Death, taxes, and mouse batteries

My mouse crapped out at work. This is a serious issue, for without my super-sleeky and ultra-geeky MX1000, I am left staring at a very expensive paperweight for 8 hours. It's time for a trip to Fry's Electronics ... but first, I must ponder the possibilities.

I need a mouse that has enough features to make my life easier, but not so many as to make me confused and feel like an old person driving.

I need a mouse that can fly through reams of spreadsheets with a flick of the wheel, but is equally at home navigating the subtle page-slides of a delicate PDF.

I need a mouse that says "take me as a serious professional", but "I like to drink cheap beer with friends and laugh at off-color jokes*".

Found it! It's the NEW MX1000: The MX1100! Sexy. Now on to Google to see if I can find decent product reviews to justify the expense. "10/10", "5 Stars", "3 Puppy Kisses" (I have no clue what the last criterion were, but I feel warm and fuzzy after reading the review). Now not only is it sexy, but it is justifiably and sexy. And then I saw it.

Uh oh. What's this? only 4.5 Thumbs-up from CNET? I quote.

"Con: The downside of this mouse is that it isn't rechargeable. Our mouse only indicated 340 days of use before it would need a recharge. Better get some rechargeable batteries, though it's not really an eco-friendly option."

Wait, what?

Could the reviewer REALLY be serious? Don't even get me started on the whole "eco-friendly" aspect ("Oh honey, we really should opt for the battery that consumes energy for production and will litter the land with toxic innards for generations! Yaaay! I want a latte."), but can this be considered a major flaw? I can almost peer into the mind of this Prius-driving (I made an assumption. Sue me) tech-tard and see the problem this might pose: he has to fidget with the little cover on the mouse's underbelly, which can be a right pain if your fingers resemble Cheeto dust-covered Jimmy Dean breakfast links. This must be the hardest part of his year.

Tom: Ugh, Bob, it's that time of year again.
Bob: Taxes?
Tom: Yeah, and my mouse batteries are about to run out
Bob: Oh GOD, Tom! Not your MOUSE batteries! *soft weeping*

Friggin' deal with it already! You've been handed one of the great marvels of the digital age (it's got a laser!) and you're bitching that it will only last a year before you even need to think about how much power it must consume while sitting there, glued to your right mitt (or left if you're weird), conducting every little task you desire?

Take a good, long look at your mouse. I'm assuming it's of the wireless and optical variety. I'm assuming it uses batteries. And I'm assuming you can't even remember the last time you changed them. Ponder it.

It didn't mind when you used your knee as a mousepad because you spilled coffee on your desk. It knows what you looked for on ConsumptionJunction. It didn't judge you when you threw it down on your desk a little too hard after seeing that awkward Facebook photo tag. It didn't even cry when you decided it no longer needed a comfy pad, but the cold, harsh reality of your desk. It cared. It was a rock.

And all it ever asked was for two little batteries. Once a year. Is that too much to ask?

Only for CNET and their band of portly reviewers who are totally disconnected from reality. Though I'm sure they are rechargeable.

*That's totally an embellishment, by the way. There's no way in holy hell I'd drink cheap beer.

The most offensive conversation ever

I was walking out of dinner with some friends tonight when a couple guys with dorky helmets, white short-sleeved button downs and black pants peddled up to us on their sweet Schwinns. You know where this is going.

They introduced themselves to us and asked our names. When my friend Yuta (pronounced just like the state) told them his name, they insisted on seeing his drivers' license because they thought he was cracking a joke at their expense. It turns out he was not joking, and when asked if we knew of the Mormon faith, he was the only one to say "No". Thanks, Yuta.

Elder #1: "So I assume you all know about Christ"
George and Daniel: "Sure"
Yuta: "My family is Buddhist. I don't know what I believe."

Again, THANKS YUTA.

When pressed, Daniel admitted he'd attended Catholic school, and I informed them I was more of a 'buffet theologian', to which Elder #1 responded "Cool!" much to Elder #2's dismay. They then asked if we knew about Mormonism, and I mistakenly said yes. Elder #2 then asked me to explain what I knew to Yuta. I don't really know how to spin a good yarn about crackpot playboys and Native Americans being dubbed Lamanites and "burned" into darker skin colors because they were spurned by God, so I abstained from explaining what precious little I know of their religion. I should have said something, I guess, but I just let them go on.

