A long-awaited, highly-anticipated review.

So, kids, how was that for a build-up?  I know it's been a while since you've gotten such a coveted rental car review from me.  What can I say?  I haven't been traveling much.  However, last week I had a new Chrysler 200, and it was a mixed bag.  

Pros: Great pickup, automatic headlamps and auto climate.  The car has a nice roadfeel.  For basic seating it was still relatively comfortable.  Compass on the dash with the temperature, not something I expect in a basic car.  

Cons: Rear visibility sucks.  The seats are so high and the headrests are fixed so you can't do anything about it.  At slow speeds like the parking lot, the steering is cumbersome.  It feels like there's no power steering at all.  When I shut off the car at night, the headlamps look like they project the Chrysler wing logo.  Maybe that's not a con, but it's gimicky and it's blatant product placement, to which I'm opposed.  I don't like how all the doors unlock at once when you open the car, but that's probably a setting somewhere.  The trunklid is heavy to open, like the little air pistons are fighting you instead of assisting.  Plus, the liftover is quite high.  Not a candidate for long-term driving, for sure.

It's not one of the cubish little cars my boss gets from time to time, so that's a plus.  I don't know that I could take myself seriously in a Kia Soul or one of those little Nissans.  But it's also not the new 200, a beautiful departure from the 2011 model I had.  

Overall, I could be nitpicking because it's not as cool as the 300.  I still think the car is quite drivable and not bad looking in its own right.  Once I figured out the climate control, it was a polar excursion for me, a nicety in hot, humid weather.  I give it a tentative B-. 

I feel like a kid again

I am a product of the 70's, the same decade that produced disco and glam rock.  It was also the same decade as the great fuel crisis.

I don't remember the fuel crisis, so either it never hit Wisconsin, or I was just unaware of my father putting two gallons of gas into a car that got two miles to the gallon. 

However, on Sunday, I faced my own little fuel crisis: our local stations were all out of gas.  If I had gas in the car, this little tidbit wouldn't bother me at all.  As it was though, the dash had been announcing 'FUEL RANGE LOW' for over a day, and I really felt like I needed a cushion (having run out of gas before...pushing my car once was more than enough.)

I was able to eke out a gallon from the gas can at home, to buy me a day or two until the stations can restock.  And since it's been see-through-time hot the past few weeks, my lawn isn't growing, anyway.  However, driving on 'E' makes me edgy, and not in a good way (like KISS in a world of Bee Gees and Gloria Gaynor.)  Instead, I'm just anxious, waiting for the worst to happen (like a Bee Gees fan at a KISS concert.)

But I can just hope that when I can fill up again, the prices are closer to 1975 than 2011.  Ah, the blind optimism of youth.  And if I can't refill before I run out completely, I'll end up walking or riding my bike.

Just like I had to in the 70's.

God didn't buy me a satellite

Not that I expected Him to, nor did I ask.  Certainly, there are far larger things going on in the world than my having to listen to broadcast radio.

All the same, having spent the last three months nearly commercial-free, almost always finding music to suit my mood, whatever mood that may be, suddenly being faced with static, lost stations, non-stop ads, unwitty 'witty morning banter' and country music (actually, it's both kinds: country and western) is like torture.

(And not the good kind, with spankings...)

It was something, driving to lunch with typical early-80's new wave in the background, only to get back in the car after some great tacos to nothing.  Well, an XM advertisement looping non-stop, but not early-80's new wave, to be sure.

I can't say they didn't warn me.  I ignored the mail, the phone calls at inopportune times, even the emails.  Because part of me cringes at the idea of paying for radio.  However, that part is the one with no short-term memory, the holier-than-thou part of my brain that forgets we hate commercials, unwitty 'witty morning banter' and country music.  It's also the same part of my brain that hates buying bottled water or paying for cable, but those are completely different subjects.

I'm just going to have to break down and pay the XM piper, aren't I?

