Dreams

I had a rather vivid dream last night.  I hopped a bus to a creek on the North side of Springfield and started walking up the creek.  Reaching the first bend, I started searching the creek bed rocks for Indian arrowheads.  My first few finds that looked suspiciously like arrowheads, but I decided they weren’t.  Digging deeper near the bank, I found a trove of treasure.  There were eight to ten knives carved out of rock.  A few were broken, or only partially carved, but many were pristine.  I gathered my finds in my arms and climbed out of the creek.  I stopped quickly to examine some sort of Bob Ross game that had been lying in the creek, but decided the knives were enough and headed back to the bus.

The bus was a self-driving and I was the only person on board.  I laid my ancient knives on a seat and worked on packing them into my backpack.  As the bus worked its way in the general direction of home, though on the far East side of town, other people began to board.  A rider mentioned their stop and it caught my attention. 

“This bus goes all the way to Jacksonville?” I asked. 

She confirmed and I began worrying about which stop would let me out closest to home.  The road names didn’t make sense to me and I was having trouble reading the schedule.  I finally decided there was only one left, which I missed.  I tried to use the ‘Stop’ button beneath my window, but the driverless bus wouldn’t listen and pulled onto the interstate.  A short jumble of exits and turns later and I was awake, safely in my bed without having to walk across town to get home.

It's no surprise I would dream about Indian arrowheads.  I really love old artifacts and fossils.  I have a small collection that includes numerous crinoids, a trilobite, a fish, a piece of dinosaur bone, and a small lump of petrified sloth poop.  Geodes dot my collection, as do other small fossils.

My greatest fossil find was about the size of a coconut.  It was a coiled snake with its head raised, ready to strike.  The detail was amazing, right down to the impending doom written in its beady eyes.  I have no idea how it formed, but it was truly beautiful. 

A few months ago, I sat down at my computer to work.  An hour in, I thought about my new fossil find, deciding I should show it to my wife when she got home.  But where was it?  My brain skipped for just a second, before settling on the unpleasant truth, a truth I literally exclaimed aloud.

“No!  It was a dream!”

Spreadsheets Galore

I am what you might call a nerd.  Not your run of the mill goofy glasses and squeaky voice nerd (though I have learned the guy at the glasses store two years ago failed to get my glasses adjusted correctly and they don't sit straight on my face).  Instead, I find myself to be a nerd semi-disguised as a “well-adjusted individual.”  Could you read that straight face, because I couldn’t even type it without giggling at its absurdity?

But seriously, I like football, chili, and cage fights.  No one could possibly think I’m a nerd.  But then you see me with all my nerd friends sitting in a game store playing Magic: The Gathering.  Cat’s out of the bag (which is bad because I’m allergic to cats).

It gets worse. I have spreadsheets.  I have one for the budget we seldom stick to, one to track my mortgage payments, a Magic 8-Ball, a Magic event record tracker (one for in-person events and one for digital games, of course). There are the inventory tracking spreadsheets I’ve created for various areas at work and the spread sheet I keep to test new excel functions, should I ever need to go back and use something I once took the time to figure out.  That one is filled with really important things like custom functions and concatenate (which smooshes multiple cells text into one).

I did a quick search... I have 595 spreadsheets at work (technically 2,144, but some are just data storage) and 181 at home.  How many do you have and are you nerd enough to even figure that out?

Did you know I once set up a spreadsheet to calculate upgrade bonuses for an entire MMORPG so I could make the best decisions when spending my hard-earned gold?  Yeah, that was the game I had to stop playing at the request of my wife because I was getting up at 3 AM to bank my gold.

It gets even worse.  I taught myself to write macros and VBA (which is apparently a semi-Excel-specific version of Visual Basic.  It all started so innocently, wanting to copy something repeatedly or add a line at the top of a page and copy in formulas.  But it was never enough.

One day I sat down with a burning question.  Could I create a button in Excel that moved my cursor to a different cell with the click of a mouse.  Apparently just clicking on the cell had become too mundane; I needed a stronger drug.

