I'll Wafer You, I Promise ...

I wrote a while back on some changes that the New England Confectionery Company had made to the production of their delicious Necco Wafers.  Specifically, they had changed to all-natural flavoring and coloring, which was a bit upsetting, as the licorice ones were no longer as readily identifiable, and the lime ones were eliminated altogether.  I was livid!

On the drive down to Salt Lake City over the holidays, however, I was pleasantly surprised to find some of the old brightly colored ones in a gas station in Burley.  “How fortunate I am to live in a state where deliveries are so late that despised changes to product lines have no effect on inventory for years!” I thought to myself, as I bought all that they had.

As it turns out, even Burley gets updated shipments, and rather than being old stock, I discovered that the New England Confectionery Company had reverted to their old recipes due to faltering sales.  By this time, I had reconsidered my position on their change, and I was a little disappointed in their reversal.  I recently let them know my feelings on the matter:

Dear New England Confectionery Company:  I am writing to convey my disappointment in your 2011 decision to return to the use of artificial flavorings and colorings in your flagship product, the beloved Necco Wafer.  I will admit to being a bit distraught upon discovering the original change (documented at http://thedeadacorn.blogspot.com/2011/05/ill-wring-your-scrawny-little-necco.html).  Eventually, however, my rage transformed into respect as I realized that you were acting as Good Corporate Citizens, and taking the lead among confectioners in turning the industry into one more healthy and environmentally friendly.

“Kudos, New England Confectionery Company!  Kudos indeed!” I cried, after I got past my initial selfish resentment at not being able to easily recognize the vile licorice wafers.  “You are truly an admirable entity, and others would do well to emulate you!”

Unfortunately, your bold and brave actions did not stand the test of time, and it would appear that your decision to return to the artificiality of the past was driven by nothing more than profit motives.  This saddens me greatly, not only for my disappointment in finding that you lack the courage of your convictions, but for what I have discovered about myself; that I too am weak, as my craving for your wafers outweighs my concern for my health and for the planet, and I continue to consume them (except for the aforementioned vile licorice ones – those I give to my daughter, who will occasionally toss them in her mouth in a moment of inattention.  It’s quite amusing).

I hope that one day, you will again put goodness ahead of greed, and reverse your reversal.  Until then, I guess we’ll both sleep a little less soundly, aware that we’re not quite the person/confectionery company that we thought we were.

Sincerely,

The Dead Acorn

I don’t expect a reply, as I’m sure they are rightfully embarrassed by the whole ordeal and just want it to go away.  Further, according to their Wikipedia article, the reversal was overwhelmingly popular.  It’s quite sad, really.

Our whole society has lost its moral candy compass.

Don't Fence Me In ...

OMG OMG OMG I did it I did it I rilly rilly DID IT!  I made progress on a home project!  WOOOO!

Those who know me well will recognize this as a rare occurrence indeed; one that is certainly a cause for, if not outright celebration, a begrudging acknowledgement that “well, at least he lifted his lazy ass off the bar stool.”  In any case, progress was made, which is a statement not often made in reference to my life.

The project of interest is building a 20’ high cinderblock wall topped by barbed wire quaint picket fence around my front yard.  The north side of my corner lot is out of view of my patio, so that when I’m sipping mimosas enjoying the sunrise, I’ve got to either tie the hell-hound to the tree or worry about her going on a little walkabout with the other neighborhood dogs.  She’s very friendly to all folks (save me, of course), and immensely enjoys saying hello to the local strollers-by, who don’t always share her enthusiasm about such encounters.

Last fall, I bought about 150 1”x4”x6’ cedar boards, and I’ll be damned if Saturday wasn’t an honest-to-gosh nice spring day.  And as perfect as that sounds for sitting in a nice dark pub, somehow I found myself saying “You know what would be cool to have, Dead Acorn, instead of 150 1”x4”x6’ cedar boards?  Three hunnert 1”x4”x3’ cedar boards, that’s what!”  I probably would have talked myself out of actually doing it, but at the time I said it, I was sitting alone at the bar, and my ramblings were making some patrons at the tables nervous, and the server asked me to leave.

