Ask the Nerdy Fat Guy - the Sequel (Return of the Fat Guy)

It's that time once again, kids!  Time for 'Ask the Nerdy Fat Guy'!  We here at CDS Enterprises have been besieged by requests for the ol' NFG to put on his answer cap and help you out of a jam!  Questions have flooded in from around the world, though we'll ignore the ones that just want gratuitous pictures of me in my boxer shorts.

Oscar A. from San Jose, CA writes:  Dear NFG - what does a rooster's (ahem) reproductive organ (ahem) look like?

Well, Oscar, I'm going to refer you to the ever popular 'How do chickens do it?' post, recently rediscovered by Muppet porn afficionados worldwide.  Damn that Rule 34.

Speaking of Muppets and the pr0n, Dougie from Vancouver, British Columbia asks:  Dear NFG - have you ever cobbled together the vague plot of a 70's adult film for the benefit of your readers?

Okay, Dougie, we're not really that kind of website.  However, I have talked about the decade of my early childhood before, and referenced a bow-chicka-bow-bow type of screenplay in my g-spot post, found here.  Grab a Molson's and give it a look-see.  Writing of a higher caliber can be found at our sister site, Crappy Unfinished Novel Time.  Sure, it's not very popular, but if the readership suddenly demands it, we can add more to the page.  Who knows, I might even finish something.

Pam from Irving, Texas writes:  Hey, NFG - is it really necessary to use such blatant filler just to maintain your readership?

Oh, Pam.  Of course it is.  Most of this blog is blatant filler.  When the queries that send people here are obviously crying out for more of my fat nerditude, I can only respond by giving readers what they so desparately crave.  That means nerdiness and gratuitious near-nudity.

Do you have a question for the Nerdy Fat Guy?  Click on the icon in the upper right-hand corner of the screen to send me an email.  No question is too obtuse, we welcome all queries.  We here at NFG Worldwide would love to make this a regular feature, and that means your questions are important to us!

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.

Gunfight at the Golden Corral

I'm a crotchety old man.  Have been for around 20 years.  I'm lying, it's more like 30 years.  Something I've never been, though, is an unruly child in public.  (As an adult, I've created scenes, both intentionally and not.  Get over it.)

Lori told me today about a restaurant in Pittsburgh that has banned children under the age of six following 'numerous' complaints about the unruly little ratfink fussbuckets screaming and upsetting an otherwise enjoyable dining experience.  I'm sure they were also standing on chairs, annoying nearby diners by flinging food and crayons, walking around, refusing to sit up, crawling on the floors, flinging more crayons, and generally behaving in a rather pro-contraceptive manner.  Some people are offended.

I say 'Right on, restaurant'. 

Lori and I have restaurants we avoid because they attract unsavory elements (see paragraph two, above.)  Would I be more likely to patronize a restaurant, knowing that I won't have to endure crying, yelling, staring, annoying little weasels?  Of course I would.  One of our local restaurants has a 'kid corner', a section of the restaurant where they seat families exclusively, to keep them away from the beer-drinkin', good-time-havin' crowd.  Which was great until, on a busy Friday night, we were seated in kid corner.  My normal easy-going nature was severely cramped.

(Shut up.  You know the NFG has an easy-going nature.)

As a public service then, I'd like to offer readers of the ol' CDS (all three of you) the NFG Worldwide Solution to avoid screaming kiddoes interrupting your well-aged Porterhouse or chicken Caesar salad.  First, get rid of the kids' menu, with its chicken nuggets and mac'n'cheez.  Lose the crayons.  Better yet, let's adopt the tried and true bowling alley method of my youth, one appreciated by drunken keglers everywhere:  on-site daycare.

My grocery store has a kiddie corral, too.  You have no idea how peaceful it is to shop without toddlers darting in and out of my legs.  I like to imagine, too, that some of the parents don't even NEED groceries, they just use the free service to get a break.

