Oh, that's just dandy.

So NBC's got a new show - The Black Donnellys. It's about 4 Irish-American brothers in New York (okay, it's a little more nuanced than that, but y'all can read and I've provided a link, so I'm not going to try to explain the whole thing here).

A show about a bunch of Micks? Well, count me in!

Okay - first, it's a pretty good show. The acting's pretty good - in particular, the lead actor's work was (I thought) very good. He managed to convey his situation completely without going too over-the-top, which impressed me. He's also got the sort of raw charisma that tends to aid in getting us to empathize with his character. Finally, he's not TOO good-looking, which is beneficial in terms of things being at least somewhat believable.

BUT. Here's the rub: Why oh why do they have to be semi-literate street toughs? Why can't they be, say, architects who are struggling to start up their own firm? It could happen. There's a bit in the first episode that sums the whole issue up, though I wonder if they realize they're lampooning their own creation, in a way: The narrator (some neighborhood friend of the brothers) says something to the effect of "People think of the Irish as drunk thugs who'll fight over nothing," and immediately we see the 4 brothers getting into a brawl over - you guessed it, nothing - in a pub. Terrific.

Is this sort of thing a part of the whole Irish-American experience? Yes, it is. Was I myself a bit of a thug as a youth? Yes, I was - it was somewhat necessary, given the environment I grew up in. But seriously, hasn't that angle been played to death at this point? Can we not see Irish-Americans as anything but "drunken louts with good intentions that they can't seem to get to because their feral natures always get in the way" without things getting boring? I don't know, I'm just asking.

In the end, I suppose it doesn't matter - despite my wish that we could portray Micks in a better light, I have to admit that I found the show to be compelling and quite entertaining. I'll be tuning in again next Monday, and I will recommend (albeit somewhat grudgingly) that y'all do the same.

The HSO recaps the Oscars

That's right, the worst Oscar recap you'll ever see. I did watch them, I swear. I didn't go to the swell Oscar viewing party at the Squab household (too tired from Friday night - on the whole well worth it, though), but I did watch 'em, and here are a few things that stood out to me:

DISCLAIMER: I am not a great movie buff - I like what I like for my own reasons, and that can range from something that's generally accepted as good, such as Little Miss Sunshine, to stuff that's generally regarded as utter crap, such as Chronicles of Riddick. In other words, this is very much a "common man's" view.

1. Dear Academy: I know people bitch about the length of the show, but if you're going to have the bloody awards and allow people to speak after they've won one of them, for fuck's sake let them say what they want to say. This bit where y'all start playing music while some poor weeping schmuck's trying to thank his wife is just out-and-out rude. Either don't let them talk at all or let them speak their peace.

2. Will Ferrel and Jack Black are funny - this is indisputable at this point. (Secret message to Will and Jack - don't listen to your boy, stick to comedy. Nobody needs another Continental Divide, and laughing's good for people whether the Academy wants to award it or not.)

3. Will Smith: You simply CANNOT be enjoying yourself that much - it's not possible. Don't get me wrong; I love the man, and have enjoyed just about everything he's done. But he just can't be enjoying himself that much.

4. The shadow dancers, or whatever the hell they were? That shit sucked the root, hard. Made me want to hurt things.

5. Helen Mirren: You are easily the hottest old gal I've ever seen. Seriously. Yowsa.

6. Catherine Deneuve: You come in a very close second. Go on with your bad self, Frenchy.

7. Speaking of, if I were a gal or I swung in another direction, I'd be all about that James McAvoy kid. Dude's got something good going on. Or maybe it's that damn accent, because I've said much the same about Gerard Butler in the past. At any rate, good on ye', lads.

8. I love Forrest Whitaker. Dude is just plain badass. Great acceptance speech.

9. Props to my girl Jennifer Hudson. I won't be seeing your movie, as musicals cause me to break out in fits of murderous rage, but you're from Chicago so I'm down with you. Plus, I thought you handled those asshats in the press room with some real grace (memo to the bitch who asked her if she thought her win cheapened the craft of acting - you know, since other actors have trained so hard and she didn't, or whatever the fuck that was - you suck).

10. He may not have won his Oscar last night, but it's pretty damn clear that Leo OWNS Hollywood. Good on ye' too, Leo - use that shit, somehow.

11. Congrats to Marty - you waited a damn long time for that. Hell, I'll probably even watch your movie, now.

All in all, it was as good a way to kill the evening while I was working out some solo-acoustic stuff as anything else I could have done.

Gah! The White Death Approaches!

It's supposed to snow this weekend here in Minny. A lot. So of course everyone's totally wigging out over it - you'd think this was effin' Florida or something, instead of the upper Midwest, where - shocking enough - we get snow every year. I suppose if I wanted to be fair, I could admit that we really haven't had too much this year, but I don't want to be fair. Suck it up, you bunch of training-bra-wearing pansies; it's just snow.