On an unrelated note, have you noticed the trusty sidebar here at CDS Enterprises?  There's a nifty little PayPal button over there, where you can achieve great esteem in the eyes of this site's author by donating to the XM cause.  


No?  Then at least click the email link and ask the nerdy fat guy an interesting question.  It's the least you could do.

Random Acts of Thursday - What're you driving at?

So, it's likely I've posted before about what a car nerd I am. Possibly. I forget.

But really, all my friends growing up were similarly possessed. I had my first crush on a girl in kindergarten, partially because she was cute, but mostly because her mother dropped her off at school in a bright yellow '71 442.

Even then I was deep, no?And I look back at the films I enjoyed as a kid, and so many of them involved cars that, subsequently, I wanted. It may explain why I had over 200 Hot Wheels and similar cars, that we'd drag out and race around the basement or front porch. It may explain why I still have over 200 Hot Wheels and Matchbox cars, in this, the waning part of my 39th year on this planet. It may explain why I still gravitate toward the Hot Wheels display when I'm hanging around Target or the grocery store.I could do this the easy way, dear reader. I could give you the film, and you would then just need to guess which car I liked so much it made an impact on me through today. However, you know me, I don't do anything the easy way. As such, I'll give you the year of the film and the year and model of the car, you just need to identify the film.

Hint, one of these cars was in Monday's movie quote movie.

(1964) - 1964 Aston Martin DB5
(1968) - 1968 Mustang fastback
(1977) - 1971 Lincoln Continental Mark III
(1977) - 1976 Lotus Esprit Type 79
(1977) - 1977 Pontiac Firebird Trans Am
(1978) - 1973 Chevrolet Corvette
(1979) - 1973 Ford Falcon
(1980) - 1974 Dodge Monaco
(1981) - 1980 Lamborghini Countach LP400S
(1983) - 1976 Porsche 928
(1985) - 1967 Camaro
(1985) - 1981 DeLorean DMC12
(1985) - 1984 Ferrari 308 GTS
(1987) - 1959 Corvette
(1988) - 1986 Porsche Carrera Cabrio

Oh, what the heck, one more hint - I'll give you the colors. There are five black ones, two silver, two gray, one red, one orange, one green, one white and two two-tones. Isn't that helpful? Of course it is.

Google away, phone a friend, activate that NetFlix membership. I know it's not easy, they never are. But since I don't want you just spinning your wheels, I find this to be of great assistance.

Let the awkward commence!

Ah, I can feel the awkward wash over me like a light spring rain. It's been quite the weekend in Cheesehead Displacement land, kiddies!

I may have implied, in Sunday's dinner recipe post, that perhaps Australia is not exactly the fine purveyor of wines they like to believe themselves to be. I just might have posted a link to Monty Python's 'Australian Table Wine' sketch. I may even have chuckled at the thought of 'this is a wine suitable for hand-to-hand combat'. I disparaged one vineyard in particular, as I was not pleased with the bottle I had.

And the winemaker called me on it. Well, not called, but they did leave a very polite and apologetic comment on the post, while informing me that I was drinking their wine incorrectly.

I feel bad. I never want to be the one to belittle one's life's work, unless you happen to be this guy:After all, not everyone's taste is the same.

Also awkward, I felt compelled to compliment another blogger last week, he'd put a lot of work into a beautiful chopper, and since I'd want someone to tell me what they thought of my work, I felt it only proper to convey my appreciation in kind.

However, since the blogger is from Japan, and the blog itself in Japanese, I had to fall back on a translation tool to give me something to cut and paste. Since then, most of my Google banner ads have been in Japanese. I've begun to correspond with another Japanese biker, and while he's informed me I can write to him in English, this only deepens my awkward feeling, when I think my translations must have been so awful, he'd rather fight his way through a non-native language than let me butcher his.

I feel bad about this, but given as he's continued to correspond in English, I can only hope for good things to come of it.

