The Smarmy Carny

4 more years!

There are less than five days until the 55th Presidential Inauguration Ceremony. It should be about as fun as any of the inauguration ceremonies, I suppose.

Mentally, it's a relief for me that the elections are long past us now. Without fail, I end up getting wrapped up into politics from the time the first candidate announces that he (or she) will be running in the primaries all the way through election night. Of course, 2000 was particularly taxing for anyone who cared, so 2004 was a bit of a relief. Whatever happened to the days of Ronald Regan, when a candidate could win it all except for Minnesota and DC? Back then, you could go to bed at 10:00 knowing who won. Nowadays, you've got to take at least a nap while you watch the pundits repeat the same pieces of information hour after hour after hour. Well, enough of this rambling. Why in the world am I writing about something that tires me to think about, let alone write about?

I noticed on the inauguration website that you could sign up for tickets. By now, I'm sure all of the tickets are more than gone, but part of me would like to go down there and be there for that. Of course, the same part of me would also like to go down to Punxsutawney, PA for Groundhog Day, too. That's only 2-and-a-half weeks away. I'm sure that by the time I'm dead, I still will not have attended either an inauguration ceremony nor the official Groundhog Day celebration.

Happy Birthday, my dear wife!

My wife turns a whopping 25 today . . . an entire quarter-century old. Ahh, I long for the days of my youth when I became a mere 25 years old. I remember it well, back in the summer of 2001.

It's kind of weird how slowly times moves by, yet how quickly it rushes us along. It seems like I've been in my job for decades, whereas when I count it out, it has been merely 2 years, 9 months. I can barely remember a time that I didn't have my son Sebastian by my side, yet every time I look at him, it's amazing how quickly he's grown to the pre-school age kid that he is. It seems like I've always been married (yes, in the good way), yet I look at my wife sleeping right now, and I can still remember the night we first met.

Isn't it a shame that women really love a great birthday party, and that's why their husbands are the ones who end up getting them? Meanwhile the husbands generally don't want to make a fuss over their birthday, and that's why their wives usually don't get too many huge bashes thrown for them. Unfortunately, this seems to be the case this year as far as my wife's birthday arrangements. This is the price you pay when you do not have the gift of throwing parties, hosting people, or organizing anything more complicated than the markers on your desk that are arranged first by size, then alphabetically by color. Unfortunately, there's not much I can do about that.

Don't forget my birthday!

I did go to the trouble of making a birthday-themed mix CD, though. I also bought her a digital camera we — I meant she, of course — have been wanting. I also got her the first ten books in Lemony Snicket's A Series of Unfortunate Events. (As a side note, I would highly suggest that everyone read the first three books in the series before watching the film starring Jim Carrey. Perhaps I'll write something on this topic later.) Oh, and most imporantly to my wife, I took the day off. I'll gladly work a double-shift on my birthday, but I'll always take her birthday off. I think (and hope) that my time with her on her birthday is really what she desires most of all.

Pre-Sk00l

I went to pre-school today for the first time in decades . . .

No, I wasn't trying to get back in touch with my youth. My son Sebastian finally agreed to be potty trained over the holidays and attended his first day of preschool today. Luckily, he quickly found the room with toys in it and quickly began playing next to a couple other boys in that room without a second thought. Even better, when we asked him if it was okay for us to leave and come back later to pick him up, he was not only willing, but enthusiastic. This is certainly what I had been praying for.

After Sebastian had returned home, he was more than willing to talk all about how he had played with another boy named James (though he initially confused me with his enunciation of the name as "Ames," a department store chain that went bankrupt long before he could have gained any name recognition). It's quite interesting to hear him tell so many stories about such a short period of time. I'm sure this day will pale in comparison to next Wednesday, when an aquatic Touch Tank will be visiting the school.

This entry reminds me of something my friend's 4-year-old daughter said about her preschool: "It's a long, hard day at school." From an adult perspective, it's difficult to imagine an hour of playing with toys followed by 30 minutes of snack time followed by show and tell followed by 30 more minutes of playtime being considered "a long, hard day." Well, I guess it's all relative anyway, isn't it? That's a long, hard day for a 4-year-old. A 15-year-old's "long, hard day" involves the rigid social structure in his school followed by a few hours of annoying homework, but little else. My "long, hard day" involves working a possibly hectic, frazzling day at my job in order to come home to a few hours of annoying bills, but little else. A 70-year-old's "long, hard day" involves trying to get the regular chores done around the house despite probable aches and pains due to the limitations of the aging human body. Still, none of these compares with many of the atrocities and tragedies not only in this country, but especially in troubled regions of the world. I think the recent tsunami has reminded us of that. Even still, returning to my original thought, given the choice, I would choose the "long, hard day" that involves two-and-a-half hours of preschool over any of the others.