So why not introduce such a solution at fine restaurants everywhere?  Pack your kid a sandwich (no peanut butter, never know who's allergic), check them at the door, claim them once you've enjoyed your veal picatta or trout meuniere, and everyone's happy.

And if your kids are well-mannered little quietmonkeys, good for you for teaching your children how to behave in public.  You should treat yourself to a nice dinner.

Next hurdle?  How do we get airlines to follow the trend?


* For those of you who think I'm being a hard-ass, let me reiterate that I don't indiscriminately dislike children.  Children are a joy, and I love my daughters, grandson and nieces very much.  However, they have been (or will be, in the case of the wee ones) taught their manners.  Enough said.

Bang your head

I am not now, nor have I ever been, the epitome of gracefulness.  At age two, I fell out of the car and broke my collar bone.  Age three, header into the door jamb, leaving a nice scar on my cheek and inside my lower lip.  My first day of third grade?  Basketball to the head.  Eighth grade?  Faceplant into the asphalt track.  There's that giant chunk of chin I took out with a sharp new razor, unaccustomed as I am to shaving said chin.  Matches the chunk I took out of my ankle going over the handlebars of my bike.  MY bike, to be clear.  I merely knocked the wind out of myself the other two times I went over other handlebars.  My hands and arms and legs are all scarred like a five-year-old's.  I have a rather impressive collection.

The other night should have come as no surprise to me then, as I was blotting blood from my forehead following a gardening accident.  I could have put my eye out, so the gash is almost uneventful.  I had a tetanus shot in 2002, so I'm good for another year.  The cut probably won't even scar, good thing since I can't afford any further damage to my mug.  It should heal before my niece's baptism this weekend, though there's always Photoshop to the rescue if not.  But still, I have to smack myself for not paying attention. 

And that might leave a mark.

Random Acts of Thursday - No more teachers' dirty looks

I'm not sure about your neck of the woods, but the end of the school year is ripe in the Ohio air.  As such, I thought we'd give one last nod to those hallowed halls of education for the year, before ditching our good clothes in favor of swim trunks and amusing novelty tees.

I remember taking that last week easy, as most kids were done learning.  The big event was always the ceremonial locker cleaning, where items that never made it home during the school year got crammed into book bags or thrown in the trash.  Notebooks, leaky pens, that cool generic Walkman-knockoff cassette player you brought in for a class project, and in the case of one classmate, half the cafeteria's silverware.  Ah, memories.

Consider this a final exam for the Spring term, if you must.  You know I'll continue to get my nerd on year-round, but if it makes you feel better that this might be the last one for a while, so be it.  I'll give you the school, you give me the corresponding film.

Elementary Education:
Horace Green Elementary
Warren G. Harding Elementary
Welton Academy for Boys

Secondary Education:
Hemery High School
Rydell High School
Vince Lombardi High School
Westerurg High School
Shermer High School

Post-Secondary Education:
Faber College
Grand Lakes University
Pacific Tech

Make sure you do your homework on this one, I'd hate to see anyone have to repeat the class this summer.  Show your work, kids!  (And as always, this quiz goes to eleven.)

Extra credit?  One of these films featured my favorite author.  Which of his  books did he write a report on?

You can't go to Eddy's again

I spend a lot of time thinking about food.  It's possible I spend more time thinking about it than I do eating it.  And, like other areas of life, it would seem the Chinese restaurant experience of my youth is quickly disappearing from the American landscape. 

I miss Eddy's Place, the weekly destination of my youth.  Eddy is a family friend, as is Rosie, his long-time waitress.  I very nearly proposed to Lori there, but got nervous when we walked in to find my parents sitting at a corner table.  (I did ask, and she accepted, later that evening.)  We have an afghan on our sofa that Rosie gave us as a wedding present.  Since Eddy had been pushed into closing by his landlord, he and Rosie came to my sister's wedding, and it was a joy to see them again.  This is not a typical restaurateur-client relationship, and I'm okay with that. 