Speaking of good things coming, the winning-est awkward moment of the month goes to that girl in the car next to us at the light last night. Nothing like sitting stopped at a light, looking around, and then finding myself staring at a girl's butt in the window as the rest of her bobs up and down over the driver's seat. The windows were tinted, and as I was trying to decide how to point this out to Lori without simultaneously alerting my daughter in the back seat, a pickup truck on the other side of said vehicle made it very clear that my original perception was correct.

And there was much rejoicing.

Kids, Road Head is bad. It is a dangerous thing when the car is moving, and simply quite embarrassing when you decide to do such a thing at a red light, between two larger vehicles that get to look right down into your car. Do it while the car is moving, and every pothole could be the worst second of your life.
Plus, she wasn't wearing her seatbelt. And that's dangerous.

Should also note: Taku, my new friend, commiserated with me on the eternal weight gain. He also shared with me his height and weight, indicating that he's "a big eater and getting fat", at just under my height and 80% of my current mass. Thanks for that ego boost. I really do need to start working out.

Random Acts of Thursday - My Low Resolution Makes Me Blurry

I have never been one for New Year's Resolutions. I cannot resolve to do less of the bad things and more of the good things, my willpower just doesn't roll that way. However, I can resolve the following:

I resolve to be nerdier than ever in 2010. Put your thinking caps on, there are quizzes to be answered and perhaps more prizes to be won.

I resolve to be as amusing as I can possibly be to satisfy the needs of you, dear readers. More reminiscing about the fat kid I was, and more amusing anecdotes from the fat guy I am.

I resolve to eat more pie. We're less than a month away from National Pie Day, you know...

I resolve to go on being as perfect as I already am.

Here's wishing you a safe and happy New Year's Eve. Remember, it's amateur night. Designated drivers and couch crashing are the in thing.

Well, that was absurd, let's eat dead bird

I'm fairly certain that your week will be filled with posts about turkey, dressing, pumpkin pie and football. Posts about what you're thankful for.


I'm thankful for sentences that end in prepositions, and hopeful that the Pack will trounce Detroit on Thursday. We'll be spending our holiday Griswold style, celebrating a Vegas vacation, though don't count on any damn blog posts about the damn tour, because I'm not taking the damn laptop.


Something else for which I am eternally grateful comes from a nation that doesn't celebrate Thanksgiving, a holiday best described by the Indefatigable Mjenks:


"...our celebration of Thanksgiving, which, of course, was a way of thanking the Natives of North America for helping the colonists through the first few years of life, thus allowing them a foothold on this distant shore and making it far easier to usurp their land. Thanks for teaching us that bury-the-dead-fish-next-to-the-corn-plant trick, Squanto. Here's a blanket encrusted with small pox! Now, how many of these brightly colored beads would you like for that island over there?"

The glory of which I speak, the thunder from down under, the Ayatollah of Rock and Rolla, is the Mad Max series of films. Granted, Thunderdome kind of sucks, thanks to the infliction of Hollywood-style over-the-toppedness and dropping Max Rockatansky into a film where he was never intended, but it still has some merits. As a milestone, Mad Max (the original, oft-imitated) which drew some of its own insparation from the works of Kurosawa, turns 30 this year. Mad Max and the Road Warrior epitomized coolness to me in a way I couldn't understand when I was eleven. But I love that they're films you can watch repeatedly, each time noticing something new, understanding something deeper.

But now I'm torn. Seems they're somewhere in the process of making Mad Max 4. As much as I love the Max-ness of Thunderdome, taking the Aussie out of the wasteland seemed wrong. The plus here is that it's in development by George Miller, the same gent who wrote, directed and produced the first three films. The same George Miller who sacrificed his own car to the carnage when the first film was coming in over budget.

Caution: This is not art...

However, this is also the same George Miller who in recent years has given us such crash-bang action adventures as Happy Feet and Babe: Pig in the City.

I'll stay hopeful, but I still expect it to be a turkey. That way, maybe I can be thankful if it actually turns out well.

