johnson - The Gobbler
- Bill Clinton - Big Stogie
- George W. Bush - Lil' Dubya

There was an article on Slashdot the other day saying that more than 600 million internet users don't use the latest version of their browser. For serious?!

As a web designer it's these kind of thoughts that keep me up at night. 600 million?! C'mon, people! That's like Toyota offering you a new, updated, feature packed version of the car you already have for free! Oh, and the update will make things run smoother, faster, and easier. But noooooo, you don't want it! You're all a bunch of jerks, you know that? Paris fell because of people like you!

UPDATE: Just checked on Wikipedia and it turns out Paris never fell. Maybe I'm thinking of Rome. Oh well. Serves me right for getting my history off the underside of Snapple caps.

Throughout my life I've had a long love/hate relationship with the mustache, and it's shown itself in many different forms.

There's the 1890's gold mining prospector:

There's the snooty French waiter at a fine bistro (but for some reason he wears a Cubs hat?):

There's the swarthy Italian who dives a Fiat:

There's the creep who could either be a child molester, or perhaps a stunt double for Robert Downey Jr. in Ironman:

And of course there's the Tom Selleck circa 1984:

It's Saturday at midnight and I'm ready to call it a night. I've already been out to a few places, seen some friends, and I have a healthy buzz going. I'm carrying a bottle of wine that didn't get used at a BYOB place earlier, walking east on Belmont, when I notice a house party going on. People are sitting on the front stoop smoking and drinking, and through the first floor windows it's obvious that the house is packed. "That looks fun," I think to myself, walking past. It suddenly dawns on me that the house has to be holding at least 70 people and I'm carrying a bottle of wine - what's stopping me from dropping in?

So I do.

"What's your story?" I nonchalantly ask a guy standing next to me in the kitchen, opening the bottle of wine I've brought. "Oh, I work with Tony at IZG," he says. "What about you?" I nod, trying to think quickly. "I went to school with Tony," I say. The guy nods back and we're insta-friends.

Throughout the night this becomes my standard line. "Do you work for IZG?" I'm asked time after time. "Actually, I went to school with Tony," I reply. People accept this as if I'm saying, "Don't worry, I know your best friend. And We. Are. Bros." Evidently Tony is the man to know, and I just happen to have been tight with him in college. Lucky me.

I meet guys. I meet girls. Evidently entire teams from the east coast are here for a week and a half to take training. I advise on shopping and eating, where they should and shouldn't go, and where they should just hang out. I'm Tony's friend from school and I know all about Chicago.

After almost an hour bouncing around the crowded house like a pinball I head back out to the front stoop. "Can I bum a cigarette?" I ask, despite the fact that I don't smoke. I'm not going to inhale, I just want to fit in, and it's harder out here where it's a thinner crowd. I talk with a guy named Paul, who gives me a cigarette, but doesn't have a light. "Hey Sarah," Paul yells, "give this intern a light."

Sarah looks me over and quints, suspiciously. "You're not an intern," she says. "I manage the interns, and you're not one."

I go into defense mode. "I never said I was an intern. Paul said I was an intern," I say. "I'm a web designer." I pause, thinking for a second. Then: "I went to school with Tony."

With that Sarah eases up, gives me a light, and in return I share a high-five secret I know with her. It's all good again.

After 1:00 am comes and goes I realize it's getting about time to head home. Most of the IZG trainees have to head back to their hotels, which they inform me are in Skokie, and I shudder to think of their hour long ride versus my 5 minute walk to my apartment.

Walking home I'm glad that I made myself stop in, my sense of fun outweighing my worries about what could go wrong. While they're usually not life changing, there are those events you look back on with regret. Those "What if?" and "I wonder..." stories that, even if they're small, can still nag your brain occasionally. But as I walk home I'm feeling good, and I feel a little proud of myself that I followed through and pulled it off. No, as far as regrets go I really only have one for that night: That I never actually got to meet Tony.

Walking down Broadway today I see a man and woman, both in their twenties, sitting at an outdoor patio, holding script books and rehearsing a play.

As I approach the man points at the woman without lifting his eyes from his script and says, flatly and unemotionally, "Beth, I know you're fucking around on me with that pharmacist."

Man, I wish I knew what play they were rehearsing.

The other day I'm sitting at home when Micah calls me. "Yo."

"Hey," he says. "Who was the woman who played Janine in Ghostbusters?"

"Annie Potts," I reply without hesitation. "Thanks," he says. Click.

It's a good thing I have a successful job, because otherwise I'd worry about what I was doing with my life.

The other day Bernadette got a wedding magazine delivered to her house, addressed to me. She sent me a text immediately.

Bern: Why is there a wedding mag in the mailbox addressed to you?
Me: Beats me.
Bern: I'm serious. WTF?
Me: Your guess is as good as mine.
Bern: I think you know more than me in this situation, Eisenberg!
Me: You're insane.
Bern: Yeah, whatever. Just make sure you send me a postcard from your honeymoon.
Me: Um, your face is stupid.
Bern: Your marriage is stupid.
Me: Lets move on, shall we?

Later that night I told the Metallurgist about the whole fiasco.

"You're going to make such a pretty bride," she told me. "Shut up," I responded.

Conversations Bernadette and I have recently had that make me believe we're on our way to becoming a vaudeville act:

1. The other day she texts me, saying "I wish they'd fix these trains!" I respond, "You mean so they don't keep breeding and having baby trains?"

Ba-dum-CHING!

2. Bernadette occasionally calls me from work and asks me to look up things for her online. Yesterday she called, asking, "Is your computer running?" "Yeah," I responded. She yelled: "Well then you better catch it!"