However, to show we care, the HSO has put together a little plan for you all - call it a recommendation for how to survive this weekend's impending doom.

This evening, before it really gets going, go out and stock up on the essentials. Get plenty of tasty, comforting food - that acne-prone Dominos delivery kid doesn't want to be out driving in this shit any more than you do. If you enjoy your drink, as I do, make sure you have plenty of that, as well. If you're a movie lover, go rent a bunch of those - if you can generally amuse yourself with something you find channel-hopping (like me), you can skip this step.

If you've got a special guy or gal, invite them over (or go over to their place, whichever is most comfortable), and do what people have done for ages when they're faced with good sock-in of a snowstorm - do lots of baby-makin'. If, like me, you're a no-love-havin' loser... well, there really isn't a good substitute for that, so we're just going to have to deal with it - sorry.

Finally, at some point when it's really coming down, bundle yourself up and go for a walk - enjoy it. Maybe even take some pictures.

I promise you, dear readers, we'll make it through this meteorological calamity. Honest.

Okay, I guess I am that easy.

I had one of those chance encounters earlier today - I was out smoking (it's pretty amazing how eventful this often turns out to be, isn't it?), and a young lady approached me, asking to borrow my lighter.

She was quite attractive, but at this point I don't get overly phased by that - there are lots and lots of attractive women in the world, after all. What did phase me was that she had an accent. One from somewhere in the Brittish Isles, I'm guessing - I'm not worldy enough to pinpoint where, though.

And you know what? That's hot. Really hot. Ungodly hot. I-can't-use-my-words hot. Yowsa. She could have talked me into seriously anything at that point, easily.

An accent - that's apparently all it takes.

"So, do you wanna have sex?"

"Nah, that's okay - just read me a story."

Well, duh.

So the genius who managed to pitch his own ass out a 16th story window says he's glad he doesn't remember the fall. Gee, do you think?

"I feel really lucky I don't remember it because I probably would have some pretty serious nightmares," he says.

But wait - it gets better. "...we come back off the elevator and that's when, for whatever reason ... I decided to take off running," Hanson said. "I don't know why I took off running or what really led up to it, but - I did." The story goes on to state that while dude was sprinting down the hallway he claims to have been confused by his own reflection in the window pane at the end of said hallway. So of course his decision was to barrel right into the fucker. Let's see... dude sees his own reflection... so maybe he thought it was a mirror and thought he'd like to run into it? I mean, honestly, what the fuck?

Must be a slow news day - I mean, the dude's pretty much proven he's not exactly a Mensa candidate with the fall, so I'm not entirely sure why we want to hear what he's got to say about... anything, really.

And yet you just know that somehow he's going to contribute to the gene pool. People... oh, how I despise them.

You can't be serious.

Beginning of one of the more recent Visa ads:

"Ring, nine thousand dollars."

Wait. Wait right there. Are you fucking kidding me? Nine thousand dollars? For realsies?

That right there's some crazy shit, y'all.

Yet another epiphany.

Or make that several of them. I really need to cut all this realizing shit out - it's making my head hurt.

Still, time spent with oneself (we'll ignore, for the moment, that this solitude isn't entirely my own doing) thinking about things that you have heretofore avoided is time well spent, on balance. And this weekend I did boil a few things down to digestable bits, to wit:

First - The North Shore Story, while certainly nice and certainly a revelation for me in its own way, is much like the Bible. It's a good read, but not necessarily the be-all end-all*. Upon further reflection, much of the significance of those two days was due to the fact that they were the first of their kind that I had experienced (or more accurately, allowed myself to experience - see the third epiphany, below) in years, since well before my marriage dissolved. Put another way; if you deprive someone of food for a week and then give them a Saltine, odds are they'll say that shitty little cracker is the best food they've ever eaten. Compared to nothing at all, anything seems fantastic. In reality, it wasn't really anything more than a damn good time and a reminder that I'm capable of feeling. Not a bad thing, but not the second coming, either.

Second - My partner in crime for those two days (as well as the 4 months or so that surrounded them): It was a good time for sure, but she's not the one for me. I don't know exactly how I got so all-fired into her, but it's pretty clear that I was projecting a lot of who I wanted her to be and hoped she was onto someone who couldn't ever live up to those kinds of expectations. I wish her the best, but she'll have to find it with someone else. My recent realizations about what I want from life have forced me to accept that she's simply not the person who can help me get there. Such is life, and we move on.