Random Acts of Thursday - The original 'Pimp my Ride'

As is the nature of how my mind works, I was thinking about cars the other day, and my focus landed on Corvettes after watching 'James May on the Moon' the other night and learning that the American astronauts were bad-asses, with matching Corvettes and wicked 70's mustaches.
I considered another quiz like the Trans Am query I posed that is as yet unanswered, but obviously I need to give y'all a week off to let your brains heal from the fury that is my brilliance.

No, really.
So, anyway, as I'm looking at Corvettes in Film, I came across quite the gem: The Corvorado.

I spent my childhood lusting over custom cars, checking out the Chuck Barris/Ed Roth books from the library every chance I got, and being intrigued by any and all car mods, from the simple metalflake paint jobs to chopped tops, frenched trim, lowered suspensions and gull-wing doors. The one thing these modifications had in common was what they didn't have in common...each car was unique in every aspect.

Which brings us to the Corvorado. Designed and built by Les Dunham and Dunham Coach in New Jersey, which gave us the Superflymobile and other such blinged-out goodness in the '70's, the Corvorado was actually manufactured as a kit, meaning more than one such Corvette-cum-Cadillac was built in the world.
This is swanky, to say the least. Can't you just smell the crushed velvet, soaked with Hai Karate? One of these was even used in a Bond film, thankfully NOT by Roger Moore himself.Which brings me next to 'the Buick'. My car, despite it's relative youth in the car world, has somewhere over 250,000 miles on it, and a great deal of rust, thanks to six winters spent driving on Wisconsin roads. However, it runs perfectly, and everything critical for comfort works (A/C, radio, cruise control, power steering). It just lacks...personality. (The picture here isn't mine, just an incredible simulation...but my windows aren't tinted and the foglamp is full of water, and there's a big scrape down the side where I hit that Dumpster...) So part of my car intrigue since early childhood has included the extreme modifications, those occasional masterpieces known as Art Cars.
These little gems could be adorned as simply as changing paint, or as ornately as hot-gluing pennies or broken china to the entire car, or even adding a shark fin and monkeys playing cymbals to the roof.

Right now, Lori just shivered in her office at home, and has no idea why. Be nice and don't mention it to her, would you? It'll just be our little secret.

Random Acts of Thursday - The good, the bad and their common car (Updated)

Growing up in the '70's as I did, the American musclecar was ripe in my mind. Rumbling metal beasts were everywhere, and despite my personal obsession with Oldsmobiles, the Pontiac still screamed 'cool' in every way.

The Trans Am and it's tamer counterpart, the Firebird, weighed heavily in the films of my youth. Noteable, of course, is the BAN-1 76 driven so skillfully by the mustache-enhanced Burt Reynolds. And really, Burt Reynolds films really meant more with the mustache. Even James Garner rocked the base model on 'The Rockford Files', and the Hoff really rocked a mid-80's version.

However, there are other films that shared this simple vision as well: raw power on four wheels. I'll name the actor, you name the film. Most correct answers wins. I've tried listing them in chronological order, but I could be wrong, since much of this comes from memory. And 1974 was a big year for the Trans Am. Just sayin.

1. John Wayne
2. Keith Carradine
3. Jeff Bridges
4. Burt Reynolds (and not as Bandit...)
5. Steve McQueen
6. Roy Scheider

Bonus question 1: Which Knight Rider 'star' featured opposite Dustin Hoffman in a film that predates all those I've hinted at above?

Bonus question 2: In addition to McQueen's '68 Mustang in Bullitt, which other actor drove a Mustang in addtion to a Trans Am in the same film?

Hey, these can't all be easy.

Take a little trip, take a little trip with me

All my friends know the low rider.

Okay, not all of them, but maybe most.

Well, some.