Wakka wakka!

If we were to take this show on the road I like to think we'd call ourselves Bernstein & Berg and we'd look something like this:

Possible titles for Dennis Miller's next stand-up special:

- Rant Around the Clock
- For Rant: 2br, 1bath, new appliances, lots of light! Call Dennis
- The Green Ranter
- Rantasia! (note: A play on Fantasia, not a stand-up tour of the continent of Asia)
- Rant Asia! (note: A stand-up tour of the continent of Asia)
- I Put My Rants on One Leg at a Time

It's early Sunday morning. I'm sitting in my PJs, drinking tea and reading Slashdot. I'm still not quite awake, but that's no excuse for what happens.

My phone rings and it's my landlord, saying my lease is up soon and asking if I'd like to stay another year. "Yeah," I say, "I'd love to, if you'll have me."

I'd love to, if you'll have me?!?!

I'm such a moron sometimes.

This morning Byron and I were sitting around doing work and my mind started to wander. I turned to him and asked, "If you were on an episode of Jeopardy! what would your six dream categories be?"

Byron thought for a minute. His answer (though not in the form of a question):

1. Get Carried Away (Carrie Bradshaw quotes)
2. You Were Meant for Me (Jewel lyrics)
3. David and Goliath (David Sedaris's best stories)
4. FALL into the Tune (Songs used in GAP commercials)
5. Pure Imagination (Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory Trivia)
6. Saved By the Answer (Scenes from the Classic TV Show, Saved By the Bell)

I thought about it for a second too, and here are my six:

1. Cheese
2. Things I Don't Understand on the TV Show LOST
3. The History of Apple Computers
4. Books I Never Finished
5. Font Madness
6. Bad Jew 101

Anyone else care to share their six?

Well it looks like I already lost out on this story.

Crap!

Yesterday Byron and I walk past an old, closed down laundromat on Broadway. "They should put a mini golf course there," Byron says. I tell him I think it might be a bit small for that.

"But maybe they could put a mini golf themed bar there," I suggest. We immediately begin bouncing ideas off each other. AstroTurf flooring. Golf cart booths. The whole nine yards. "We're so good at this kind of stuff," Byron says. "Like that time we came up with an idea for a water store."

"We really are good about coming up with these kind of ideas," I reply. "We should start a think tank!"

Pause.

"I don't really know what a think tank is," I continue. "Me neither," Byron says, "but I think it's an excellent idea."

Back in 2001, when I was just a wee lad, I got a webcam. The fact that there's now a webcam the size of a Tic Tac built-in above the screen of my laptop makes me wonder why I was so excited for something that was the size of a lemon. And yet I was.

Going through some old folders the other night I found a random project I had done (but really, aren't all my projects random?), and thought I'd share it with you kind folks.

Without further ado, my 2001 webcam project (also, please don't act that I was trying to do in any of these photos, because I'm not completely sure myself):

The New York Times had a cool article yesterday about websites crashing more frequently (sometimes big ones - like Amazon.com big!), and the common question: Is the site down for everyone, or is it just me who can't get to it? (It's all about you, is it?)

To solve this problem Alex Payne launched the well duh! site downforeveryoneorjustme.com. So the next time bergwithfries.com is down, now you know where to go to see if it's just you.

...Of course you probably won't save that link, so you'd have to come back here to find it, and you can't make it here in the first place because you think the site is down so...

Oh never mind.

Over the weekend I saw my four-year-old niece, Emma. She was showing me her collection tiny plastic animals, lining them up in a row on the floor.

She held up a plastic tiger. "What do you think of this one?" she asked. "He's nice," I said, "what's his name?"

She examined the plastic tiger closely for a second, then turned him over and noticed writing on his belly. "What does that say?" she asked me. I moved the tiny, raised plastic letters to my face, lifting my glasses to read them better, squinting almost. I tell her, "It says China."

"Alright then," she says, "his name is China."

By the end of out time hanging out there is a large group of animals sectioned off on the floor, all named China.

The Metallurgist and I have recently discovered the thrills of video chatting. What do we do with this new found technological advancement? Why, we play online chess, of course!

You may be asking yourself, Why video chat if you're just going to be staring at a chessboard?

The real reason? It's just so much easier to trash talk someone at chess if you're doing it over video and not typing it. Am I right, or am I right?

Kellie is on the apartment hunt, and she tells me she's looking for more room.

"I don't know what's wrong with your place now," I say, "You've got enough room. It's just you."

"But I feel like if I had more space then I might keep a few of those spaces clean." As she says this I can't even pretend to not laugh. I tell her the opposite will happen, and that all those spaces will just become cluttered, à la Kellie.

"You're probably right," she sighs, taking a sip of her drink "More space, more mess."

"It's like a rap song, really," I add. "You know, in the same vein of Mo' Money, Mo' Problems."

A while back I read something in a magazine about this Photoshop technique wherein you can make things look like miniatures. Basically you take the background out of focus, punch up the front a bit, and voilà! Real world pictures look like a miniatures. So I decided to fool around with this technique on a couple of pictures. For example:

Itty Bitty Basketball Game

I think this one is the most convincing picture I've done. They really look like tiny plastic basketball players, don't they?

Tiny Sun Salutations

I think that's the name of the pose they're doing. It could The Swarthy Monkey for all I know. This one isn't as good - it's too close up and you can see her face and skin too clearly which makes it less convincing.

Mini Barack

I like to believe that Barack could still beat McCain if he were plastic and less than an inch tall.