Next - I believe I've learned how long it takes to sufficiently recover from the barrel o' fun that is a failed marriage and be ready to take another stab at sharing life with someone else, in my case: about 5 years, or a little longer than the marriage itself lasted. I'm sure some smart person somewhere could have told me this, but let's be honest: I never would have listened. You can tell me not to touch the hot stove until you're blue in the face, but until I burn the fuck out of my hand doing just that, it won't sink in. Woe to any poor sweet soul who may have encountered me in the past half-decade; I'm ever so sorry, but I simply wasn't ready. I think I'm much more ready now. In particular, I'd like to send a sincere apology out into the ether for one particular young lady who suffered terribly in the throes of my lack of self-understanding; it wasn't right, and it's not okay. One day, when I'm confident that doing so won't cause her more pain, I'll apologize properly and in person. Until then I'm saying it here: I'm truly, terribly sorry, K.

Finally - I think it's about time I stopped blogging about this aspect of life and got on to actually trying to live it. Easier said than done for sure, but it's time I started; more time won't make it any easier. As for this place, I intend to return my focus to (hopefully) clever insights into the world around me, and the endless reservoire of material that my fellow humanzees are so very adept at providing. Morons.

Whew. In the words of John Cusack (as Rob Gordon): Who needs a drink?


*all due respect to any devout readers - I really have read The Book and I think it's great, just not my thing.

Go m-beirimíd go leir beo an t-am seo arís*.

Irish Gaelic's so damn cool. The above is a good traditional toast for when you're at the pub enjoying some fine Craic. It translates (loosely) as "May we all be alive when this time comes around again." And really, that's a pretty damn Irish thing to say.

Oh, my poor pub friends - they're going to get an earful of this shite next time we're out.

Sláinte, y'all.


*for those interested in learning, it's pronounced thusly: "Guh merrimeed guh lair byoh un towm shuh areesh." Hey, I never said it was a pretty language.

It's All So Clear To Me Now.

Well, thanks to the good folks at WikiHow, I can pretty much guarantee that I won't be single next V-Day:

HOW TO GET A GIRLFRIEND:
It is usually harder for guys to get a girlfriend than it is for girls to get a boyfriend. For all those who haven't been lucky or are in the love (or lust) department, follow these steps to become Mister Smooth.
Steps

1. Pick a location frequented by a significant number of girls where you feel fairly comfortable, perhaps a place that is conducive to a skill of yours: music, public speaking, or a private intimate conversation.
2. Scope out the pickings. Pick one or two or three. Keep these in your mind as "potentials".
3. If you feel you have gotten to know any "Potentials" well enough to ask them out, go ahead and do it, worst thing that could happen is that she says no, and that's her loss. But not you, you've still got the others.
4. Adapt your appearance. Clean up for a high-class city girl. Dress down for the fun-loving motorbike chick.
5. Be funny. If you're not naturally funny, don't try too hard around her. Pitch jokes to other people first and see how the jokes do with them. If you get no laughs there, just pray, because it's gonna be hard winning a girl without humor.
6. Keep up a good posture, walk steadily and smile. Women do not like slouchers. Bad posture gives an air of lack of confidence. Smiling makes a guy more welcoming. A good walking style, (straight back, a hand in the pocket and taking well distanced strides) gives the impression of intelligence.
7. Talk. Silent guys are annoying. (On the other hand, men who do nothing but talk and never listen are annoying too.)
8. Look and touch. Looking into a girl's eyes shows respect and interest. A firm handshake, a gentle pat on the back, a light touch of the hand and other subtle gestures allow the girl to feel connected with the guy.
9. Feel great. The feeling will radiate and affect the lady too.
10. Don't pretend to be someone you aren't, you may think you will win her round with it but in the end it will backfire. Find a common interest, something you both like. If she likes a band and you don't, lie about it, and listen to them till you change your mind.


Tips

* Put on great-smelling aftershave or cologne. Research the best-selling ones at department stores. A good scent really turns a woman on.
* Guys do not need to look like Brad Pitt to find a girlfriend. Just keep hair, teeth and nails clean and neat. Ladies are quick to notice little details especially in the hands and faces.
* Be a good conversationalist. Read up on the latest in politics, entertainment, arts and even sports news. Women love a well-informed man. It makes him look well-educated and, therefore, richer in every aspect. Or just actually be well-educated.
* Do listen to the lady before responding. Women do not like to be cut off. They like to be considered and feel important.
* Do pay on the first drink, first date, first taxi cab ride, etc. It makes a gentleman out of a man.
* Most importantly, offer to walk or drive the lady home (or anywhere she wants to go). This makes the man seem sincerely concerned for her well-being.
* Don't annoy you girl by texting her every night. If she texts you, reply but unless you have something to say then don't text. It gets annoying when someone keeps texting you saying "i <3 u".
* Don't be unsubtle. Yet it is important not to be so obtuse as to be unreadable.
* Do romantic things for her, like slow dances, holding hands, giving her flowers and candy, and hugs.
* Don't be afraid to diplay your affection in public.
* DO NOT push her to have sex with you if she doesn't want to.
* Be a gentleman! Open car doors for her and remember the "ladies first" rule


Warnings

* Do not stalk the lady!
* Grinning like the Cheshire cat is creepy.
* Taking over the entire conversation is over-bearing and rude.
* Do not insist relentlessly on an offer when the lady has turned it down. It may be that she has no use for or does not feel good about the suggestion. Pushing her to accept will only increase the possibility of rejection.
* Avoid being a close talker. Nobody likes that.
* Don't make disgusting body jokes, or fart a lot. Girls hate that.