They began to wax about Jesus until my jerk side took over and I asked "And so where was Jesus from?"
Elder #2: "Jerusalem."
Me: "And when he died, he went to..."
Elder #2: "Heaven"
Me: "and then...?"
Elder #2: "Jerusalem, again."
Me: "... and finally to..."
Elder #1: "Well, our best guess is somewhere around Iowa."

I think Elder #2 sensed they had a Code 9 with my smart ass.

Elder #2:"You see," he continued, "God is all about answering your prayers."
I then prayed for a muffin.
Elder #2: "The Jews prayed and look what God gave them!"
Me: "Hollywood and banking! Oh, and the holocaust."
Elder #2: "Well, uh..."
Me: "Yeah, it was a pretty bum package deal."

At this point, Yuta said "Well, I think I know you guys can't drink, right?"
Elder #2: "We can do whatever we desire"
Yuta: "Sweet, let's go get smashed!"

They then asked the time, and when we informed them it was 9:05, they stated they had to be back at their apartment by 9:00. Daniel coolly responded, "I think you're gonna be late." and then once they were safely out of earshot, "F*ck those elderlies."

Still waiting on my muffin.

You beat me down

So it has come to this. I have been told I need to start up again, and even though I began to post and aborted once already, I feel it is time to return. The fact that Amanda (my lovely sister) told me I needed to write more made me feel both proud and a little creeped out. You can't tell mom any of this, you know that... right?

Well, the first order of the day will be to give a quick recent-life summary:
I started working for a good friend's family company, and have fallen in love with the job. Those to whom I've spoken recently know how much I love my work and my coworkers. It's given me a great deal of flexibility and travel opportunity, which is always appreciated. Even if you have to VPN in from your damn iPhone while sitting on the pier in San Francisco with friends, at least it's something enjoyable. Anyway.

Second order: Finishing the aforementioned aborted post. Everyone strap in, oh, and try not to let any of this end up in the Christmas letter, Amanda.

A few months ago, the crazy crew from my earlier "PT invades Vegas" post was back in town, dragging some new members in tow. I got the call late one evening that this was going down, and forced myself to drag my enfeebled ass out for the night. Or 5. Please note that my post is drawn largely off of random notes I threw in my phone so I'd remember certain points later. I will begin each section by copying the note, then will fill in the salient details. It will be a bit disjointed, so feel free to skip around.

Wednesday:
CIRCUS CIRCUS = WALMART
This needs very little explanation. The crew was staying at this gem of a Vegas getaway, and I'll admit I was a little in awe of its craptacularness. Yes, it's a word. Look it up. It wasn't the decor or any one particular odor per se, but more the clientèle. I'm not sure that's the appropriate word, actually... how about "herd"? With everyone in our party assembled, I think it's a fair bet that there were more cumulative IQ points within a 10 foot radius (we stand close) than could be located in the rest of the entire 10-story hotel.

In a word, it was awesome, though finding the garage is not an easy task. Especially when they closed the door you entered through and placed a bush in front of it. I spent close to an hour circling the casino trying to find the garage exit. It was like some messed up excerpt from the movie Labyrinth, only with less David Bowie and more hookers. Anyway, on to the meat of the post.

MARGARITAS = MAGIC
This note is from Wednesday night. I can only assume I'd had a rough day at work and only the quenching relief of pitchers of margaritas could extinguish the flames. There's nothing particularly amusing about this, other than the fact that I still had two days of work facing me and these guys were all on vacation.

DROVE HOME
I drove home.


Thursday:
BEERS, CHAMPAGNE, MOBILE BAR
I showed up in front of the Bellagio carrying a 7-11 bags full of 40s and a bottle of champagne. When I asked what I could pick up to bring everyone, the grocery list I ended up with had me checking out at a gas station with arms full of Olde English, Colt, and Clamato beer. Actually, the last one was my idea. A bad one. We drank the beer and champagne, watched the fountains, and had a great time. I learned that it is not best to open a well-shaken can of Clamato beer, because it will explode in what I can only describe as "clammy, tomato goodness" when opened.

SUPERMAN CAPE
Jon wore a superman cape. My friend Daniel questioned this. Daniel wore a pink argyle-patterned polo shirt. Jon questioned this.

Friday:
HOPE & FAITH
I stopped at the local grocery store to procure some beverages. I grabbed a small stuffed Peep at the checkout stand and perched it atop the Jack Daniels bottle. I asked the bagger girl what I should name it... she giggled and ran away. I asked the cashier for her name and she said, "Hope". I thanked her, and as I exited the store loudly announced that the drunken Peep that would follow us around all night was hereby christened Hope. I have been informed that her name may have in fact been Faith. All I know is that when we later tossed it into the fountains at Caesars, it seemed a lot less witty to say "Look--Faith floats!" Back to the story...