Numa Numa Dance

I know I'm a bit late to this particular internet phenomenon, but I figured it was worth sharing anyway, since many have never seen this . . .

If you haven't seen the "Numa Numa Dance" (a.k.a. "Mya Mya," "Mya Hee, Mya Haa," "Hilarious Dude Lip Syncing," and many other things) video yet, you simply must take the time to watch it. It's basically a guy (Gary Brolsma) lip-syncing to a song titled Dragosta Din Tei by O-Zone.

You can watch the video here. I suggest clicking "View without subtitles" to see the best version in all its glory. You can also watch a larger version of the same video here, but that version also has dumb pictures interspersed throughout the video. I prefer to watch the weird guy the entire way through, thank you very much.

Uber-Update: Watch the New Numa Dance, too!

Update: I decided to add this link, since some people apparently want the info. Read the Dragosta Din Tei lyrics in both Romanian and English. If you're interested in buying the song, grab the single at Amazon. This import single includes the Original Romanian Version, the Original Italina Version, the Dj Ross Radio Mix, the Dj Ross Extended Remix, and the Unu In The Dub Mix. What more could you possibly want?

Bobby Fisher

A couple nights ago, I started experiencing chest pains. In fact, they started right around the time I was setting up this blog. It has been a day and a half, and the pains persist.

The first night, my wife suggested the probability that it was merely indigestion (or, more accurately to my symptoms, heartburn.) She offered me antacid tablets, but I generally try not to take medicine unless necessary. If indeed it is simply a case of heartburn, I can easily survive this mild discomfort I am experiencing.

After 24 hours (last night), my wife got nervous and started calling me every hour or two to make sure I was still alive and had not suffered a heart attack. According to her, if it was gas, the heartburn probably would have subsided by now. In fact, she suggested that after work I should drive myself to the emergency room to get checked out. I quickly disagreed; If you have ever been to an emergency room (especially at 23:00), you know exactly what I mean. The emergency room is for people missing limbs.

According to the WebMD article on heartburn symptoms:

• Got it: A burning feeling in the chest just behind the breastbone that occurs after eating and lasts a few minutes to several hours.
• Got it: Chest pain, especially after bending over, lying down or eating.
• Don't got it: Burning in the throat — or hot, sour, acidic, or salty-tasting fluid at the back of the throat.
• Don't got it: Difficulty swallowing.
• Got it: Feeling of food "sticking" in the middle of the chest or throat.

Reporting these symptoms to your doctor is usually all that is needed for your doctor to diagnose heartburn.

Now, compare that with the WebMD article on heart attack symptoms:

It is possible to have a "silent heart attack" without any symptoms, but this is rare. Most people have chest pain and at least one other symptom, such as:

• Don't got it: A feeling of choking or a "tight throat," a lump in the throat, or a need to keep swallowing.
• Don't got it: A cold sweat.
• Don't got it: Nausea.
• Don't got it: A sense of impending doom.
• Don't got it: Difficult breathing or breathlessness.
• Don't got it: Palpitations, feeling your heart beat rapidly or irregularly. (Palpitations are very common and are usually harmless in a healthy heart, but they may signal coronary artery disease if brought on by exertion.)
• Don't got it: Numbness or discomfort in the arm or hand.

All that said/read, I was going with an extended bout of heartburn, so I had planned on taking those antacid pills . . . not so the minor pains subside, but so my wife will know that it's just heartburn and nothing else. Before I could do that, however, my wife called the doctor to see if I should go in and get checked out. The nurse I spoke with said that it was muscular (thus neither heartburn nor a heart attack. She suggested I take Advil or Motrin to keep the inflamation down.

Case solved.

Marvin of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy

As this is my first post, I figured I would give it a fitting name. The title I have chosen for my blog is the phrase spoken numerous times by Marvin from The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.

I don't like hearing the word "blog" or "blogosphere," or whatever the pundits kept referring to it during the election mayhem. The worst part is that blogs are now littering the web and have pushed themselves into meaninglessness, due to the overwhelming numbers.

I don't particularly care to read blogs at all, though I have paid attention to several lately due to my curiosity about RSS and how well Firefox may or may not use it with LiveBookmarks.

The worst part about this blog is that not only do I not particularly care about other people's blogs, but I really don't care for my own blog, even as it is fresh and new for me. I'm also certain that most everyone in the world will feel even more apathetic than this regarding my blog, and those that do care really should get some sort of a life.