As this was going to be a fairly simple and straightforward operation, involving only the chop saw, I didn’t foresee any problems, but being the ever-safety-conscious project-doer that I am, I checked the American Woodworker’s Society handy pocket guide to intoxication standards:

Above:  It being only around 2:00 pm, I was well within the allowable range for Compound Miter Saw use.  Norm Abrams would approve of my sense of propriety, I'm sure (click to enlarge).

A couple of hours later I was the proud owner of a large, well stacked pile of 3’ dog-eared pickets, ready to be made into a barrier further separating me from society, isolating me from human interaction and shielding me from the pain and cruelty of the outside world.  Or at least keeping the dog in the yard, I guess.

But it’s baby steps toward project completion, as I’m sure you know, and I’m excited about the prospect of finally putting my degree to real use, as the next step will be Post Hole Digging.  Then the relocation of a number of sprinkler heads, planting a garden, and widening the driveway … I’m so eager to get started I can barely sit still on my bar stool!

Vegas has put the over/under for finishing at August 14, 2014.

Music Hath Charms ...

I attended a musically-themed social gathering on Sunday at the home of some friends.  As it was explained to me in the invitation, there was to be a tournament in which 32 songs would battle head-to-head in single-elimination fashion over the course of three consecutive Sundays, culminating in the identification and coronation of TEH GREATEST SONG OF ALL TIME!!11!!.  Though this was the first time I would be attending, I was aware that the tournament had been held in years prior, which led to the following conversation:

Dead Acorn:  “Hey, I really appreciate the invite!  Sounds like a great time!  So we just bring what we feel is the best song released in the last year?”

Friend of Dead Acorn:  “umm … no … it can be any song you like.  It doesn’t have to be just from the last year.”

DA:  “But … but … if you identified The Greatest Song Of All Time last year, it stands to reason that only a song released since then could possible wrest its title!  And if no new song can mount a successful challenge, then the crown must then remain with last year’s victor!”

FODA:  “Ok … see … last year’s winner can’t be entered again.  Maybe you should think of it as ‘The Greatest Song To Be Entered Into The Tournament This Year.’  jesusfuckingchrist I told her inviting you was a bad idea …”

DA:  “I didn’t quite catch that …”

FODA:  “See you Sunday, I guess … *sigh*”

It occurred to me a bit later that the event was less about an objective method of ordering songs by quality, and more about creating a fun and lighthearted atmosphere in which people could interact while participating in a friendly competition modeled on the NCAA “March Madness” basketball tournaments, which are taking place coincidentally.

I am one socially astute sunuvabitch.  I can’t, for the life of me, understand why I don’t get invited to more parties.

Finally having a full grasp of the concept, I set about selecting a song to submit.  I didn’t want to completely dominate, of course, so I excluded some of my top-shelf material, and finally settled on Ry Cooder’s “Down In Hollywood.”  I had been told by the hosts, who are quite the audiophiles, that vinyl media was preferable, and I thought that a song from the album “Bop Till You Drop” would be appropriate, as it was the first major-label album to be recorded digitally – it would be a somber recognition of how much has changed in our world, even if not all for good.

My god, there was no way I could lose!

Alas, it was not to be.  I searched through my stacks of wax and my mounds of sounds, and was distraught to discover that I could not find my copy.  I was committed to the song, however, and resigned myself to burning a copy onto a CD*.  I arrived at the party and submitted my entry, and was asked if I’d like to make a second entry (extras were needed to fill the entire bracket).  Luckily, I had brought a few other albums**, just to establish my “vinyl cred,” as it were, and I drew out my 45 single of Bobby Darin’s “Mack The Knife.”  “It’s going to be a bit embarrassing to have both songs in the final round,” I thought to myself.

As I was not familiar with most of the other guests, I looked forward to the random drawing for the first round battles.  I began to feel a bit uneasy as the artists and songs were read.  “Who are ‘The Iron Maidens?’” I asked.  “Blackie Sabbith?  Was he one of the Backstreet Boys?”  There were other bands by such names as “Die Apokalyptischen Reiter” and “Embalmer” and “Ripping Corpse,” and I got the feeling that I was perhaps out of my element.