Once one button worked, it seemed obvious to create one for each of the four normal-person directions (diagonals are overrated).  The next most obvious question was whether or not I could restrict the movement to a certain area, followed by tracking where I had been, and numbering the cells in a semi-random manner.  It was almost as if I was trying to program some sort of game in Excel.

Hours and hours (and hours [and hours]) of properly nested formulas later, I have a fully functional Choose Your Own Adventure game.  Well, it’s fully functional only in a nerd’s sense of the word.  There are 225 rooms you can wander into, of which some 30 have story lines written for them.  But the programming works.  That’s enough to be considered fully functional!

Perhaps someday I will find the time and, more importantly, the inspiration to write stories for a couple hundred more rooms.  In the meantime, I am providing you a Beta test experience!  That’s right.  You can try my non-nerd created, spreadsheet-based, Choose Your Own Adventure-esque game.  So what if the story-lines repeat themselves.  Do you have what it takes to escape the dungeon, or will you find yourself dying a horrible death. There’s only one way out.  And whether you make it out or not, you can always enjoy my spectacular usage of concatenate!

Here is a link to the game.  Try it out and let me know how you do in the comments below.

Excel Choose Your Own Adventure 

(If it doesn't load on the next screen, you can click the download button.  You may have to allow macros.  Don't worry about the macros; I wrote them all myself and they are safe.)

An Avocado is a Fruit

Avocados may be the most utensil intensive fruit on the face of the Earth.  Compare it to an apple.  You don’t need anything to eat it, but if you’re really fussy, they make a neat little coring tool to cut it into convenient, bite sized slices.  One utensil, max.  What about oranges?  All you need to enjoy one of them is an orange peeler or some long finger nails and a little determination.  How about a pomegranate?  It needs a knife to cut it and a bowl of water to work in, along with fingers and way more patience than should be required to eat a fruit.  And only one of those is a utensil.

But the avocado.  The avocado first requires a knife.  But no ordinary butter knife will do; a steak knife is needed to slice its leathery peel.  Once split, you need a spoon.  This tool works amazingly well separating the peel from the inner fruit.  You could try using a fork here, but the spoon fits the curve of the peel so well.  As an added bonus, it is quite effective at scooping out any unwanted brown spots that may be marring your otherwise beautiful fruit.  A fork would butcher this job.

Now I know it’s completely possible to stop at two utensils, reusing the knife to slice the avocado.  But I’ve found the best uses of an avocado require a fork.  An avocado slice on a salad pales in comparison to a chip dipped in fresh guacamole or avocado spread across toast.  Both are utterly divine.  While I admit I’ve never tried mashing an avocado using a knife and/or spoon, the fork does the job wonderfully well.  Smashing, mixing, spreading, the fork does it all, except of course for the above mentioned cutting and scooping.

Avocado toast is worthy of some additional details, as its rather bland moniker doesn’t do it justice.  I’m talking about ripe avocado mashed with a dash of lime juice, spread thick on toast, then lightly dusted with cayenne and a crackling of sea salt.  Absolutely amazing!  I was first introduced to avocado toast in Hawaii.  Yes, I’ve been lucky enough to go to Hawaii.  It was all sunshine, beaches, waterfalls, volcanos, pineapple, and, of course, avocado toast.

But then, avocado toast wasn’t the most memorable food I was introduced to on the Big Island.  We asked about local cuisine and were directed down a road South of Captain Cook to a small establishment that could best be described as half food place, half house and garage.  Following our directions to a T, we walked up and ordered Lau Lau.

Lau Lau is pork and butterfish wrapped in lu’au leaves and inedible ti leaves.  This particular establishment, I had heard, steams the wrapped delicacy for multiple days before serving it.  I’ve tried other Lau Lau, but nothing else has come close.  Amazing doesn’t begin to describe it.  Avocado toast can be accurately summed up as amazing, but avocado toast is not a reason I would willingly fly back to Hawaii for a single meal (not that I can afford that).

And of course, Lau Lau only requires one utensil to eat.  Unless, of course, you count the airplane and multiple cars needed to get there.