Eddy's was not exactly unique in my childhood.  There were four or five other Chinese restaurants of the same sit-down variety that made their way though our dining spectrum, and only one little delivery place.  There was no such thing as the 'Super Happy Steam Buffet of Overcookedness' in my childhood.  I always got a placemat that told me what my zodiac sign meant, and strangely, it's pretty dead-on for me.

There were always egg rolls and egg foo young, and later, dozens of potstickers.  (Due to that family friendship, I have a dozen or so of Eddy's potstickers, frozen for later consumption and made by the man himself in his own home kitchen as a gift to my parents.)  There was custom ordering, combinations that didn't exist on the soy-stained paper menu.  When we were children, my sister would order milk, and since she was, apparently, the only customer who ever ordered it, Eddy would have to send someone across the street to the tiny grocery store to buy some.

As time has passed, I've watched those sit-down restaurants disappear.  In their place, buffets of questionable quality and tiny carry-out places have cropped up.  Lori and I tried yet another buffet last night, hoping for something of higher quality than we got.  So awful was this place, with multi-colored light bulbs, and a scratchy PA system that broke out into the traditional 'Happy Bursday To You' at one point (yes, bursday.  Really.) and the too-common steamed beyond recognition food, that we'll never go back. 

With few exceptions for the high-priced Chinese-Restaurant-As-Fine-Dining places, most of the sit-down places have fallen to disrepair, fish tanks empty or covered in algae, ceiling tiles falling down from unattended roof leaks.  Now, most of the places that will sell me carryout belong to families or corporations that have purchased the Chinese restaurant kit, advertised as 'New York Style'.  These places, in Wisconsin, Florida and Ohio (and I'm sure...your state has them, too...) have the same menus, the same pictures of pre-staged dishes, the same chairs with fan-patterned vinyl, usually green but occasionally pink. 

What they don't have is the same charm of the neighborhood restaurant, a casual family-owned place where the kitchen is hidden, where traditional music is streamed through bad speakers, and where I might even get an odd mix of Chinese-style and American dishes, like a plate of carrot sticks and olives, or the option to order a hamburger.  I've never ordered a hamburger at a Chinese restaurant, but it was comforting to know it was there.  (I spent years with our daughters ordering chicken strips at the Mexican restaurant, so a hamburger at the Chinese place would have opened up our family dining options a little more before their palates grew.)  

When I Google Eddy's Place for nostalgia's sake, the restaurant now comes up with his home address.  I can even see it on Google Stalker View.  Maybe this means I can go to Eddy's again.

He won't mind, I'm sure.

I know a great After Hours joint

(or...Wherein we re-enter the Valley)

Last Monday, I posted, in the midst of Movie Mania, a discussion on mannequins.  Apparently I was so scarred as a child that I never even finished my horrible remeniscense in that post, just trailed off mid-sentence-fragment. 

I don't care for mannequins.  At all.  On a scale of 1 to 10 they're just creepy and undeserving of a number less than a kerjillion. 

When I was a kid, my own vivid imagination was my worst enemy.  Watching the 'After Hours' episode of The Twilight Zone was enough to creep me out.  Add 'Westworld' to that, where Yul Brynner's face explodes.  Going to Gimbel's with my mother afterward was even worse.  I was convinced all the mannequins were just waiting to come to life and eat me if I got locked in the store overnight. 

Worse was when I worked up the courage to touch one, and her hand fell off.  Off.  In my hand.

Because several large retailers left Milwaukee during my childhood, there was also no end of dismembered mannequin bits lying around abandoned storefront displays. 

How you doin'?

Yes, I know they look little or nothing like real people.  Tell that to seven-year-old Me.  Add to that also my shyness about nudity, and not knowing where to look when the mannequin was naked, and there was no way I could have a mature, reasoned approach to the existence of mannequins. 

Damn, now that I re-read this, it's amazing I made it to adulthood as sanely as I did.  That said, I'll save the discussion of how I couldn't touch the pages in my National Geographic 'How Animals Hide' book because of the insects on them.

It might just be amazing that I made it to adulthood, period.

