Yesterday Rion and I found ourselves entrenched in a very deep and important conversation: Who would play us in a movie?
“You know that guy who was in Six Feet Under?” Rion asks. Oh sure, I could see that.
As proof, Rion:

The guy from Six Feet Under:

“What about you?” Rion asks. I think for a second. I do a little Googling. Then I turn my laptop around and how him a picture of Rachel Maddow:

And then a picture of me:

I don’t know what the plot of this movie is yet, but I’m dying to see Rachel Maddow and the guy from Six Feet Under in a movie together.

Today has been a lazy day for the pets of the household.
First Murphy spent some time snoozing on his bed.

Then, inexplicably, Kitty kicked Murphy out and spent some time snoozing on his bed.

Unfortunately the day has not been so lazy for the humans of the household.
[*Wishful thinking that there would be a photo of me on a bed here. Alas, no such luck.]

Now that I am again a Muddler in Arms (MIA?), I figured that I needed to find the perfect muddling tool.
On my muddler search I was found myself at Amazon.com where I promptly discovered a muddler that cost $9.95 new or $374 used. The Amazon link is here (if it’s still listed), plus I took a screenshot for posterity:

Now I don’t know if this muddler was used by George Clooney, or maybe it’s made out of recycled Faberge eggs. Either way, it’s a bit out of my price range.
So then I found a nice little muddler for $5 and ordered it. Only when I got it it looked like this:

Which is not bad, only it looks like some type of modern German sex toy, no?
At least it’s better than my previous muddler, which was really just the end of a carrot peeler.

Believe it or not I haven’t always been the coffee shop inhabiting, entrepreneurial spirited, new backbone of the economy that I am today (small business is the new big business, haven’t you heard?). Yes, years ago I used to be a bartender.
Make a vodka and cranberry? I’d be happy to! Mix a martini? No problem! In the mood for a beer? I make a great Miller Lite! But there was one drink I hated: The mojito. There were many reasons I hated the mojito. The muddling, the mixing, the muddling, the shaking, the muddling. It was the drink that put a wrench in my bartending assembly line, if you will. But the day I hung up my church key was the last time I’d ever have to make a mojito. Or so I thought. Not so, people. Not so.
The Metallurgist’s new drink of choice for the summer is the mojito. And guess what has two thumbs and always makes them? This guy! (Imagine me pointing my thumbs at myself.)
So even though I’ve escaped the late nights, the bad tips and the functional alcoholism, I haven’t escaped the mojito.
“Just when I think I’m out, they pull me back in!”

For years (years!) I had a Cubs hat that I loved.

See that darker part on the brim close to my head? That’s not a shadow. That’s dark from years of sweat. Even with washings, the hat was pretty gnarly. So, like many things in my life that I held onto for way too long, my wife made me get rid of it. (In all fairness, I made her get rid of a pair of pajama pants with some unfortunately located holes, just to make us even).
So there I was, for the first time in my life, without a cap. Which had it’s pluses. For one thing, wearing a Cubs hat in Chicago people always felt compelled to talk with me about the Cubs. “Did you see the game last night?” “What do you think their odds are this season?” “Do you want to see the pictures on my phone from when I went to spring training?” It got exhausting.
But after a while I missed having a hat. And me being me, I was far too lazy to go out and buy another hat. And that’s when I remembered my Minnesota Twins hat that I wore when I was Magnum P.I. for Halloween a few years back.

(Yes, I know he wore a Detroit Tigers hat).
And for a while it was great. Something to cover my bed head, something to block my eyes from the sun and no one talking to me about the Cubs.
Then, the other day while walking Murphy, a man on the street yells “Yeah! Win Twins! Win Twins!” I look at him confused. “You from Minnesota?” he asks me. Realizing that he’s referring to the hat on my head I nod. “Sure am,” I say. And then we both stare at each other for a few seconds because, really, I’m not from Minnesota and I have no idea how to continue with this conversation.
Maybe I should just get a hat like the one that guy from Jamiroquai wears and call it a day.