Okay, fine, I was just dropping names, I don't even know anyone who knows anyone who knows the low rider. I'm just deliberately wasting your time. Monday when I was leaving for the office, there was a car club loading up their rides for the trip back home. I don't understand, exactly, but apparently one does not drive these cars long distances, even when you've spent the money to buy the vintage window fan.

I guess I understand that, because damn, they're beautiful, and it would kill me to get a stone chip in my hand-striped, silver-leaf-encrusted 64. And note the chubby guy in the blue shirt reflected in the bumper on the first photo. It was almost like I planned to coordinate with my subject. I love the engraving, always so many new ideas, I'd love to have Ruby outfitted as such.

And speaking of taking little trips, I leave in two weeks for the greater Cleveland area to train clients for five days, then I'm home again for a week, and it seems more likely than not that I'll be back in Germantown, MD again.

I'm really racking up those frequent flier miles.

Elliott and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day

***note, I apologize now for the negative tone and self-centered nature of this post. Save yourself. Go Google cute bunnies or surf porn now, avoid the whole mess.
I had a fantastic weekend. Should I, therefore, be punished? Apparently so.

My phone died Sunday night, and apparently that means that the phone itself decides to go into paperweight mode after recharging. No calls, no email, nothing. Therefore, I never got the calls from the mechanic about the Buick, so even though I dropped the car for service yesterday morning, it didn't get fixed. I was able to bum a ride home, but now I have two vehicles in south Tampa and none at home, on a night I work until 8 pm. I'll be going to get Lori tonight, then driving back down here to get my car, then driving back home. That's not inconvenient. Not at all.


And the Packers lost. To He-who-shall-not-be-named. But we won't discuss that.

When I got to my desk this morning, my computer was off. I didn’t shut it off, but powering it back on confirmed a ‘thermal event’ transpired overnight. That’s a weather condition, not a PC issue. It’s like the Alli people referring to uncontrollable anal seepage as a ‘Treatment Effect’.
***artist's depiction. If only our closet was actually this big!

When the computer finally booted up again, I got the email from Lori that the new double-poled, double-shelved, beautifully organized closet that we put together last month suffered a meltdown this morning. The top shelf collapsed, and since it landed on the bottom pole, I’m sure that one’s worse for wear, too. Lori can’t tell for sure because the whole closet is just a jumble of wire shelving, clothes, hangers and boxes.
***not the Dammit, but the markings are strangely familiar


Now I just got another email from her, indicating that the Dammit Dog decided he wanted to roll in poo, and is now encrusted in it. He never does this, but it’s my fault, I haven’t picked up the yard lately because in rainy season, it disintegrates before I can get to it.
Meanwhile, our systems have been experiencing outages all day, so clients can’t access our system. And their clients can’t access our system.

And, thanks to stress, the nightmares are better than ever. Lori woke me up because I was whimpering in my sleep, apparently. That’s better than snoring, I would think, but she doesn’t agree. As I was trying to go back to sleep, the medivac helicopter was suddenly hovering and circling above our house until traffic wherever they were headed could clear. That’s not disconcerting when you’ve just been woken from a bad dream. Not at all. When I came back from lunch, my desk fan wouldn’t turn. After a few minutes disassembling, turning, flipping switches and banging it on my desk, it’s finally running again.
And I just read that my favorite magazine, Gourmet, is stopping publication after 68 years.
Can I get a do-over on my week? Because this one just isn’t working for me.

And it’s only Tuesday.

Fun Fact Friday - You spin me right round

Baby, right round (in a record-like fashion, one might say). Today is Lori's and my fifth wedding anniversary. I love her deeply, and somehow, she still puts up with my nonsense and nerdiness. Since the traditional gift for 5th anniversaries is something wooden, I could have taken the low road here. Or I could have discussed the origin of the 2x4. Fun stuff.

Not, however, as much fun as positraction. Ooh, limited slip differentials. Talk to me baby, that's the stuff. I know, I'm a big romantic at heart.