It’s far past the point of making this a short post, but suffice it to say that I did not advance into the second round (though Bobby Darin made a surprisingly strong showing – there must have been some Brecht/Weill fans there).  All in all, it was an extremely enjoyable afternoon, and quite educational, music-wise.

Maybe “Dead Acorns” would be a good name for a satanic death-metal band – I’ll get started on lyrics.

* To make matters worse, I burned it as an .mp3 file, and it wouldn't play on their stereo.  A guy at the party had to stream it over his phone.  That's why I'm known as "Smoov D.A." on the streets.
** Other albums I brought include The Archies and David Soul.  Tolly serious.

They Said Come Down, And I Threw Up ... Ooooh, Ooooh, Growing Up ....

My raison d’blogre is, of course, as I assume is the case with all blogsters, the elicitation of comments.  Some are rich in comments, such as The Bloggess, who could type “yabba dabba doo” and have 500 responses saying “OMG your so funny we think exactly the same way!” within fiftee …

Ok, you know what?  That’s just the bitter jealousy typing.  The Bloggess is hilarious and uses her inestimable powers for incredible good.  And her commenters are funny as well, and they know the difference between "your" and "you're."  My apologies to all for being a petty butthead.  Let go of the bitterness, Dead Acorn ...

In any case, the 5-10 comments I get per post are worth more than any King’s treasure to me.  I bring this up because I recently had a comment that didn’t fall into one of the general categories:

1. People who know me and know that if they comment, they’ll avoid me awkwardly seeking validation as a human being by asking them later if they’d read it.


2. People who don’t know me personally, but for some reason or another read this stuff (self-loathing? Criminal sentence?)


3. People with an intense dislike for me (surely defendably so, in large part, if not entirely) who usually post anonymous insults.


4. Links in Japanese symbols that take me to soft-core hentai sites.

The exchange in question went as such:

Inge said...
Dead Acorn--I found your blog and it made me laugh but after reading some posts it seems you use humor to hide something deeper going on. Maybe you are only out for attention or laughs but I don't think so. It kind of makes me sad.

The Dead Acorn said...
Aww, Inge ... don't be sad! I'm glad it makes you laugh; that's pretty much the goal, I think. There's not any dark sad persona underneath (well, not much of one, anyway).

 Inge said...
Ok. I was surprised when I saw your picture because you look grown up but your life doesn't sound grown up. I do not say that to be mean but because that is why I felt sad for you.

So now I’m making people sad?  I have to say that that makes me feel akin to Dr. Altivore Straudius, the Luxembourgian biochemist who, while genetically altering a common and harmless microbe in an attempt to cure pancreatic cancer, inadvertently created a mutant super-resistant microorganism that wiped out 99% of the earth’s population back in the late 20th century.  It's like tolly opposite of what I meant to do!  (Ok, I’m not sure if that really happened, as I dun my histry learnin’ in eastern Idaho.  Also, I appreciate the irony of my remembering him as trying to cure cancer, when I myself have been referred to as “a cancer of the googlytubez.”)

It did get me to thinking, however, about what it means to have a life that “doesn’t sound grown up.”  (As she said, this wasn’t intended to sound mean, and I certainly didn’t take it that way.)  I don’t think I’ve mentioned (well, not more than in passing) my participation in a band that plays Teh Rock And Teh Roll and my juvenile hopes that I will become a RAWK STAR!1!!!11! at my advanced years, though that would perhaps be thought of as “not grown up,” by some standards.  Maybe my occasional post about camping alone could be interpreted as a need to escape from the pressures of society, which in turn could be thought of as immature, though I don't really think that's what she meant.  Maybe it's just the fact I am an adult who regularly types the word "tolly."

I’ll think about that some more, I guess, but I’m pretty sure that I’ll come up with as many positive aspects of having a not-grown-up life as negative ones … mostly because that’s what self-deluding chuckleheads do, but hey, I’m good with that.

So please don’t be sad, Inge … trust me when I say that I’m enjoying this life more than I probably deserve to (grown up or not), and I can even act like a grown-up when the need arises.  And thank you for your comment – it makes for a good world when strangers can show concern for one another.

Now if you'll excuse me, those damn neighbor kids want to have another snowball fight ...