Electrical Outlets

It’s been over a decade since I’ve bothered to write anything on here.  Why did I stop, you may ask?  Keeping up with my blog had become a chore.  I was setting deadlines, then struggling to find enough nonsensical text to post.  On top of that, I had just gotten a new job working for the State and I wasn’t sure how much I was able to divulge about my work.  If I said too much, would they fit me with cement shoes like they had threatened at the new employee orientation?  Wait, they said headset, not cement shoes.  And to think I’ve spent the last decade worrying I’d end up meeting Mr. Hoffa.

I had always wanted to write about my new work environment and the hazards of navigating an endless maze of cubicles.  Tall ones, short ones, even medium ones, all subdividing a series of never-ending dead ends.  It was maddening.  It is maddening!  A decade later and I still find myself wandering around, getting lost, and not knowing where the light switch is.  And the sad part is I’ve been working at home for the last 10 months!

But you and I know that’s not why I’m up writing tonight.  Well, you didn’t, but now you do.  Please do try to keep up.  

It’s about The Girl.  I’m pretty sure I haven’t blogged this story before, seeing as the girl is 11 and this feels like an older-than-a-one-year-old story.  If I’m wrong, then I hope you enjoy a second telling.  At the least, you haven’t heard it in over a decade.

Like I was saying, it’s about The Boy.  I’m a firm believer in "corporal punishment."  Not the over the knee ***-whoopin’ kind because you spilled my beer.  More like the reasonably firm hand slap to impart understanding that a dangerous action may cause pain.

I walked into Andrew’s daycare and was chatting with the teacher.  (I may have told this part of the story before.) 

“You know, Andrew is the only kid in here who doesn’t play with the electrical outlets,” she remarked.

“That’s because he tried once and I slapped his hand.”

Andrew always was a quick learner.

But like I was saying, this story is about The Girl.  The Girl is what you may call a free spirit.  An independent free spirit, if you will.  An independent, lives by her own rules in her own world, free spirit (I mean that in the best way possible.  If you’ve met her you probably understand).

She was the second kid.  I’d done parenting good before.  I knew how to raise a kid.  So, when my roughly two-year-old not surprisingly reached for an outlet one day, I firmly told her “No” and slapped her hand.  I’m pretty sure it was the first hand slap she’d encountered because she pulled back, sitting up with a startled expression on her face.  I could see the gears in her head turning, processing this new concept.  I waited for the tears to fall, for the lesson to be learned.  Instead, she raised her hand and slapped me back.

I don’t think she thought it was a game.  I think she wanted to let me know she wasn’t going to put up with being told what she could and couldn’t do.  She’d survived the NICU, she could take care of  her own damn self.  She needed to teach me a lesson.

Anna was never one to back down from a little discomfort, a challenge, or the brunt force of reality.  She learns lessons through exploration and discovery.  A hand slap never taught her to fear some greater danger; those lessons only took hold when accompanied by a look of disappointment on Daddy’s face.  That brought her crumbling to the ground.  Which was great, because then I could grab her up, hug her tightly, and lovingly explain whatever lesson I thought she needed to learn. 

It is taking me a while to learn the lessons my daughter has been teaching me.  Learning often requires a little pain and a little disappointment.  I guess they both take after me.

What Does the World Revolve Around?

No time to edit today.  WYSIWYG . . .

Apparently, my little girl is learning to play the system.  She has spent the two days in the 1 year old room at day care.  When I picked her up today, she put on her usual pout, lying on the floor crying.  I, of course, let her cry, refusing to pick her up until she puts forth some effort on her end.  While I sat a few feet away from her, her teacher asked if I was encouraging her to crawl.  It set me back a moment.  Why did Anna's teacher think she had need of learning to crawl.  "No," I responded hesitantly, "she crawls all over the place.  She's even almost walking.  Isn't she crawling around in here?"

It seems she has not been.  Perhaps it is the foreign room, the bigger kids and the shiny new teachers that have her clamming up, but I am not buying that one.  I think the girl knows that if she doesn't move on her own, somebody will pick her up.  After all, attention is truly what Anna has craved since day one.