The topic came up Wednesday night, because Lori's truck is making an odd whining, whirring noise. Because it strains like the transmission can't shift, but the transmission shifts just fine, I thought it could be the differential. Of course, it wouldn't make the noise for me today.

Even though the modern automobile has always had four wheels, it took modern science and Ferdinand Porsche to realize that wheel spin could be controlled. When turning a corner, the inside tires are spinning more slowly than the outside tires. If the tires spin equally, the inside tire will either force the car back into a straight line, or squeal annoyingly, so as to impress members of the female persuasion. Same thing as when we pull away from a light.

What? They pulled us aside in Driver's Ed to tell us that girls like that sort of thing.

Really.

However, by building a clutch mechanism into the differential, it can allow the gears to turn asynchronously in turns. However, in a straight line, the differential can again resume equal power to both tires, which results in those cool dual burnout marks.(Anything, ladies?)

Of course, there's lots of science-y stuff behind this, that I've never been able to comprehend. If you're really curious, check out DrivingFast.com, they know how to get their nerd on big time.

And if you just want gratuitous movie nerdiness, identify the following:

"Because there is no way that these tire marks were made by a '64 Buick Skylark convertible. These marks were made by a 1963 Pontiac Tempest. The car that made these two, equal-length tire marks had positraction. You can't make those marks without positraction, which was not available on the '64 Buick Skylark!"

Cinematic genius.

Random Acts of Thursday - Driving me nuts

You may recall my sandwich story from a few weeks ago. And I love me some sandwiches. Of course, we live in a world of fast-paced, work-a-day multitaskers, myself included. And while I eat in my car FAR too often, I would never think of eating a spaghetti sandwich while driving.

The same holds true of tacos. Burritos, yes, if they aren't the modern large-as-your-head burritos, but instead come from that tintinabular pseudo-Mexican place that we all know and love. Last year I nearly choked to death on an Egg McMuffin. I've been known more than once to attempt an ice cream cone during a hot summer month. There really is a line where driving while dining has gone too far. And we've all crossed it at some point.

The reason I bring this up is because on my evening commute last night, I saw a woman eating corn-on-the-cob. CORN. ON. THE. COB. In her bright yellow Mustang.I won't even eat corn on the cob in my house, given the choice. To me, buttery, salty corn on the cob was meant to be consumed outdoors, stooped over to avoid dripping corn juice and butter on anything but the ground. I wouldn't eat corn on the cob in my car for money. The same goes for barbecue ribs, in all their saucy goodness.

(disclaimer: everyone has his price, and if you really, REALLY want me to eat corn on the cob or ribs in my car, I'm open to offers.) But really, people will eat nearly anything in their cars. Same as we'll answer the phone, fumble for maps, scratch an itch in a 'personal area', apply makeup, read the paper (or a novel) or carry on face-to-face conversations with people in the back seat.

At best, we'll just get a lapful of molten cheese and burger grease. At worst, we all know that it could lead to serious injury, even death. Remember. We don't judge here. Openly mock, perhaps, but we don't judge. What's the worst car-unfriendly food you've attempted to eat on the run? What's your secret driving faux pas?

We won't tell. Promise.

Is it really a mid-life crisis if I don't have a Corvette?

The walls are closing in. My new boss started work today, and when I walked in, there's a brand-new office where Lori's cubicle used to be. This means, that instead of walking into a wide-open space every morning, where there's light and some semblance of space, my claustrophobic self has to walk into another hallway. Because they had to move the neighboring cubicle out three feet to finish the drywall work, I turn the corner into another narrowing walkway.