Oh, What Tangled Webs We Weave ...

I was reminded last weekend of a horribly tragic situation that exists in my family; such is the horrific nature of it that I have obviously stowed it away deep in my subconscious, ignoring that ugly little piece of reality, so that I might try to make it through each day without questioning the motives of whatever deity might exist in inflicting such cruelty and losing whatever tenuous grip on sanity I might have in the process.

My nephew, you see, is afflicted with syndactyly.  That's right ... webbed toes.

I write this not to elicit pity, nor sympathy, but to describe the heroic bravery with which he deals with his malady.  Imagine a young lad, being told that the school district had declared him ineligible for the swim team, citing “unfair advantage,” due to a condition completely beyond his control.  Imagine a boy having to learn that someone yelling “DUCK” was simply warning him of an object rapidly approaching his head, and not poking fun at his fused podial digits (luckily, his noggin is quite solid, and no permanent damage seems to have resulted from those miscommunications).

One can easily understand how such a condition would be difficult to deal with, at best.  My nephew, however, refuses to let it affect his well-being, knowing that if life gives you melons, you might be dyslexic if life gives you lemons, get some vodka and make lemon drops you might as well make the most of things.  With that in mind, then, take a look at the tattoo he had done a few weeks ago:

Above:  The awesomeness scale now goes to 11.

The suggestion has been made that on his other foot he get a person on a surfboard … get it?  Surfin’ the web?  Huh?  Huh?  Is this thing on?  I know you’re out there … I can hear you clicking the “Next Blog” button!

I, of course, being the self-serving weasel that I am, attempted to use his condition to my own advantage, and ventured down to the Department Of Motor Vehicles to apply for a handicapped parking permit:

DMV Woman:  “Can I help you?”

Dead Acorn:  “Yes, I’d like to apply for a handicapped permit.  My nephew has the webbed toes.”

DMV W:  “I’m sorry … did you say that your nephew has webbed toes, so you want a permit?”

DA:  “That’s correct.  I could catch it at any time, and I’d rather not have to walk across a huge parking lot when it happens.”

DMV W:  “I’m pretty sure that’s a genetic anomaly, and not something that you catch.  Also, it really has no effect on people who actually have it.  In fact, it can be quite the conversation starter, as well as being an incredible opportunity for creative tattoos.”

DA:  “Oh yeah?  Well, look what happened to my dog since we got back from visiting him!”

I showed her a picture I had taken of Indy the night before:

Above:  Oh, the humanity caninity …

DMV W:  “You … ummm … taped her toes together with masking tape and taped some hair on top of it.”

DA:  “Nuh-uh.”

DMV W:  “Next!”

As she was obviously deaf to my pleas and oblivious to the suffering of others, I walked out.  Slowly.  And limping.  I could almost hear her eyes rolling.

This world can be so cruel.

The Buck Stops Here

Being the staid, boring schlub that I am, I have a very set routine in my everyday activities.  My morning schedule of events is unwavering, as is that of my afternoon.  I leave work at 4:00 pm, arrive home between 4:15 and 4:20*, and give the hell-hound big belly rubs upon entering Casa de Acorn.  I’m well aware of the chaotic world around me, and the constancy of my day-to-day behavior is quite comforting, providing an almost zen-like serenity against the background din of The Outside.

Things do come up, however, that require straying from the well-trodden path, and a few days ago, I found myself needing to run home at lunch.  “What a pleasant surprise this will be for Indy!” I said aloud in the car.  “Normally she waits patiently by the door all day in anticipation of her beloved belly scratching!  Her joy at this unexpected additional round of scratching will be quite amusing to watch!”

Imagine my shock, then, when I walked through the door to see this:

Above:  I’m not really surprised by the interspecies aspect, but based on her crotch-sniffing behavior around human females, I would have guessed she was a lesbian.  Whatever.

I was, of course, quite taken aback, as was she, apparently, for she just stared at me like a deer in the bed-lights.  After several seconds, I started stammering.  “I … I … oh god.”  “Roh, rit …” she mumbled.  Finally, I said something about going to the computer room for a few minutes to check my email, thinking that I’d at least be providing an opportunity for her to show her guest out in the least awkward manner.  After what I felt was a sufficient amount of time, I went back to the bedroom to have what would surely be an uncomfortable conversation at best, only to find this:

Above:  Ole Buck’s got a lot of chutzpah, I’ll admit.  And Indy can really give the stinkeye when she wants to.