It was time for a demonstration.

I took my phone out of my pocket, turned on the music player, then set it on the floor.  After all, what self respecting child can resist the opportunity to play with Daddy's phone?  My trap set, I walked away to collect her effects from her cubby.

I turned around and the game was afoot.  The cat was out of the bag. (Stupid cat . . . I should have tied the bag tighter . . . er . . .um, right, keep on topic.)  Her teacher had seen it too.  The little girl was up on her hands and knees.  "Ooh will I have a story to tell tomorrow," her teacher said.

My job there was done.  I collected my effects (a.k.a. Anna) and we forged our way home.

I'm not really sure if I have a point to this story, other than my wonder at our daughter's continued insistence that she be the center of her tiny universe.  As much as I would like to explore this phenomenom further, I find myself being beckoned to the car.  Of course, I can expect many years of witnessing (and hopefully overcoming) this very thing.

Family Ties

This week finds our linguistic hero taking a well deserved sabbatical. In his stead, you shall have the pleasure of reading the musings of I, Jorge, Mike’s evil twin brother. Let us begin our other-worldly adventure as we . . .

Dude, Jorge, what are you doing on my blog?

Mike?!? I thought you were supposed to be, er, away for the week. I was just, um, checking to make sure . . .

“Aaaaah, get out of my chair!” (Bonus points for naming the movie.)

Sorry for all of that, folks, but Jorge is gone now. In fact, it is quite likely you shall never hear from him again. That’s right; let’s never speak of him again.

Ahem.

Did you know you can daisy-chain a three-way phone conversation? That’s right. If I call Dad and Dad calls Sister and Sister calls Brother and Brother calls Sister-in-Law, then the whole mess of us can yack it up in a non-stop interruptionfest. But why would one care to create such chaos? I’m glad you asked. But first, a story.

Have you ever played ‘I Spy?’ You know the game where you see something, but make everybody else guess what it is. My family never played ‘I Spy.’ Settling for something we could see, something tangible and all too often obvious was not enough to sate our appetite for entertainment. We played ‘First one find a . . .’

You see, when you play ‘I Spy,’ your creativity and imagination are kept on a rather short leash. In our game, however, there were no limits. Somebody came up with an idea and everybody strove to spot it first. I can still remember some of the items we sought. Many of them are seemingly mundane, with no real reason they have remained amongst my conscious streams of thought. For example, double red doors on a house. I cannot tell you who found it first, but I do remember looking for it.

As we got older, the challenges got harder. Lists were created. First to find a man walking a dog, a fire engine and a fat lady. (Please read as a list, not a sentence describing what the man is walking.) It strikes me that this game held our attention through high school and even college. Perhaps we enjoyed the challenge of creating a difficult pursuit. Perhaps we reveled in the chance to find the ever elusive ultimate ‘find a.’ I wasn’t part of the game in which it was named (I believe Melissa partook), but eventually one item became the ultimate find of our silly game. To this day, it is understood that if one of us ever finds a motorcycle pulling a port-a-potty, they shall be deemed the eternal champion!

I had toyed with the idea, when Melissa got married, of hiring some biker dude to tow a jon-on-wheels past her reception. However, the day came and went with nary a thing being hitched together (except her and her hubby, of course.) Anyways, I’m not sure they allow port-a-pottys on Coronado Island. I’m not even sure they allow a biker dudes!

About four or five years ago, I found myself missing this penultimate distraction to those encased in a moving vehicle. It struck me, why should we have to be in the same car to play? We didn’t even need to be in the same state! Thus began the first multi-state game of ‘first one find a.’

A few days ago, our family once again stepped up to their individual microphone and amidst a clamorous phone conversation, each shared their newest idea. The conversation was outstanding. In the end, we all knew exactly what we needed to find, an antique mustang driving down the road with a lady in a red coat, carrying a red bag sitting the open trunk, while a fat lady and a skinny lady on skateboards watched, but they tripped over a man who was lying on the ground because he had been hit by a kid driving one of those battery operated cars. Or something like that.