And here I thought everyone loved a close talker - go figure. Thanks, WikiHow!

From the HSO to you all:

Sigh. If you can't beat 'em...

An Epiphany, or the North Shore Story.

Lake Superior is shrinking. * Quite a bit, actually. I watched that story last night and realized that it was bothering me, though I couldn't really figure out just why. I mean, I've been to the North Shore all of once, for two days this past Autumn.

And really, that's it. That damn two day trip. See, I went up there with the girl I was seeing at the time - she loves the area, and this was our first opportunity to get out of the Metro and road trip together. And it was really a damn fine time - in point of fact, it's easily one of the best times I've had in the past 10 years.

It's a little hard to put a finger on just what made it so good. Partly, I just felt like I was really me, for the first time in years. That probably seems an odd thing to say, but from my perspective it's quite true. All the signs were there: I was gregarious, and a little reckless (if we'd managed to actually make a real relationship out of things, I'm sure we'd be constantly boring people with the tale of how I bombed down the side of the hill down to the shore at like 1AM, in some odd bid to teach her a lesson about pretending to be unsafe - a brilliant over-reaction, and the kind of hare-brained risk I was known for in my youth), and in retrospect I realize I was feeling... well, alive. Funny how a person can take months to realize something so obvious.

Mostly, I remember a sense of endless possibilities - we had (potentially) a lifetime spread out before us and all the time in the world to explore it. And in that setting I guess I felt the freedom - or perhaps courage is a better word - to look ahead at that potential and be hopeful about it. Hopeful isn't really my style, in general, but for some reason in that setting it was the only way to look at the world.

Inevitably, the trip had to end - as did the relationship, ultimately. The unrelenting gloom of reality took its toll, and what could have been a great thing simply withered and died; a victim of harsh surroundings and a regretable lack of care. In retrospect, I wonder if we simply burned too brightly - we never could have hoped to maintain something like that. Questions for another time, I suppose.

But for those two days we were on top of the world, and as a result the North Shore will always be a special place for me. Life's an odd thing, and I'm constantly surprised at how the smallest things can make the biggest impact.





*And Leon's getting larger! (sorry, couldn't resist)

We Should Meet About That.

Another thing they love here at the P.O.? Meetings. LOVE 'em. If there's any reason to have a meeting they'll do it, and woe to you if you can't find a good excuse not to attend.

Today's example: I was "encouraged" to attend a policy-related meeting (occurs weekly) that I normally avoid (using a pre-placed rationale that I spent some time putting in place so that I wouldn't have to come up with a new reason to skip it every single week) like the plague. It was intimated to me that there were some important questions about my project and it was important for me to be there to answer those important questions. Right. First off: there were no important questions, just one nebulous question that was so poorly worded that I first had to translate it into English before I could realize how utterly silly it was (and that we'd already answered it FOUR times).

Here's a sampling of my notes from the rest of the meeting (some words and names have been changed and/or omitted, just for shits and giggles):

Absolutely ZERO impact on the project - why am I here?

Gibberish - dude makes less than no sense at all.

More shit I don't care about.

Brilliant waste of an hour's worth of my day - one weird question I could have answered over the fuckin' phone.

[name removed]'s babbling about something - I don't know what she's saying, but her voice reminds me of that fucker who worked at the chiropractor's office. Now I want to punch her.

Oh, shit - they're whining about what to CALL it.

[name removed] does look better as a blonde. Who knew.

If I had a straw, I could totally shoot a bunch of spitwads and get 'em caught in his beard. That'd be sweet.

[name removed] really is awfully pretty. It's a shame, really.


Another day in paradise. Pass the Kool-Aid, pronto.

It's Gram-tastic. Gram-tacular, even.

I watched the Grammy's - sort of. I do this (sort of) every year. It's not that I think it should exist any more than any of the other awards shows - I don't - but since it's sort of "my" industry, I do like to check in to see just how out of touch with reality it is on a given year (an example of past unintentional comedy: giving the best Heavy Metal award to... Jethro Tull?).

This year I definitely tuned in to see the Police open the show - that was the main reason, and they didn't disappoint. Sting sounded great and Copeland's drop chops are as good as ever. I also liked their choice of tune and making a little psuedo-medley out of one tune, as opposed to trying to spit out a full, "greatest hits" type medley or something. Well, done, Po-po.