JACK & COKE FEST
Again we met in front of the Bellagio. Again I brought booze. Perhaps too much. I think I realized this when I almost got a hernia pulling the Coors "Cooler bag" out of my trunk. It housed a handle of Jack Daniels, various and sundry Coca Cola products, a 10lb bag of ice, and several Starbucks cups with appropriately-sized lids. We do it in style. We also do it quickly, apparently, because the handle was gone in half an hour. It was 9:45, and we realized that we had tickets to the 10pm Cirque-esque show La Reve at the Wynn, located a mile away. We ditched the bag and ran down Las Vegas Boulevard (LVBLVD to the locals). Running down the strip, we came to the realization that no matter how fast you run, Jack will always catch one of you.


DRUNKENLY POINTING AT PERFORMERS
Have you ever scored front-row tickets to an awesome show, then proceeded to reach out at the performers as they theatrically dance on the water's edge in front of you? Jimmy has. One chick (not Hope) actually busted up laughing when he did this and broke character. It wasn't too hard of a task, considering the character development for these things probably includes coaching phrases like, "Now if you were a goldfish, what would you think about Jung's theory of a multi-layered subconscious? Good-- Hold that pose!"

ROCK, PAPER, SCISSORS
If you're sober, you throw rock. If you're settling in, throw paper. If you're too drunk to operate more than two fingers, scissors is just about your only option. We all threw in our hands at the end of the show. Solid 'rocks' all around. Except Jimmy, who after two hours of Cirque Sobriety had managed not to metabolize an ounce of alcohol and proudly threw in his scissors.

(L to R: G, James[F], James[M], Jefe, Joe, Jon... though I think Jon and Joe occupy the same vertical area)
It's time to drink your way down LVBLVD, ladies and gentlemen. Tequila at the sketchy bar in TI? Done. Jaeger bombs in Mirage? Solid. Beer about ten feet away? We're talking paper territory in no time at this pace. I need to add that I'm pretty sure Joe took the lead in almost getting us kicked out for doing cartwheels in the casino. It was only once we went to Caesar's Palace that I rely a little more heavily on my notes and less so on my memory. Here goes.

SHADOW BAR, MIKE, WILD TURKEY
We met up with my buddy Mike and shot Wild Turkey. Anyone who knows this group knows that this is not a stellar idea. Mike then treated us to his favorite shot- lemon drops. Not the conventional Lemon Drop, mind you. This is the needlessly complicated Lemon Drop. You get a shot of citron, some sugar, and lime. It's a snakebite, with with a skirt. In my case, make it a really ugly skirt because I use Splenda. We're nearing scissor territory.

BIT A ROTUND CHICK
I'm not going to go into detail on this one. Suffice it to say, Happy birthday, make sure you send your fiance a copy of that one. SCISSORS!

LIMO DRIVER'S NAME
I called up Todd the limo driver for Treasures and told him to come on down to pick us up. He's cool, that Todd. At least that's what I kept calling him. He picked us up in a limo bus resplendent with stripper pole. We had one girl with us, and the odds were not stacked in our favor for this journey.

It turns out his name is not Todd. But we tipped well.

MERLOT
We went to Treasures where we chatted up a nice girl named Merlot and found out she's only doing this to pay for college. Heart of gold. It should be noted at this point that were are not skeezy weirdos who frequent these places- much like Tom's gay marriage proposal, this moment was primarily for the story. Heck, we brought a girl! That being said, there were some comments that equated being of decent moral fiber in these places to a quadriplegic watching porn-- stunned silence and a lot of awkwardness. I'm pretty sure that making quadriplegic sex jokes takes me out of the category of 'decent moral fiber', but I think that bridge is not visible in many of our rear-view mirrors.

David, a good buddy that works there, talked his way into getting the control booth to display "WELCOME DARTMOUTH AND VANDERBILT" above the main stage. I think I have to write the alumni newsletter about this achievement.

Oh, then I dropped a lit cigar. From the second story balcony. On a stripper. I ducked for cover, as I was sure we'd be engulfed in a spreading inferno of silicone and peroxide, but she just brushed it off like she was dusting indiscretions off her dead, dead soul.