Random Acts of Thursday - I had to work a double shift at Cinnabons

Oh, October, how do I love thee?  I love the mist in the mornings, the wind overnight, the smell of fallen leaves, fine seasonal beers and the re-appearance of pumpkin pie in the grocery store.  Given proper funding (see button at right) I also have some wonderfully gruesome, children-wetting-themselves Halloween ideas that need to be played out at some point. 

And this weekend, Lori and I will be attending a masquerade ball themed around Poe's Masque of the Red Death.  Among the tarot readers, headless horsemen and the "Guess who's Death" game, I found a new musical genre that just cries out to be loved:  Goth-a-billy.

I'm already a fan of rock-a-billy and psycho-billy, and despite having never worn black nail polish and a floor-length black coat, I love The Cure.  This just screams to be downloaded for my listening pleasure, I'm sure.

The band playing at this little soiree is named Cult of the Psychic Fetus.  If it wasn't already a band name, Cult of the Psychic Fetus would be a GREAT band name.

Speaking of macabre little pagan holidays, I must say I'm rather disappointed in Food Network even more than normal.  As if it isn't bad enough that Sandra Lee gets a Halloween special, last weekend we watched the Food Network Horror Cakes Challenge.  Judged by Leatherface himself, these were kindly little cakes with little actual horror.  Mock horror, perhaps.  Horrificomical?  Maybe.  But the judges were looking for gumpaste intestines dripping with raspberry blood, the glint of some medieval torture device sawing limbs from exchange students.

And really, who isn't?

And speaking of medieval torture devices, I've noticed an alarming number of dead blogs in my random trolling of the web.  People who clutter the limited disk space of the worldwide web with pages that haven't been updated in three or four years or more.  Sure, pages like MyDeathSpace can tell us when someone's page isn't updated for a reason, but how many people just forget their passwords or lose interest with no sort of sign-off? 

I'll do my best not to do that to my readers.  What I will do is leave you with the award-winning costume Lori made for me a number of years ago.

Now, your turn.  What's your best Halloween/Autumn memory ever?  And for my readers in the southern hemisphere, Spring memories work, too.  Until then, stay out of the daylight.

Random Acts of Thursday - Howard's End

(or, From Mr. C to Mystery)

October 1, 1927 — October 19, 2010

The world lost an icon this week.  Tom Bosley passed away at age 83, an American icon and a better father than Cliff Huxtable could ever hope to be.  I'm at least certain that Howard Cunningham could kick Cliff's ass around the block, given the need.

Certainly he was a better father than Danny Tanner.  And even Joanie Cunningham could kick his ass.

I grew up watching Happy Days, fictionally based in my home town and therefore riveting to an eight-year-old me.  However, my favorite Mr. C memory came later in life, watching the Christmas episode where Howard was going to drive Fonzie to Waukesha to see his family for Christmas, and wouldn't be back for many, many hours.  I lived in Waukesha at the time, and even without the Interstate, there's no reason it should take two hours to drive from ANYWHERE in Milwaukee to Waukesha. 

That Mr. Cunningham, he's good people.

Any other Happy Days memories you'd like to share?

Adjective Noun Day of Week - Interjection! Pronoun verb possessive pronoun adjective verb.

Verb noun conjunction verb.  And you didn't think I could nerd the place up any more.  Interjection, verb pronoun.

I seem to be in a mood lately, moreso than normal.  It means I'm quite sensitive to the verbal and written gaffes of other people.  I did well in English class in school, with the exception of that paper I failed to write on Camus.  That's okay, since Sartre is smartre, anyway.

What I don't seem to recall is diagraming sentences.  I remember seeing sentence diagrams on television and in movies, but, though I'm certain we must have done these in school, the memory of it has escaped me. 

I remember Schoolhouse Rock, with its Conjunction Junction (not as exciting as Petticoat Junction...), Lolly's Adverbs, and that depressing little Mr. Morton wandering about, but I don't remember ever actually applying what I learned on Saturday Morning television to my schooling. 