As for the rest, here (verbatim and unedited) are some reflections of the proceedings that I texted to myself with my phone, so I wouldn't forget*:

- (7:58PM CDT)Police rocked - john mayer is good
- (9:02PM) Ornette!
- (9:21PM) Christina Aguilera is hot and good.
- (9:56PM) Good choice for jt partner.
- (9:58PM) JT is a badass.
- (10:02PM) I AM QUENTON TARRANTINO AND I YELL!
- (10:12PM) The Peppers are a little flat. Again. Does not compute.
- (10:15PM) Nice solo by Frusciante at the end, though.
- (10:17PM) Lifetime Achievement Award.
- (10:24PM) Sven, you're a tease.**
- (10:25PM) DH gives a shout out - huh? (at this point I can't recall who DH was)
- (10:28PM) What? JT=robbed. Huh-uh.


And there we have it - Grammy's 2007 in a nutshell, of sorts.

*In one case I already did, and the little text note didn't help. Oh my aching gray matter.

**I think I'd flipped to KARE11 for a check of the weather, here.

Meh.

Well, it's going to happen. The Police are going to do a world "reunion" tour.

I'm of two distinct minds about this: As a die-hard fan of the band, I think it's a great opportunity for people to see them play live. However, I won't be seeing any of the shows - I can't get excited about the prospect of seeing them on stage after all these years. It's not that I'm worried age will have diminished them, it's just that, well, we all know Copeland and Sting can't stand each other - so I can't think this tour is anything but a cash-making venture, and as much as I respect their right to make some bank, I don't think I'll be adding to that money pile.

Enjoy the money, boys - I suppose you've earned it.

The Ugly Truth.

Here's the thing, folks: Nobody ever wants to say it, nobody ever talks about it, but the sad, sick truth of the matter is that lots of people never find anyone. There may be a metric shit-ton of fish in the sea, but that doesn't mean we're all going to catch one. The real deal, whether anyone wants to admit it or not, is that all sorts of people die alone and miserable.

"You are coming to a sad realization - cancel or allow?"

Fuck you.

Parenthood.

So I'm a bit fascinated with parenthood and how it changes people. There are 2 likely causes of this fascination: First, pretty much all of my friends have had kids over the past 2-3 years - and I do mean ALL of them. Those that have abstained from reproduction can be counted on one shop teacher's hand.

Second, I will - in all likelihood - never have children, myself. Now, now - don't cry for me yet, Argentina. You should know that a)I'm not afflicted by any real desire or need to be a parent, and b) I probably wouldn't be very good at it - I don't come from a line of particularly strong fathers. So it's okay if I don't father any kids of my own, really. Even if it wasn't, I ain't gettin' any younger and it's not like the women are knocking down my door screaming "Put a baby in me!" So no, I don't think there's much chance I'll be popping out any miniature people.

But that's okay - I much prefer the concept of being "crazy uncle Colin" over boring old "Dad". For one, I don't ever have to be the bad guy. I can be all fun, all the time. For two, I can lie to the little ankle-biters, which I love to do - nothing awful or harmful to them, mind you, just fun little bits of fiction*.

I'm enjoying watching my friends evolve, that's for sure. It's interesting to see their priorities shift (and heartening to see that they're shifting in the right direction; I won't have to worry about any of these kids), and to listen to them telling stories about the most mundane events possible as if they're discussing a chance encounter with, like, James Dean or some such thing. Incidentally, those mundane stories, as it turns out, aren't anywhere near as annoying as I'd feared they would be; it's actually kind of cute.

My immediate goal is to get each and every one of these little rug rats to refer to me as "Uncle Stan" - because sooner or later their parents are going to have to explain that nickname** to them, and it's gonna be awesome.


*an example: My good friends' boy, Connor, came up to me at a baseball game once and demanded that I explain to him why the sky was blue. I mentioned that his dad really ought to explain it to him, but he replied that his dad was "too busy". So, after giving it some careful thought, I decided to tell him the sky was blue because I painted it that way. No big thing - until later that summer, while mom and dad were painting the house (and of course arguing about it) and Connor piped up with the following admonishment: "Stop fighting so much! Uncle Colin painted the whole sky and you don't see him complaining." Angels. They're little angels.

**there is a story behind this nickname, of course - one day I may even explain it here***.

***or perhaps I already have explained it... I don't remember. This is your brain after multiple severe concussions and several dubious lifestyle choices.

Count to ten... count to ten... murder is illegal... count to 10...

It begins. Or rather, it continues.

That's right - forget the TV ads or the tie-ins on your favorite show, in the internet age there are so many more ways to be harrassed about Valentine's Day.