Of course, I relocated my desk several months ago, out of the dark corner with a full window, into this brighter space. Thanks to that choice, I have a window, but I can't look out of it, since there's a cubicle wall in front of it. I feel like I should be in an Albert Camus novel (or a Cure video), today it suddenly dawns on my that I chose my own prison cell.In other news, I did, in fact, go car shopping over the weekend. The Buick is sick, quite sick, and throwing money at something that may not be worth it is painful. However, being the economics major that I was, opportunity cost says that I'll be sacrificing a lot just to get a new(er) car. Dr. Giesber rings through my head, asking me how many cheeseburgers I can eat before it becomes more worthwhile to buy an order of fries? How many vacations, motorcycle mods, fancy dinners, fine whisky and new patio doors would I be giving up for one pre-owned German sport sedan? And if, despite warning, you read all the way through Saturday's post, you know we need new patio doors, patio doors that DON'T have large gaps at the top and bottom where daylight and OTHER THINGS can pass right through.
But after a heartfelt discussion with Lori Friday night, after another miserable, soul-crushing week working under fluorescent lights and feeling my brain cloud grow larger and larger, it is obvious to all that I am suffering a mid-life crisis. The time has come, gone, and come back again to look at other potential career options, and since I don't know what I want to be when I grow up, the options are fairly open.

Further bulletins as events warrant.

My attention span is barely a footbridge

From time to time, I do manage to squeeze a coherent, well-versed essay from my addled brain. However, as much as I want to, today is not one of those days. Instead, I am electing to enlighten you with random little thoughts that have crossed my mind of late.

I love Bond films, and I am biased toward Sean Connery. Especially when compared to the wacky, '70's episodes with Roger Moore and wacky music and bad stop-motion photography. Which begs the question. Obviously James Bond in a finely tailored suit is NOT the same as James Bond with his tweed safari jacket and Sansabelt bell-bottomed trousers. Why then did '70's babes like Britt Ekland, Jayne Seymour, Maud Adams and Lois Chiles simply fall into bed with him? If we're going to do a parody of Bond in the NOW era, wouldn't it be far more empowering for them to reject him cold? To simply chuckle in his face when he tries to be suave in his bell-bottomed Sansabelt slacks? To scream 'Rape' when he grabs their arms tightly and throws them down on the bed?

This is not something a superspy wears. Even if he did get a Chevy Vega from the rental agency.

Oh, and even though I always want Connery to win, and would love to see Moore fail, I still love the episode up above where Homer tackles Bond, resulting in his demise. He he he!

A while back at the grocery store, I discovered manna from the pork gods: a three-pound box of bacon ends and pieces for the same price as a pound of strip bacon that I was going to chop up, anyway. Nothing like frying three pounds of bacon at once to put the whole house in an applewood-induced state of euphoria. A plus, it was Wright Brand bacon, whose marketing campaign includes one of the all-time best call-in radio questions: How can I get my wife to be more like Wright Brand bacon?

And yes, I'm inserting another rad '70's clothing moment. Because how else can we appreciate how far we've come if we don't remember where we've been?

Last week, as part of my weekly movie quote contest, I decided to take it upon myself to catalog all the films I've seen in my life so far. I knew I'd seen a few, but so far, I have over 650 on the list, and somehow I keep coming up with films that I thought were obvious and that I would have listed early on, but they're not there. It also amazes me how many movies I haven't seen in their entirety, despite knowing their plots and intricacies.

A week or so ago, I managed to get my entire desk dismantled into its component pieces, and I only had to drill out one 40-year-old bolt to get it done. Now I can once again park a car in the garage along with both bikes, and we can still navigate around with relative confidence. Which was especially nice this past weekend, because it poured for most of it, and unloading groceries is far nicer if I don't have to walk through the deluge off the roof of the house.

I did manage to stay relatively dry on my ride home on Friday, though I still get a little flinchy on wet pavement. No traction is a bad thing.

The Packers won yesterday, and beating the Bears is always especially nice. Tough thing, though, I didn't get to see any of the game since we're apparently not in prime Packer-watching country. That also means, however, I don't get any of these on my television, while overpaid commentators make generalizations about my home state:

Which could be a mixed blessing, depending on who decides to wear them.

Look at that! No discernable theme, not even any segues. The road to enlightenment blurs before you. Sorry about that. I'll try harder next time.