I suppose between Grammar Rock and The Electric Company, there was a lot of education snuck into my entertainment, like the school lunch programs that added pureed prunes to their hamburger patties.

Because really, would you have watched if you thought it was good for you?

Movie Mania Monday - How Laborious

Well, I suppose I've been a little rough on you kids.  Two weeks ago, I posted a quote that has stuck with me for nearly 25 years since I saw the original film, and yet I'm left feeling I must be more odd than I first surmised.

Here then, is a quiz of movielicious wonderment.  You want easy, here's easy.  Think of it as a movie-quote version of Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon  (Mmmm...bacon....) without me actually making you figure out how each movie relates to the man in question.  Instead, each film quoted below relates to the film next to it via common actor.  Your only task is to identify the films for each quote.

Remember, as are always the rules for quote contests:  Original speaker, no characters quoting other movies.  No cheating.  This means no Google, Bing, Boggle, Quibble, Jeeves or even Yahoo.  We grade on a curve here at CDS Enterprises, with the victor earning the peoples' fame and ovation forever, along with the title of Iron Quote-Guesser.

1)  You mess with the bull, you get the horns.

2)  That's a major appliance, not a name!

3)  Human sacrifice, dogs and cats living together... mass hysteria!

4)  I want a hamburger. No, cheeseburger. I want a hot dog. I want a milkshake. I want potato chips...

5)  You were supposed to fire up! *We* both fired *up*! It's like living with a six-year old.

6)  This is the happiest day of my life! I think my testicles are dropping!

7)  I'm no longer a carnivore. I don't eat anything that's ever had parents.

8)  It's never gonna happen again, Malcolm. I've got it under control. See, I just love naked women. It's a character flaw. And God's testing me now...

9)  Well, I've said it before and I'm going to say it again... There ain't no way, no way, that you could come from my loins.

10)  Do you like to gamble, Eddie? Gamble money on pool games?

11)  What's a six letter word for a condition of the hypothalamus?

12)  Top five musical crimes perpetuated by Stevie Wonder in the '80s and '90s. Go. Sub-question: is it in fact unfair to criticize a formerly great artist for his latter day sins, is it better to burn out or fade away?

Allez guessing!  And bonus points if you can actually identify the links between each film.

Random Acts of Thursday - Still Old After All These Years

I am old.  What's worse, I feel old.  Until this week, I've been able to live in grand denial about my age, 39 being one of the mystical non-ages.  I ignore my crotchety old man tendencies, and still don't leave the house in shorts and black socks, I'm not perfecting a comb-over, and I rarely yell at those damn kids to stay off my lawn.

And I'm not a pop-culture junkie when it comes to celebrity news and such, not at all concerned about LiLo's 24-hour suicide watch or what Mel Gibson has to say to you, me, or the mother of his child.

But I had to shudder when I saw the most recent cover of AARP magazine.  Valerie Bertinelli looks good.  Very good.  One might have a difficult time believing she's 50.  (One might also have a difficult time believing she used to be married to Eddy Van Halen...)  She was one of my few childhood celebrity crushes, and I'd watch 'One Day At A Time' religiously, probably not understanding most of the jokes, but really, really liking Barbara.

 

These types of crushes are not people you want showing up on the cover of AARP magazine.  Not even on the swimsuit issue.

I know, you just shuddered at the thought of that issue.  Or at least I did.

AARP magazine should be featuring active seniors like Betty White, Orville Redenbacher and Morgan Freeman.

See?  This looks right.  But not Valerie Bertinelli.  Can't accept it.

Bo Derek?  Maybe, since she's been an adult the whole time I've been aware of women, but I don't see her lining up for the early bird special or wintering in Sun City, Arizona.  But Valerie?  Certainly not.  No, Valerie should remain ageless, thus allowing me to imagine that I am ageless as well, that I have all my hair and that the paunch isn't nearly as pronounced as it looks from this angle.

 

Other crushes are rapidly approaching the half-century mark as well.  Phoebe Cates? 47.  Kristy McNichol?  Almost 48.  Tatum O'Neal? Nearly 47.