As I type this, I'm just finished deleting 3 V-Day related SPAM emails - one from Open Table (I reserved through them at a couple restaurants back when I had someone to take to dinner - so nice of them to make sure I don't forget that I blew that opportunity), one from Blue Mountain (I send my mom e-cards sometimes - sue me), and one from Minnesota Public Radio reminding me of Mark Wheat's "Greatest Love Songs of All Time" program - from Hell's heart I stab at thee, Wheat!

I know, I know - I myself have already explained how to survive this mad season, right here. Doctor, heal thyself.

Ah, well - I offer a hearty and sincere "Sleinte" to all my friends and their significant others this Valentine's. May you enjoy it half as much as I loathe it.

Same as it ever was.

As is well-described in this article from CNN, it would appear that the evolution vs. creationism debate isn't just a Western phenomenon. It seems that African evangelists are no more willing to consider evolution than their American counterparts.

As an ex-Archeaology major and someone who still keeps up on the discipline (or at least tries to), I don't see a need to detail my own position on the matter - overwhelming physical evidence is, well, overwhelming physical evidence. It kind of speaks for itself.

It's nice to see that the Leakeys are still out there fighting the good fight.

It's About That Time.

As I write this, I'm realizing that my current role in the P.O. will essentially end in a little over a year from now - not to say I won't have ample opportunity to stay here, but if I do my role will change - it'll have to. This project will be over, so I'll need to transition somewhere else - whether that means back to my old department or something different remains to be seen.

More importantly, I'll have the best opportunity to leave that I've had in a long time. So it's time to take a long hard look at my life and determine the answer to one basic question: Do I want to stay in Minnesota? In the end, that's really the question I need to answer. The P.O. is a factor, as are many other things, but - at this point - there isn't anything that would really keep me here.

Now, before this starts to read like an article entitled "Why I Hate the Twin Cities", let me say that I do not, in fact, hate it here. It's fine, all things considered. However, it has never felt like home. And really, that's a problem.

Let's do a little history - just the highlights: I moved here with my (then) wife in May, 2000. We lived here together for about a year and a half before our marriage ran its course and dissolved. Since then I've been in and out of a couple attempts at another relationship (one which just blew up a month or two ago), but none of them have turned out to be anything one can count on, and I've not found myself truly saying "I'm going to stay and try to build a life here with this woman." As I start to list out the facts, I think we'll see how this little bit o' history affects things.

Fact One: I am a heterosexual male who is not interested in living (or dying) alone. My track record over the past nearly 7 years in this area suggests that I may not be in the best place for me to find the companionship I'm looking for (do note that I was only married for a brief period early on in my time here - the rest of the time I've been single and not at all successful). This would indicate that perhaps a change of scenery would be good for me. 5.5 years with nothing much to show for it isn't what I'd call a good run.

Fact Two: In all likelihood I'll have a good skill/experience set when this project is complete - one that actually translates outside of the P.O. So I don't have to stay here, is what I'm saying. This means that a change of scenery is something that's definitely in the realm of possibility for me.

Fact Three: I've spent the last 10+ years teaching myself how to make my music by myself, and I'm pretty damn good at it. I've got some great musician friends and have made some minimal contacts, but I'm not engrained in the local scene - far from it, really. I've also learned from experience that - thanks to the internet and email - it's very possible to collaborate and record with anyone, anywhere in the world. This means that music isn't a reason to stay, either - it's not a reason to leave, but it isn't keeping me here.

Fact Four: I have made some great friends here - as in the lifelong variety. I value these folks very highly, and they've all been truly wonderful to me over the years. It can be said that if it weren't for these folks I wouldn't have survived here to this point, and that wouldn't be a huge exaggeration. I would miss these people if I left, no question - and that is an important consideration, to be sure.

Final Facts: I'm 37 as I write this. I'll be 38 next year when it's time to stay or to go. I never wanted to get this old, and certainly never wanted to be this old and still living like I was in my 20s. The fact of the matter is that I'm not in my 20s anymore, and my outlook and priorities have evolved as one might expect they would. Put simply, I feel the urge to find a Home and to start to consider what I want to do with the rest of my life. If I'm going to actually have to be alive, then it's about time I got down to the business of living. This sitting around biding my time and meanwhile living like some grotesque version of Peter Pan, it's not cutting the mustard anymore. It's time to grow up.

So in the end, what I need to figure out is whether or not I want to grow up here, or whether I need to go someplace else and start over from scratch. For anyone who might be interested, the current list of possibilities (based on nothing more than whether or not I like the place at this point - things like job markets and whatnot are concerns for a bit later on) for where that someplace else might be include the following (in no particular order): Chicago, IL (back to the old hometown area), Madison, WI (back to the old alma mater), Seattle/Bellingham, WA (always had a hankering to live in the extreme upper PacNW, maybe it's time to give it a go), and Boston, MA (similarly, I've always had an interest in this place, and as it turns out I've got a number of friends in the area).