I kind of snapped at that point, screaming something about venison steaks and deer jerky and going all “Bambi meets Godzilla” on him.  He must have taken the hint, because he hopped up and bounded past me out the door.  I turned to the whore-hound, and red-faced, seething with anger, managed to say “Not in my bed.  NOT.  IN.  MY.  BED.”

We haven’t really spoken about it since, and while it’s perhaps not the healthiest solution, I imagine that we’ll just bury the whole incident deep in the dark recesses of our minds.

You can bet your ass I’ll never walk into that house unannounced again, though.

* Duuuuuude ...

Yeah, Well, I've Been Kicked Out Of Nicer Places Than This!

I’m not often mistaken for other people – oh, sure, there’s the occasional “hey, check out Bozo The Clown there …” comment, but in general, I’m not one that’s confused with someone else.  Last Saturday night, however, proved to be an exception, and one with most unfortunate consequences, as it turned out … I was apparently mistaken for someone who had over-imbibed.

A couple of friends and I had ventured downtown to take in a musical concert, one in which several bands were to play, the third being a group called Cash’d Out (who performed faithful renditions of Johnny Cash songs) and of whom I had heard very positive reviews.  I’d like to be able to confirm that the entire show was a magical re-creation of a true legend; unfortunately, I can only authoritatively say that about the first four songs, as we were inexplicably asked to leave the venue around that time.

I’m still not quite certain what events led to our ouster; normally, such things happen when one, oh, say, stumbles into a large table of state-level politicians, spilling their cocktails every which way (umm … hypothetically speaking, of course).  And while two of us were enjoying many a tasty beverage that evening (and, admittedly, after something of a lengthy “pre-funk” that day), our fellow concert-goer maintains that we held to acceptable public behavior, and even now remains somewhat baffled at the night's goings-on.

Disirregardless of the lack of grounds for ejection, ejected we were, after a somewhat comical series of events.  One of my friends and I had gone to the bathrooms, and upon exiting, I found her in a discussion with one of the employees.  “Well, good evening, sir!” I said as I approached them.  “A fine show it is, don’t you agree?”  It was at this point I was informed that alcoholic beverages would no longer be available to us (though he could provide no rational basis for that decision), and he proceeded to try to shame us by drawing large Xs on our hands.  As my friend and I were there primarily for the music, we weren’t overly distraught at this, and we returned to where our other friend was waiting, after finishing what drinks we had left (the gentleman was kind enough to grant that request).

In retrospect, we really should have known that they just might keep an eye on us, because when my friend picked up the spare beer she had strategically placed under our table (she’s deservedly regarded as something of a professional in social drinking circles), several seemingly displeased gentlemen quickly descended upon us and escorted us toward the exit.  We had a brief conversation with the manager, received another hand stamp (apparently being disallowed from drinking and being asked to leave are coded differently), and found ourselves out in the cold evening, marked and musicless, but giggling nonetheless.

Above:  It’s like living in a Nathaniel Hawthorne novel.

We decided to make our way over to the Neurolux, a bar where they don’t have such puritanical standards – this is the conversation I had with the bartender when we got there:

Bartender (noticing my hands): “What’s with the X?”
Dead Acorn:“Cut off.”
Bartender: “What’s with the Idaho stamp?”
Dead Acorn: “Kicked out.”
Bartender:  “Nice. Well, what can I get you?”

So that was the evening – plans derailed by a tragic case of mistaken identity, but enjoyable anyway, and good for a chuckle.  One never knows what will happen when one ventures downtown.

[UPDATE]:  It occurred to me that I was wearing my cowboy boots that night, which I haven’t worn in years, and that my choice of footwear may have been a triggering factor in being flagged as a potential rabble-rouser.  I’ve included a side-by-side comparison below – I don’t think either really says “here comes trouble,” but I’ve been wrong before.

Above:  She really can wear anything and make it look good!