I guess I just need to take this 'old age' thing one day at a time.  Maybe that swimsuit issue isn't as far out as I thought...

Random Acts of Thursday - I'd rather fight than switch...

I am important. And not just self-important, but other people rely on my knowledge and insight. I have a lofty important title at work. I have a corner office. A real office, not just a glorified cubicle, my desk and door are both made of wood (or wood particulate...let's not split hairs.)

All that said, I find it necessary to share that yesterday, I wore baby blue boxer shorts covered in flying pigs. Monday, little race cars.

I haven't always worn boxers, I grew up tight and white, snug as a thug. Cool white cotton, softly cradling my 'personal area'. Somewhere along the line, I started the slow transition to boxers (briefs with loose dress pants, boxers with jeans), and once I made the final transition in my mid-20's, I haven't looked back.


Sure, I could still wear tighties, and I could also tuck my tee shirt into them like they do in the ads. But really. Briefs and I had a parting of the ways, and never again will we meet. Can you see me in my BVD's, gloriously parading like King Fahd on some Saudi beach?

You can now, I'm sure.


I've tried the Switzerland of undergarments, the boxer brief, and while I could see the appeal while wearing loose-fitting shorts at the gym, said gym membership was also 'brief', and back to boxers I went.


What about you, dear reader? What fantastic or failed experiments have you experienced in the fine world of undergarments?

Crouching Fat Kid, Crying Dragon

I know it's St. Patrick's Day. I know that convention would dictate, therefore, that today's post be full of Guinness chicks and ginger-haired dwarves in green velvet suits. Or is that a David Lynch film? I'm never sure. However, since I was on my yearbook kick already, I felt this story was long overdue to you, oh faithful reader.
I hope, dear reader, I can only hope! that you are enjoying this painful little walk down memory lane we're taking this week. Take heed, and think of the future of your children. It's too late for you to do anything about your school pictures of years past.

Sometimes I find it a wonder that I managed to survive to adulthood. Being 'husky', as the Sears catalog so quaintly phrased it, and really having no patience to try and part my hair, meant I got picked on a lot. Being picked on a lot meant I had little to no self-esteem. Having low self-esteem meant I needed to puff myself up, act cooler than I and everyone in a three-mile radius knew I really was.

All that changed when I got my kewl new Timex digital watch, with genuine Twist-o-Flex watch band. I was stylin'. I'm shocked that they've re-released this watch, I can't imagine anyone wanting this watch. Mine wore out well before its time, the buttons didn't make contact properly, and I had crammed bits of aluminum foil into the openings so the buttons would, occasionally, respond as expected.

And no, the irony of a fat kid whose athletic feats could be measured in cramps and barfing owning a watch with fraction-of-a-second accuracy is NOT lost on me.

My least favorite part of owning this watch was that the alarm was stuck on, and would go off, without fail, at 7:06 am. Rain or shine. Daylight savings time or not. But at least it kept accurate time, so I could count down the minutes to lunch. (Yes. I said it. Wasn't gonna let you get that jab past me.)

One Saturday, after a round of $0.63 games of bowling at Landmark Lanes and half-price pizza at Pizza Man, my friend Chris and I were taking the North Avenue bus home from Milwaukee's east side to his parents' house in 'Tosa. (That's what the cool kids called it, 'Tosa'. Much hipper than 'Wauwatosa'. Trust me.) We must have bowled well, meaning I broke 80, because somehow we thought it would be a good idea, two husky eleven-year-olds, to sit in the back row of the bus. Cool kids did that. Hoodlums. Players. Not fat pre-teens. But we figured we could hang.

I was so cool, one of the other cool guys asked me if I had the time. Because I was the proud owner of a Twist-o-Flex-laden Timex Digital Chronograph timepiece, I responded that indeed, I did know what time it was.