As my family begins the quest to crown its fourth champion, I invite you to participate in the first ever “I have No Idea Why I Just Said That” first one find a challenge. The rules are simple. Find the things I list below, then post that you found them in the comments section. (and/or on Facebook) It does not matter where you are when you find the item, except that you cannot find it at home. Also, you cannot create a situation in which you see a listed item. (The port-a-potty gig wouldn’t have counted anyways.)

The List
1. A dog going to the bathroom (not your own dog)
2. A red car beside a blue car (front, back or side)
3. A leaf in the act of falling off a tree (somewhere between the tree and the ground)

Happy hunting!

The Name's Al, Weird Al

Too long it’s been since a generous muse has set its sweet voice upon my listening ears. Those that long ago visited Sir William, C.S. and the great Mr. Larson have at whiles found greener pastures than those upon which my brain doth graze. But yet it seems, perhaps, others have taken their place, stirring my vain imagination towards its work.

Of late, inspiring words have been far and few between, as Wednesday after Wednesday I find myself staring down the barrel of a self-imposed deadline. The outpouring of my mind has taken other forms beside the written word. Thus, I have a partially completed spreadsheet, dotted with formulas, buttons and Microsoft Visual Basic language; a concoction that exists for no more grand reason than the challenge of its creation.

For those who haven’t heard, I have found employment in the good graces of the state. My quiet days spent tending a tiny flock have been exchanged for conversations about vehicle tax returns, penalties for late filing and the unending struggle with the ultimate question, “Do I have to pay tax on this?”

In case you haven’t figured the answer to that one out yet, the answer is usually a resounding ‘Yes.’ Unless, of course, you make a purchase from an out of state supplier who is not registered with Illinois and you have them ship the item to your brother’s aunt’s sister’s grandmother’s first boyfriend from high school. In that instance, Old-Romeo has to pay the tax.

But I digress . . .

No I haven’t! I never did find a true tune to which my fingers could waltz upon these keys. Instead, they have rather taken flight to an obscure Weird Al Yankovic Polka Party cut. (Editor’s note: all sense and sensibility has taken leave of Mike for the next paragraph. They may return somewhere in the final verse. Pirates, be ye warned.)

Now there’s a topic. Nothing entertains the masses like a long-haired misfit harping out overly fast music from his accordion, (Do accordions harp? If not, what do they do . . . accord??? So when an accordion plays music, does everybody get along with everybody else?) All while his squeaky voice chimes along, (So you can enjoy life as much as I, I have included a link to the song on last.fm. Just find and click the tiny black circle under ‘Top Tracks.’) ‘Yo I tell you what I want, what I really really want. So tell us what you want, what you really really want . . . I wanna, I wanna I wanna zuba zuba aah . . . If you wanna be my . . . Everybody. Ye-ah. Rock your body. Yea-ah . . . might as well be walking on the sun’ . . . . accordion solo!!! . . . . ‘I get knocked down but I get up again’ . . . some song I don’t know . . . but my body keeps bouncing in my chair. There’s something about this . . . ‘semi-charmed kind of life Baby Baby’ . . . that lifts my spirits. Even though I cannot stand the original Mmm Bop by those kids who nobody know what ever became of them, I find no shame in singing it loudly when accompanied by a polka beat.

As WinAmp sings about being ‘Pretty fly for a Rabbi,’ I find it hard to continue any coherent thought. Perhaps that is for the best. After all, who among you really wants to hear about how my little girl climbed upon a walker/rider thingey at church tonight and waddled around the nursery for a while before successfully dismounting without cracking her noggin upon the hard floor? I often wonder about my still-tiny girl. She has given voice to a few words and now moves about upon unsteady feet so long as her hands find a sturdy support. But there is an ever nagging fear that her tiny size hides some deeper malady. But then she unexpectedly mounts the walker and casts a glance my way. A broad smile graces her face, boldly proclaiming, “Look at me, Daddy. I’m doing something amazing and I sure do know it!”