I Look In The Mirror, And It's Not Me Looking Back ...

While one might assume that given my astounding level of productivity, blogwise (almost 1 nonsensical string of unrelated words post a week!), that I must be at the keyboard every waking hour, breaking only for the shortest times for necessary sustenance and hygienic functions, that is not the case.  I have, on occasion, been known to take in a ballgame on the television at the local tavern, partaking in a beverage or three, whilst chatting with various acquaintances.  Further, even in the realm of the Googly-Tubez, my activities are not limited to this little web-log, but extend to an area of what are called “social networks.”

A current development on one called “Facebook” has got me a bit rattled. (For those unfamiliar with teh Facebook, one can sign up and become “Friends” with other people and inform them as to the contents of your latest meal, and post vague and angsty “status updates” upon the discontinuation of a romantic relationship.  One can also designate “Friends” as “Close Friends” by marking them with a star in order to more closely track their activities.  I would think that even the most cursory knowledge of WWII would have quashed this feature, but who am I to say?)

Anyway, for some reason or another, I became “Friends” with a bloke* in Jolly Olde England with the same name as mine (The Dead Acorn is my given legal name, but on Facebook, I’m known as Beauregard Wilthingham III).  The other Beauregard Wilthingham III seems like a very nice fellow – though eerily, he claims to enjoy beer and cheesy jokes, does woodworking/carpentry projects around the house, and has a shot of his dog as his profile picture (as do I).  Fortunately, I believe he actually finishes his projects; otherwise, that would just be freaky.

The disconcerting part of the whole situation is that he’ll post something, and I’ll see it as something new from myself, and immediately panic over what I was thinking and assume I was on-line after the aforementioned “beer or three.”  My blood pumping, brow perspiring, hands a-tremble, I, without fail, go combing through my email outbox searching for ill-advised messages to ex-significant others and potentially obnoxious comments on the posts of others.  Last night, he apparently “Shared” a picture that another friend (who (whom?  whatever ... (but trebly-nested parentheses! Woo!)) I really know) had posted, so that it provided even stronger evidence that it was actually my action, not his.  Worse, the picture was an unflattering image of a woman wearing cutoff jean shorts that were likely not as well-fitting as they perhaps once were … that type of humor is not generally my cup of tea, and I wasn't particularly proud of myself for having “Shared” it. “That’s IT!” I said to the hound dog. “I’m off the hooch for good!”

Luckily, I discovered the truth in fairly short order (short enough that I hadn’t dumped all the hooch down the drain and taken an axe to my backyard still), and had a nervous chuckle over the whole incident.

As writer (and noted bedeviling scamp) David Thorne has noted, the internet is a playground.  And sweet jeebus, playgrounds can be confusing and traumatizing places.

* I hope that "bloke" isn't an insult in Jolly Olde England.  I'd hate to be responsible for some type of international incident yet again.

Zero Score And Four Years Ago ...

Happy Blogoversary to me!  Twenty-eight years ago today (the Hell Hound made me write that in dog years) was my very first post.  Woo!  Sure, the frequency of new posts has dwindled over time, but I assume my reader takes that as a good thing.  You're welcome.

I think I've only had to delete one post, and shut down comments on only one as well (probably because most of what I write is done at work, which is, as a general rule of thumb, my least intoxicated time of the day, and therefore least offensive).  Both of those factoids are on my résumé.

Thank you for reading.

It Was Not In Tents At All

One might conclude by the dearth of new posts that there’s nothing very exciting going on in my life as of late, and one would be correct.  Plus, the Ada County Jail doesn’t have wifi.

I did finally do a little camping a couple of weekends ago, which was quite lovely, despite the fact that the combined levels of ability-to-plan-and-communicate between me and the person with whom I was camping is somewhere around … umm … something that has very little ability to plan and communicate:

Dead Acorn: (unloading the stuff from the Zuke Of Earle) “Umm … where’s your tent?”

Person With Whom I Was Camping:  “In my storage area at home.  You were going to bring your tent.”

DA:  “Well, no … you said you were going to take care of all the bedding, Little Miss I-Have-A-4”-Air-Mattress.”

PWWIWC:  “And I did, dumbass.  A tent is not bedding.”

DA:  “One could make that argument, I suppose.”