When I canceled my Friendster account there was no remorse. Ditto with my MySpace account. And now I’m seriously considering canceling Facebook. I’ve come to terms with the fact that the only reason I haven’t yet is because people are too lazy to send out their photos any other way. So either I’m stuck on Facebook or I’m never getting another photo from my friends again. Sigh.
But if I’m going to be stuck on Facebook I’ve decided that I’m going to have a more proactive approach. No more accepting friend requests when I don’t want to (or just leaving them in limbo because I’m too much of a wuss to deny them). And 120 friends!? Now I understand this is low in Facebook terms, but there’s no way I have 120 friends. I don’t even know 120 people. My goal is to get that number down to 80 by lunch.
So what does this mean? So long people from high school I wasn’t even friends with then! So long friends of friends who thought it might be nice to friend me but who I haven’t seen in years! So long old co-workers who were just friending me to be polite!
I’m not going to lie, I feel better already.

Has anyone else heard of this new candy bar from Mars called Fling? Man, oh man, where do I begin.
Should I talk about how the tagline, “Naughty..but not that naughty,” is kind of creepy for a candy bar?
Or how the About page of their website says “So let yourself go! Have a FLING™ in private, or wave it all around town; in the office, the bedroom, or the great outdoors.” Getting creepier.
And then there’s the main page of the Fling website which has an unfortunately Photoshopped silhouette, causing it to look like a handbag is falling out of a woman’s vagina.

(To be fair, the website in general looks like an awful book cover for a chic-lit novel about a young woman who tries to break into publishing in Manhattan – yet keeps her life glamorous no matter what her evil boss throws at her!)
Of course this commercial for the candy bar making it look like two people are having sex in a dressing room doesn’t make things any better.
Don’t call me naive, I know sex sells. But doesn’t this kind of blatantly fake sexuality usually only work on 17-year-old dudes who think that if they wear Axe deodorant then crowds of supermodels will chase them down the street?
I’m curious though, has anyone out there actually eaten one of these? And if so, did you immediately turn into a chic-lit heroine and/or have an orgasm?

The most off-putting brands of scotch whiskey on the market today:
- MacShitler 18 Year
- Glenfaggot 12 Year
- Scabington Lane 8 Year
- Sifflyss Gold 10 Year
- Assholetoshan 17 Year
- Vagina Bandit 12 Year

Last night the Metallurgist and I had planned to watch Lost at 7 until we realized that they were pulling one of their “Oh, hey, let’s take an hour to recap the entire show and catch up anyone who doesn’t know what’s happened so far.” Who out there doesn’t watch a show for five seasons and then decides to watch for the first time during the season finale? C’mon ABC. Think, McFly! Think.
So instead of watching that we switched over to NBC. And what did we discover? Goldblum.

That’s right, Goldblum is now the offbeat, slightly kookie lead detective on Law & Order: Criminal Intent (inheriting the title from Vincent D’Onofrio). For those of you who missed it, I kept track of what was happening on the show. You’re welcome.
8:04 – Goldblum shows up to a crime scene with bagels. I fight the urge to do my Goldblum impression for the Metallurgist.
8:20 – Goldblum plays piano.
8:25 – Goldblum shows up at the station wearing a hoodie with a leather jacket over it. Goldblum is hip!
8:29 – The Metallurgist wonders if they even bothered to give Goldblum’s character a name or if they didn’t even try because they just assumed people would call him Goldblum.
8:32 – Goldblum does his best Columbo impression and catches a suspect in a lie.
7:53 – Goldbloom yells “Viva Viagra!” at an old guy.
Ah, Goldblum. It’s good to have you back in my life.

Two days ago I did a little rambling about blogs. I wrote about writing and not writing and even threw in a little whining about not having enough to read. And you people actually listened.
Clevland’s a Plum emailed me a list of 13 bloggers she recommends (my favorite so far is White-Collar Redneck).
Switching Over to AM wrote an entire post titled “I dedicate my next few blogs to berg with fries”.
Life of a Lovechild subtly titled her last post “You wanted something to read? Take THIS”.
Heck, a couple people actually de-lurked in the comments, inviting me to read their blogs (Thanks Peter, Jill, Alex and Elizabeth).
And how do I repay all this kindness? By writing a bullshit blog where I just compile a list of things other people have done. Man, I’m lame.