For the record, I'm aware that a year is a fairly long time. I'm also aware that what I'm talking about means I need to do a lot of thinking about what I want and where I can fairly expect to find it.

It's time to start a-thinkin'.

As promised.

I mentioned yesterday that I would post about any progress in what I will now refer to as The Situation. As you may recall (I'm just going to assume that you, the reader, are either a) interested in this, at least at a general level, or b) not interested and surfing somewhere else, which is just fine with me), I've been struggling with the idea of being the "better person" and extending myself to the Other Person, because - put simply - if I don't do it, then it won't get done.

I've decided to go ahead and do it - and have begun the process, albeit in small, bearable steps. I have some small hope that this will lead to something good, but there's also a good chance that all I'm doing is setting myself up for disappointment. I'm rationalizing - at the moment - that it's worth it because in the end I'm doing the right thing.

If this blows up in my face, we'll see how much that really comforts me.

And with that we conclude today's chapter of Totally Ambiguous Theatre.

Isn't it Alanis?

Alanis: Something that isn't really ironic, but since the meaning of that word has been ruined by people like Alanis Morissette, people would likely say "How ironic" or something similarly idiotic about it.

Rain on your wedding day? That's just shitty luck. But I've gone off on this before, so on to the tale at hand.

It's cold here in Minneapolis these days - really damn cold. That's not a huge thing, really - this is the upper Midwest after all, and unlike many of my neighbors I'm perfectly able to survive a little cold snap without incident and with minimal complaint.

What I may not survive is the fact that my apartment is like 30 majillion degrees - seriously, it's ridiculously hot. And it's like a desert heat - just dry and hot. Turn down my heat, you say? Gee, I didn't think of that! Of course I thought of that, dumbass, and my heat's been turned down as low as I can make it go for like a week. Doesn't matter - since I live on the top floor of a big brick building in which my neighbors must have their own heat full-on cranked, I'm provided with more than enough heat from them to make my place an arid hell hole.

Each morning as I prepare to go out and brave the winter cold, I first have to survive my own little inferno - I spend the final five minutes trying to put the clothes on that I've spent the rest of the morning trying to avoid in hopes that I won't end up sweating like pig right before I walk out into the sub-zero air. I get home and immediately start ripping off clothing to acclimate myself, while also being careful not to step on my cats who are lying flat on the floor in an effort to get as much surface area going as possible to dissipate the heat.

I'd open a window, but NOOOO... my landlords flip out and send letters explaining how quickly water pipes can freeze if I do that. Clearly, they've not been in my apartment during the winter - friggin' Cold Miser couldn't freeze those pipes, no way. So the windows stay shut, and we keep cooking away.

I know, I know - this is a pretty lame, pedestrian complaint. I do know this, and I'm well aware that as I type this little missive the cold is literally killing people. I really shouldn't complain.

But that's never stopped me before, and dammit it's too hot in my apartment!

I don't know what to call this one.

"Rednecks in Space"? "Proof that in 100 years we'll have trailer parks orbiting the planet"? I dunno.

What I do know is that we've got friggin' astronauts acting like guests on the Jerry Springer show. Wonderful.

Read the story, just do it - I could embellish or comment, but there are times when you can't improve on the source material, and this is one of those times.

Diapers... ridonk.

EDIT: Greg Boose has a damn witty take on this story, which you can read right here at the Nervous Breakdown. Check it out, y'all - highly recommended.

Okay, maybe I'm NOT growing up so much.

Yeah... so while I do seem to be growing up in some ways, certain recent events have forced me to admit that it's not a done deal - and in fact I've got quite a ways to go in some areas. Namely, pride.

I have a little rule about referencing my private life here at the HSO - not that I don't trust all of you out there in the blog-o-sphere as if you were my own flesh and blood, but when other people are involved it seems to me that the right thing to do is keep mum about it, or at most be very vague. Besides, the last thing anyone needs is for me to go all maudlin and blather on endlessly about trivial personal stuff - that's not why y'all come here (all 4 or 5 of you).

That said, I'm dealing with something at present, and that's precisely what's made it very clear to me that while I'm enjoying some growth, I'm far from what could objectively be called maturity.

To put a finer point on it, certain situations have got to a point where someone needs to do the right thing - to extend themselves, take a little risk, have a little faith and be the bigger person. And I'm capable of that, really. I've done it before in many situations, no big whoop, really. So what's different this time that's keeping me from doing it again? Pride. Pure and simple, that's all it is - cutting to the chase, I don't really feel like I should be the one who takes the chance and makes the gesture. I just don't.