So we slept out in front of god and everyone, which afforded us a beautiful view of the clear night sky (“my god, it’s full of stars …”).  Luckily, we had this ferocious guard dog to fend off wild animals:

Above:  “Oh gawd is that a squirrel?  I hate squirrels!  Where’s the tent?  I need to be in the tent! Ohgodohgodohgod …”

Indy didn’t make the trip, as she actively seeks out wolves and bears to invite back to camp.

Of course, sleeping outside greatly increased the importance of liberal use of mosquito repellant, which led to us having a conversation extraordinarily similar to the one about the tent, and eventually having to buy a can from our camp neighbors (they were extremely pleasant, and wanted to give us their extra can, but we insisted on giving them $5  (3.23 £), as if we could buy our way out of our shame and embarrassment.

It tolly worked.

The rest of the trip was calming and uneventful, as such trips should be (other than running out of vodka during breakfast, initiating yet another conversation about roles and responsibilities …).  Forest GOOD.

I did get something of a letdown on the drive home.  We stopped in Crouch, which is a westerny little town, with log buildings and hitching posts and all that kind of cowboy-ey stuff, and while I’m about as far from being an actual outdoorsy westerner as one could imagine, I still enjoy the good feel it has.  "Had," I guess I should write, because I discovered that it’s all just a façade:

Above:  an affront to all that is right and good.  And the name makes no sense (click to enlarge) … it’s all Greek to me.

I snapped that picture, then slowly trudged back across the street to The Dirty Shame, where I was consoled by the person with whom I  was camping and the ebullient breakfast bartender Mario.

Oh Crouch, I could never stay mad at you.

There's Something Fishy Going On Here ...

I don’t think it’s any big secret that I have, as a general policy, a goal of setting as low of expectations in other people as is humanly possible.  In a phenomenon known among psychologists as “Achievement Relativity,” this renders even the most mundane accomplishments on my part on a par with creating desktop fusion.  Some of my proudest moments come when I hear someone say something like “Hey, Dead Acorn!  You tied your shoe on the very first try!  Good job!” without the slightest hint of sarcasm.

I had a fairly good pay-off last night over dinner – one of the low expectations that I’ve set is that no one thinks I’ll ever try any food out of my normal (and limited) dietary standards.  And of relevance to the current tale, I wouldn’t say that I hate seafood, because technically, Skipper’s Fish & Chips fillets are seafood, but outside of those, I would absolutely say that I hate seafood.  And very high on the list of hated seafood lies raw seafood … it’s fair to say that I’m not a sushi fan.  (As far as meat goes, I mainly stick to chicken … not because I like chickens, however; on the contrary, I hate them.  A number of chickens were involved in one of the tragic failed romances of my youth, and I have sworn to devour them even unto my last breath.  Damn you, chickens!  Plus, chicken tacos …. mmmMMMmm … they’re delicious!)

Anyway, I got to have dinner with The Live Acorn last night, and I was suggesting various places we might go (“Chicken Shack?”  “No …” “The Rooster Dome?”  “No …” “Poultry-Geist?”  “Dad, NO!”).  I knew where this was headed, as she loves ... loves ... sushi.  Finally, I bite the bullet, and agree.  To be honest, I was certain that they’d have something that wouldn’t actually make me shudder just thinking about it.

Ummm … no.

Really, Fancy Schmancy Sushi Restaurant?  You can’t keep one goddamned chicken in the back for your wussier more discriminating patrons?  You can’t keep a corn-dog in the freezer in case of emergencies?  Well, add one more to the list of reasons I don’t go south of State Street, boy howdy!

So The Live Acorn, fighting back tears, quietly offered to eat somewhere else.  “It’s okay, dad …” she said, in between stifled sobs.  “The Wing Nut is just around the corner.”  She arose slowly, staring at the ground.

“Hey, Live Acorn?"  "Yeah, dad?"  "I’ll be fine.  This is just fine.”

I spoke the words with the tone of a true martyr, someone willing to make an heroic sacrifice for the sake of his beloved and only daughter.  She looked at me with eyes that said “All of the dads on this planet who drink out of coffee mugs that say ‘World’s Greatest Father’ are lying to themselves.  They’re all just playing for 2nd place.”