I don't remember a whole lot about my new, cool friend. I vaguely recall that he looked like this:
...that he was (to my eleven-year-old brain) about seven feet tall, and that he was wearing a long women's parka, much like the one on the left:When the bus reached his stop, my new 'friend' grabbed my arm, and demanded that I relinquish my groovy-cool Timex Twist-o-Flex Chronometergraph. When I protested, I believe his response was along the lines of "I wouldn't do that, bitch", while simultaneously digging the longest fingernails I'd ever seen on a man into my pudgy arm and wresting the watch from it's due place.

As soon as he exited the bus with his friends, I ran to the front of the bus, to the closest figure of authority I could find. "Bus driver, bus driver! That man stole my watch!"

Yeah. Not sure why I figured that would cause a stir, that the vice squad would come barreling up North Avenue, sweeping the neighborhood for the hooligan that stole my watch. Somehow, I think the driver just thought I'd been taught a valuable lesson.

And I had. To those of you who inquire as to what time it now is, my lips are sealed. Buy your own damn watch. Eventually, I comforted myself only in the knowledge that my mugger would be awakened, without fail, at 7:06 am. Rain or shine. Daylight savings time or not.

(An aside: This was not my first assault, or my first mugging, but it was certainly the costliest. On my first or second day of sixth grade, I was approached right in front of school by one of the eighth graders who demanded whatever I might have of value. Fat kids with full backpacks can't run very fast, but he let me go. Apparently being a fat crybaby can work as a defense mechanism in a pinch. Just sayin.)

Movie Mania Monday - a conjuring trick, that's what it is

It was a bright and sunny weekend, and other than an afternoon drive, I felt quite unproductive. Not that an afternoon drive is productive, by any means. Had the wind been calmer, it would have been beautiful bike weather, but I don't feel like getting slammed into the side of a moving car by Mother Nature.

Of course, daylight savings time always throws me off, too. I really have no clue what time it is right now, not that knowing would matter.

Back in third or fourth grade, one of the projects I got to participate in with some classmates was a 'radio recording' (more precisely, a cassette recorder) of 'The Invisible Man'. This was something, reading lines and trying not to sound stilted and nervous, despite hating my voice on tape. I was the man, invisible as I was. Of course, dying at the end kind of sucks. It obviously wasn't too traumatic, as I went on to star in such middle school theater performances as 'Blanche Neige' as the level-headed Doc, leader of les sept dwarfs. I rocked it for those seven parents and two other French classes, let me tell you. "Au palais, mes freres, au palais."

I've had my yearbooks piled in a box by my desk for some time now, meaning to scan them in. Sunday, I came to the conclusion that my awkward years weren't necessarily consecutive. 3rd grade, I was smart-looking, adorable, and dapper in my turtleneck and green sport coat. Yes, my mother cuts my hair. Wanna make something of it?4th grade? Let the awkward commence! Those teeth, that I subsequently knocked out in 8th grade, early attempts at parting my own hair, the ivory fly-collared shirt with brown detailing and a sweater vest? I really wore sweater vests? Must have blocked that out of my head, since I remember this shirt in great detail, but I don't remember ever owning a sweater vest. Because yeah, that's the worst part of this picture. Fifth grade? Who knew 1981 was the year of the collar. I can only hope that was a white shirt, because I distinctly remember the navy blue sweater with the periwinkle collar. Because bulky layers is just what a fat kid needs for his school pictures. I'm sure I was wearing powder blue corduroys with this, because that's how I rolled. Fifth grade was also the year of our trip to Quebec, which included such highlights as me projectile vomiting in a mall, having scalding tomato soup spilled on me and my powder blue cords by a maitre d', and getting two black eyes on my first attempt at roller skating, ever. At least I didn't pull a Sarah Moylan, walking dead into a parking meter on the streets of Montreal. Because two solid days of public barfing is far less embarrassing.

Enough reminiscing, though. Obviously, last week's movie was The Invisible Man, the 1933 version drawn closely from the original Wells novel and a brilliant piece of early cinema. Credit goes to Ms. for picking this one out of the lineup.