And really, that's a pretty silly and childish position to take - I know this. But still... it just chaps my hide something fierce to think that I should have to be the one to take that step when I honestly feel like it's not my responsibility to do so.

BUT, if I don't, it's possible that it won't happen. And really, do I want to know - down the line - that things could be much better/different if I'd just grown up, put aside my pride and done what needed to be done? Given the possible benefit that could be gained, do I want to throw that away on a point of pride?

I'm a little ashamed to admit it, but at the moment I don't know the answer to those questions. Stay tuned.

Ode to St. Pauly Girl.

Okay, it's not really an ode - I just realized after the weekend of hibernation that she was right about a couple of things. And since she's no longer here at the P.O., and I know she loves to be right, I figured I'd admit it here in the HSO.

First, some time earlier this year, SPG told me about a show she thought I'd like: My Boys. Well, TBS ran the entire first season yesterday, and I caught a fair bit of it before, after, and - once the game turned into precisely what I thought it might turn into - during the Super Bowl. Turns out it is a really good show - at least I like it. And in the "I'm older than I realized I was" file, I was pleasantly surprised to hear "shit" (and most of its possible permutations) and "dick" being used openly in a sitcom. No, not because I have some juvenile love for foul language, but because the fact is that's how people our age actually talk - so it does in fact make the dialogue a bit more realistic and impactful if the folks on TV also talk that way. Additionally, being from the Chicagoland area (the show is set in Chicago), their use of "dick" was spot-on.

So anyway, good call SPG - it really is a good show, and I intend to make a point of catching up on it before they air new episodes this summer.

Second. It was really friggin' cold this weekend. Cold enough to keep me indoors with little to do but contemplate certain - situations - and watch TV, plus the usual meandering I do, working on this song or that for a while, maybe playing around with some graphics stuff, etc.

Anyway, as for the situations, specifically one of them which I will not detail here (at least not now), it's beginning to be very clear that - much as I really hate to admit it (and I do mean really), SPG's right about that one as well. What I'll do about it (hell, if there's really anything I can do about it), that's a different question, and one I don't have an answer for. But she's right, dammit.

I hope you slept in late and are enjoying a nice lazy Monday for the first time in a long time, SPG. We'll miss you around here.

This here is good news:

It appears that Gray Wolves are no longer on the endangered list. Per the report, the population around the Great Lakes region (Minnesota, Michigan and Wisconsin) has risen to around 4,000 wolves, up from between 700 and a thousand 30 years ago.

I love wolves - I love all large predators, really, but wolves hold a special place in my cold black heart. Moreover, it's just nice to see some preservation efforts that really are paying off.

Well, that explains a lot.

Rejoice, everyone - ole Punxsutawney Phil didn't see his shadow today, so we're in for an early Spring!

Yeah, right. Some fat, near-sighted rodent fails to see his shadow (as if he can even pretend to grasp the concept of a shadow), so I'm supposed to start pulling out the short sleeves? I think not.

As always, it's the people that make something like this worthwhile.

"It's just kind of fun seeing people go so crazy about a groundhog," said one witness. You don't really get out much, do you, pal?

And this year Phil had some new handlers - one of them said, "It's a lot of work, but it's exciting to know you're a part of one of the most phenomenal parts of American folklore." A lot of work? Really? I mean, aside from having to drag that dirty rodent out and having to smile as he (inevitably) pisses down your arm, just how much work can it really be to pretend the dumb thing has either seen its shadow or not? As for the whole "one of the most phenomenal parts of American folklore" thing, well, he apparently doesn't get out much, either.

I'm somewhat heartened to see that they at least included one dissenting opinion - though oddly enough it came from a guy who walked 30 miles to witness the thing. In fairness, it should be pointed out that the walking thing was both to commemorate his 60th birthday and raise money for breast cancer research. His observation was, simply enough, "It's supposed to get bitter cold this weekend." Ah, the digital age. It's not enough just to predict a nice change in the weather, Phil - we expect quicker service than that.

Finally, reading this article revealed to me where this madness originally comes from; Germany. Let's see... Nazis, Hasselhoff, and weather-predicting rodents. Thanks so much, Germany!

My Head A'Splode.

Families are funny things - unless they're my family.

No details, please - suffice to say that my parents broke up in an ugly fashion when I was around 13 years of age. One of the very few good things that should have come of that was that any childhood pictures of me would be lost in all the commotion.

Sadly, it appears I won't be able to reap that benefit; the pictures were not destroyed or lost, and instead of being somewhere relatively safe, like in my mother's possession, they've found their way to the worst possible hands - my brother's.

As such, you all can expect some horrified blogging in the future - titles such as "He Posted What Where?" or "I Need a Hit Man to Kill my Brother" may become common sights here in the HSO.

The past - how I hate it. With hell's heart I stab at thee, past!