So yeah, I ordered whatever looked like it had the most spices, and was pleasantly surprised to discover that “wasabi” is Japanese for “horseradish.”  Between that and the numerous cans of Kinmugi, I could barely taste that squid, or carp, or whatever the hell they use.  And afterward, I got more high praise from The Live Acorn, a “Good job!” text from The EMDAMOTLA*, and general accolades from all those who heard about my selfless act of love and generosity.  Ah, the magic of low expectations.

Look up Achievement Relativity in the new DSM-V when it's published.  I'm the case study.

* Ex-Mrs-Dead-Acorn-Mother-Of-The-Live-Acorn

If You Billed It, They Will Come

There are many things in this world that stick in my craw – someone verbalizing the fact that a no-hitter is potentially unfolding in the 7th inning; doctors who won’t perform life-saving surgery on a child because not enough people “Liked” that child’s mother's pleading Facebook status update; when I can’t find my shoes and I have to wrap my feet in duct tape to go to work … I just get so infuriated!  I’m getting a little worked up just thinking about them!

One thing that REALLY gets my goat, however, is people who don’t listen to authority.  This shouldn’t be a difficult issue: if you’re told to do something, then do it.  If you’re told to not do something, then don’t do it.  I’m sure you agree, and I’m confident that you’ll understand my anger when I describe what I encountered just yesterday evening.

I was walking through the Hyde Park area of Boise, enjoying a lovely night, unwinding after an afternoon of music downtown.  Had you challenged me at that point to imagine a way to make life better, I would have been hard-pressed to think of anything.  My beer was nearly half gone, but that’s really about it.

Well, my bubble of joy was soon burst, as I strode by an empty store front with a number of “POST NO BILLS” signs in the windows.  I simply cannot fathom how this could be misconstrued - how could it be more clear?  But someone ... someone didn’t understand.  Why, if I didn’t know any better, I would almost think that they were purposely going out of their way to disobey!

Take a look:

Above:  The text actually SAYS "Don't Tell Me What To Do!"  Damn scofflaws.

Above:  Methinks the culprit could use a good billy-clubbing.

Above:  My rage was bill-ding.

Above:  I’m guessing this blog post isn’t everything it was billed as.

Above:  Some men just want to watch the world burn.

I sincerely hope this urban terrorist is brought to justice.  What kind of world would it be if people didn’t just do as they’re told?  Anarchy!  Chaos!  Cats and dogs, laying down together!

Society is crumbling before our eyes, and no one is doing a damn thing about it.

In order of appearance:  Bill Buckner, Bill Maher, Bill Gates, Bill Of Rights, Bill Clinton, I'm Just A Bill, Bill Murray, Bill Cosby, Buffalo Bill, Mr. Bill, Bill Nye The Science Guy, Bill O'Reilly.  Also posted but not shown:  Utility Bill, Bill Shakespeare.

I Got The Shaft ...

Being a little on the white-trashy side is something of which I’m neither proud nor embarrassed – it’s simply one aspect of who I am.  Some people have red hair, some people have their patellae on the backs of their knees so that they have to have special chairs made in order to sit down, and some people are just a little white-trashy.

For my reader who hasn’t had the traumatic and emotionally scarring expericnce pleasure of visiting Casa de Acorn, I’ve provided some visual evidence ...

Below is a view from my front steps … sure, the irises (irii?) are okay, but the flower bed is clearly untended, and the hose, which is actually a conglomeration of segments from a number of hoses joined together, lies strewn willy-nilly on the lawn and has more than a passing resemblance to the Gordian Knot.  The tree has a rope tied to it to which the Hell Hound gets attached when we’re lounging about; the rope is knotted together in several places, as she snaps it with great regularity – there’s really no stopping 80 lbs of idiot when she wants to scare the hell out of neighborhood children on bicycles say hi to passersby and their dogs.

Here’s a shot of the driveway in front of the garage.  Note the propane cans scattered around the grill ('cause Safety First!), and the 2’x4’ remnants from the shed project (which is proceeding right on track, with completion anticipated around August ‘14).  Power tools out front are considered de rigueur among the W-T set, of course.  The hose is not confined to the lawn, as you can see.