For this week, a cursory review of the rules. Identify the film being quoted below using only your noggin. No Google, Bing, Altavista, Yahoo, Ask Jeeves, the like. If you're first, you win the peoples' ovation and fame forever, along with the coveted title of Iron Quote Guesser. Watch this space for the wall of Iron Quote Guessers of yore, I'm also debating the relative merits of declaring a three-and-out rule, or at least a three-and-Tuesday rule, just to give everyone a fighting chance. Voici la quote de la semaine:

Oh, I don't know much of anything.

Allez guessing!

Random Acts of Thursday - Pick a Side

What, me worry expound on the glory of the James Bond series of films, or the spaghetti westerns graced by Clint? You're shocked, I know. No quiz today, either, dear reader. You have plenty of work to be done on past Thursdays where you've feigned ignorance, so today is simply about adding to the growing trivial knowledge of the mundane that is Cheesehead Displacement Syndrome.

Growing up, my father would always point to someone in a movie and tell me "he's a great character actor." I didn't understand that as a kid, either you were famous or you were just there to give the famous person someone to shoot. It wasn't until I got a little older that I saw these actors again and again, filling role after role without much fanfare, and realized just what he meant.Danny Trejo has never been a marquee name, but he's everywhere in film and you know him when you see him. Same thing with Brion James. Keith David. W. Earl Brown. Anthony James. All actors who make (or made) a living working, not taking down $20 mil a picture. This started to make sense to me after a few years. What still threw me, though, were the actors who assumed assorted roles in a single series of film or television. Gian Maria Volonte played, essentially, the same character in Per Un Pugno Di Dollari and Per Qualche Dollaro In Piu. (That's A Fistful of Dollars and For a Few Dollars More, in case you were wondering.) In both films, Clint Eastwood played, essentially, the same character as well. However, The Man With No Name was timeless, and could easily have taken part in both settings. Even his wardrobe followed him through the films. Add Il Buono, Il Brutto, Il Cattivo to the list, and you have Lee Van Cleef playing, again, a similar enough character between For a Few Dollars More and this film, despite having different names (and dying in G,B,U). Can you see how this could be confusing to an eight-year-old?

Similarly, watching the entire catalog of James Bond films, secondary characters have been played by repeat actors for years. M, Q and Moneypenny, until those actors retired, were played by the same actors for decades, in many cases appearing in more films than the actors playing Bond himself. What gives me more pause, though, are the actors who switched identities and allegiances between films.
Walter Gotell started his Bond career in From Russia With Love, as the S.P.E.C.T.R.E. training camp leader, Morzeny. Then, beginning in the Moore years and carrying through several subsquent Bonds, Gotell was featured as Soviet General Gogol. This portrayal began in The Spy Who Loved Me, and continued in A View to a Kill and The Living Daylights, to name a few.
Charles Gray similarly took a break between Bonds, first showing up as Connery's quick-to-die informant in You Only Live Twice, before taking on the role of villain-to-end-all-villains Ernst Stavro Blofeld in Diamonds Are Forever. (And then going on to do the Time Warp. Again.)
Joe Don Baker showed up as the unscrupulous arms dealer Brad Whitaker in The Living Daylights, then after an eight-year absence, suddenly turned up as CIA agent Jack Wade in Goldeneye, reprising the role in Tomorrow Never Dies (the only film, near as I can tell in all my film-watching history, where the sinister, world-dominating character gets to be named Elliott, instead of the simpering, nerdy loser.)
Finally, Maud Adams. Oh, sweet Maud Adams. Succumbing to Roger Moore's charms (SERIOUS ACTING ABILITY!) in The Man With The Golden Gun, she's killed by her lover for turning to Bond. She then turns up in one of the rare 'empowered woman' roles in Bond films as Octopussy and coming to Bond's rescue not once, but three times in the film.

Hopefully this has shed some light on things you didn't know you wanted to know, this knowledge might come in handy for past or future quizzes, too. If nothing else, at least it builds character.

Oh, and I finally figured out how do do strikethrough text. My mad HTML skillz is growin', yo.