JAMES DISAPPEARS
James disappeared. I had his suit jacket. Even though I had his cell phone in the suit pocket not an inch from my chest, I somehow believed that repeatedly calling it would magically reveal his location. It was not to be. We later found out that he walked (many miles, through nasty neighborhoods) back to Circus Circus. He can tell that story, though, as it is awesome.

BUSTED ASS, SLIDING CHAIR
I pushed out a chair so I could converse cordially with an acquaintance and failed to realize that it was on wheels. The chair shot about ten feet back, and I ended up planting my hind-quarters squarely on the floor of a strip club. I need to Purell my ass just thinking about it.

SUITE @ PARIS, KNOWING LOOK FROM ATTENDANT
Mike secured us a suite at the Paris hotel so we wouldn't have to drive home. When the guest services lady informed us there was only one room and it had a king bed, we shrugged it off and said okay. It was only when she gave me a weird quizzical look that I realized what she was getting at. I am not a boy toy, lady! Naturally to allay her fears and let her know it'd be a good 'ol hetero snore-fest, I gave her an exaggerated wink while Mike's back was turned. She laughed, but I think to this day Mike doesn't know why.

Saturday:
SNORE LIKE A WILDEBEEST
I was told that I snore like a wildebeest. I took this as a compliment, as usually my snores can be registered only by keenly-trained elephants.

WALK OF SHAME
My car was parked at the Bellagio, but my body was parked at the Paris. Around 9am, I roused myself and started the walk back to the car wearing Jimmy's suit jacket. I snagged a couple of mini Tabasco bottles from our food service cart on the way out. No idea why. Standing on the street corner outside of the Bellagio in full-on club getup at 9am on a Saturday is a pretty easy way to attract attention, and I sure garnered a bit of it. Drowsy, weaving, and barely connecting my feet to the pavement, I made it back.

MINI TABASCO INCIDENT
While I was trying to turn right onto LVBLVD, a straggling pedestrian stopped in the crosswalk to take a picture of the Eiffel Tower at the Paris. I honked politely. No response. I honked rudely. Again, no response. I figured the only way to attract the pedestrian's attention was by brute force, so I grabbed one of the mini Tabasco bottles from my pocket and hurled it in a "Hi, I'm trying to drive where you are walking. Please remove yourself" gesture. It struck gold. Man, she was pissed, but at least she moved.

FETAL POSITION
This is the only note I have for the daylight hours of Saturday.

TATTOOS
No, not me. Two members of our party got badass tattoos that glow only under black lights. Cool. We also attempted to bowl but the line was too long. That's it. Crazy Saturday night.

Sunday:
SUNDAY FUNDAY
We grabbed a sixer of Tecate and some Heineken and headed out to the Green Valley Ranch pool. The girl in our party had already left, so we were probably a sight to behold as we tried out Jon's kickass underwater camera... at a pool full of kids. Which leads us to....

JIMMY'S 'STACHE, GLASSES, HAIR
Slicked back hair, unshaved mustaches, and aviator glasses. At a pool full of kids. One intreped and obviously judgment-challenged child waved at us, and when we waved back. I don't think even the most sensitive high-speed camera on earth could have recorded the speed with which the mother swiped her daughter out of eye-shot.

TECATE
The following was said of our friend, the Tecate can: "Who doesn't love Mexican beer with Russian political symbolism? Drink up and lose your capitalism!"

IN-N-OUT
In one final farewell to the West Coast life, Jefe, Jimmy and I hit up In-n-Out burger. It's sad that this moment was probably the healthiest moment of my weekend, but that's what makes life worth living.

Again, I had a great weekend, and I can't believe it's taken me this long to chronicle it. I'll search for pics to accompany the stories, but I have a feeling that even I don't want to see them.

Under Construction

I have been told that I must begin contributing again to the blogosphere.

Holy crap, that sounds retarded.

Sweet. More to come.

It's been a long year

My, my, my... I am a bad little blogger, aren't I?

I clicked on this link on my profile for the first time in, oh, 7 months today. After reading my gut-wrenching bloggorhea on wanting to leave Vegas, I realized that this place hasn't been so bad to me, after all. I've since found a fantastic group of people to work with, and am slowly tunnelling my way into a lifestyle that's not wholly repulsive.

Of course, I leave for Breck on Saturday, and who's to say I won't flip out again?

Last weekend was spent in the company of some of my best friends, and I had a great time. Ross and Katie are officially a married couple, mazel tov, and I've been jerked back to the real world in record time. I'm mentally planning the reunion in my mind already, but that's neither here nor there.