Every house needs a Home Security System, and mine consists of a menacing Guard Flamingo, darkened by years of exposure to the harsh Idaho elements.  Girl Scouts tremble in fear as they stammer through their cookie sales pitch … ain’t nobody gonna fuck wit’ Bad Bob, yo.

All of this is well and good, and as I said, I’m neither proud nor embarrassed, but I had a realization the other day that may have me at least attempting to class up the joint just a wee bit.  I recently obtained a round outdoor table for my patio (free on craigslist, of course – that’s how we W-Ters roll …) – one of those with a hole in the middle and in the base to accommodate the restaurant-style umbrella that I’ve had for some time (also free, from the pub during a remodel, and requiring only slight repair).  Here’s a view from inside the house:

Yes, that’s right: there’s a giant pink penis on my front patio.  I’m not sure what to do, other than to leave it open all the time.  I’ve already heard the mailman refer to my house as “the Johnson place up on the corner,” and my neighbors saying “he should clean up that yard.  What a dick.”

Though I’m pretty sure they said that before …

I'll Sleep When I'm Dead ... Which Could Be Any Moment Now

I may have mentioned before that I’m not the soundest of sleepers, for what I assume are a myriad of reasons; reasons which I have no real interest in exploring, preferring instead to toss and turn and plow forward through the mornings fueled by pot after pot of the cheapest coffee that the Piggly Wiggly sells.  The cause of last night’s sleeplessness, however, was quite clear, and I fear that I may never slumber again.

Being the lone resident (human resident, I should say) of Casa de Acorn, I, on occasion, and to no one’s surprise, I’m quite sure, fall just a tad behind on what the more priggish among us might call “a schedule of household chores that meets the minimum EPA standards for avoiding designation as a Superfund site.”

Yeah, I can be something of a slob.

The thing that led to last night’s incident, though, isn’t a complete breach of lifestyle protocol logic, I would argue:  Why should I take the simple process of “clothes get dry ==> clothes get worn” and inject an intermediate “clothes get taken from the dryer, folded, and put into a dresser” step?  It’s an obviously wasteful endeavor, and while some would label me as “lazy,” I prefer to think of myself as an “energy conserver.”  Why do you hate the planet, dresser users?

Every once in a while, though, I conform to societal "norms," and gather up the clothes that are half in the dryer, half in the basket, half on the floor, and take them back and dump them on my bed, where they stay for another few days, as there is plenty of room in my big bed for me to lie awake in a cold sweat pondering what torment tomorrow holds sleep on the other side.  And so it was last night.

Here’s a conversation I had with someone about what happened next (I was speaking from atop a chair in the kitchen):

Dead Acorn:  “So I’m gonna fold clothes, and I dump the clothes out on the bed, and I’m reaching for a t-shirt, and this GIANT-ASS SPIDER COMES RUNNING OUT STRAIGHT AT ME!  He must have crawled up on a piece of clothing that was touching the floor!  He was HUUUUGE!”

Person To Whom I Was Relating The Story:  “Whatever.”

DA:  “He was brown!  And RECKLESS!”

PTWIWRTS:  “Oh, for shit's sake.  The word is ‘reCLUSE,’ and 1) it most likely wasn’t a brown recluse, as they’re not all that common, B) they’re called “recluses” because they are not aggressive, and Γ) even if it were a brown recluse, and it bit you, it’s extremely unlikely anything remotely serious would even happen.  God, you can be a sissy.”

DA:  “Nuh uh!  They’re called brown reckless spiders because they have no regard for their own lives, instead attacking without hesitation or forethought anything they can get their monster fangs into.  The little bastards are the only creature a honey badger won’t mess with.”

PTWIWRTS:  “Just fold your stupid clothes and go to sleep.”

Well, as they say, fuck that.  I finally mustered the courage to gather the clothes back into the basket (using a broom handle), push the basket to the laundry room, and get them back into the washing machine.  I used the same process with the sheets, and indeed all of the clothes in my bedroom, clean or not, as the brown reckless ejects its eggs aerially as it walks, onto any surrounding fabric within 20 feet, so that an infestation can occur in a matter of hours.  I had to drown them all.

Well, I wasn’t taking any chances, knowing that there could have been a survivor or two, so I’m sure you understand why I’m a little tired today.  It’s hard to sleep standing on a kitchen chair, after all.