Describing the weekend's events is proving a little hard for me, as some of them I am assuming are merely wild Jack Daniels-induced hallucinations. Needless to say, I had a great time connecting with my oldest friends, and getting to know some great new ones. I really wish I'd gotten to sleep in the Groomsmen pad for one night, if for no other reason than to relive the days of yore when Ryan would rattle foundations with his snores. Good times, gents, good times. Weekends like that make me wonder why I missed out on getting to know all these great people that were skirting the edges of my life for so long, but we learn from it and life moves on. I mean, once you go from a lackadaisical detante with a girl, to holding her ankles for dear life as she perches precariously out of a third floor window*, well, you realize the potential for a good bond was there all along.

As you've no doubt guessed, this post serves no purpose other than to take the previous drivel's place as my most recent post. I can't stand to have some morose crap stand as a testament to my bipolarity, so I'll leave you with these parting words: I'm content, or as Lindsay Lohan would say, "adequite". Here's to a fantastic 2006, and an even brighter 2007.

G

*Okay, so maybe she was perfectly balanced on the ledge, but that didn't stop me from being mildly concerned.

I have been chastised

The following conversation occured five minutes ago. Names and dates have been changed to protect the innocent.

Um, well, not dates.

*knock on my door*

Felicity McWillybottom: Hi, I'm Felicity McWillybottom- I live a couple apartments away. Have you been having parties the last few weeks?
Me: Yes. I'm sorry, were we too loud?
FMW: A little. I'm sorry to bother you, and I don't want to be a party pooper, but I just wanted to say something since I had to be up at 8am, and there was so much noise coming from your place...
Me: Oh-- I'm so sorry, I'll tell people to keep it down. There was a bit of a yelling match between two people last night and I asked them to leave. Sorry if it disturbed you.
FMW: All I heard was someone yelling, "F*CK YOU, HO!" outside my bedroom at 4am. I thought they were talking to me, since I'm a prostitute.
Me: *blank stare*
FMW: Well, and a cocktail server.


This complex never ceases to amaze me. The buildings are probably some of the nicest setups in the city, the people here tend to be of a higher caliber, and then bam... the hookers start moving in. I'm probably the only guy in the city who's been told by a hooker to stop screaming at 4am.

On Curling

I admit it: I've been watching the Olympics. That's not the shameful part, though-- I've been watching curling.

For those unfamiliar with the 'sport', it basically involves playing shuffleboard on ice. When it comes time to make a shot, the skip tells the rink how to make a draw by placing a stone in the house with aid of the lead, second, and third. Catch all that?

In English: There are ten thingies in a doodad, and you have 8 chances to roll your slidey pieces onto the targetish area per thingie. The other players that didn't throw the slidey piece use brooms to sweep away crap in front of them and control their speed. As you can see, I've picked up a lot. There are 70 minutes on the clock, and much like a game of ice-chess, you are given that set amout of time in which to plan and execute all your moves in a doodad. The score is calculated by adding up the number of the team's closest-to-the-center stones closer to the center than the opponent's closest stone. Yeeeah.

There are men's and women's teams, though I'm not entirely sure why. The US men's team usually executes all their moves with about 60 minutes remaining on the clock. Their captain/skip assesses the situation, makes and decision, and conveys his wishes to the guy throwing the stone. It's simple, fast, and apparently effective since they're now the favorite/

The women's team, on the other hand, has a couple issues. There's the ever-nagging "but what if?" chick, whose job consists of second-guessing the skip, offering useless opinions about hypotheticals, and crying. Then there's the cheerleader, who adds nothing but empty cranial real estate and a perky attitude. She's usually the one who says something like, "Good effort!", which is the last thing you ever want to hear because it basically means, "You suck and that's sad". She is, however, hot. This is important in the grand scheme of things.

The Japanese women's team is, uh, interesting. I think they were trying to kill eachother during their match against the British (don't get me started on them), but it was hard to tell. Instead of yelling "Woah!" or "Go!" to signal the sweepers to sweep or not, they yell "Neee!". That's it. Just Neee! I'm not sure if it's an inflection thing or something of the sort, but they seem to know what it means when it needs to be interpreted to mean different things. Neee! can mean "sweep harder", "stop sweeping", or "come give me an inappropriately-executed hug". All in how you say it, I guess.

Swedish women's team? Semi-awesome. Two bikini team transplants and two, well, curling team girls. Balance is key. That's all I can say about them. Oh, and they're good... I think.

I have absolutely nothing more to say on this subject, to be honest. Why I posted this, I'll never know. I just to get it out there in the open. Enjoy.