blarg?

I’m going to C’est What after work tomorrow, to talk about DS games in particular and video games in general with anyone who wants to show up.

I should be there around six.

The results of my experimentation seem to indicate that every single time I employ the phrase “That’s what makes me dangerous, baby” around my wife, I am immediately smacked in the head.

This is not awesome, and doesn’t conform to my theory at all.

Well, back to the drawing board.

Update: It occurs to me now that it might be awesome for other people! I am prepared to call that progress!

Following up my previous entry, I have decided to employ the phrase “That’s what makes me dangerous, baby” at every available opportunity from now on.

Now, because I am a scientist, I have a theory: my theory is that doing so will be awesome. And because I am a scientist with a theory, I will be testing my theory as soon as I get home tonight. I will test it in casual conversation with my wife, and then we will see just how awesome it gets.

For it to truly be considered scientific, I will also need a way to measure my results, so tonight I plan pioneering work in the measurement of awesome.

I will call it “awesometrics”.

How does this measure up, people of the future will ask themselves, awesometrically? Is it perhaps a .47 on the Hoye Scale? This is clearly how the people of the future will evaluate the pressing questions of the day. With the help of the Hoye Scale, and fractional values of awesome.

I think we all know what that will be like.

I am a little concerned about how my wife will react to her new employ as my scientific apparatus, but these are the risks that we must undergo in the pursuit of Raw Unfettered Scientific Knowledge. Especially the Raw Unfettered Scientific Knowledge Of Awesomeness. And in truth, a lot of people just don’t have the guts, the unflinching courage of their awesome convictions, to go through with an experiment like this.

But I do. That’s what makes me dangerous, baby.

I’ve had a longstanding theory that you can kind of tell what a person’s first language just by looking at them, on an axis largely unrelated to ethnicity; the exercise of different spoken languages put different strains on a person’s developing musculature and skeletal structure, my theory goes, and those strains are formative over the years, clearly visible to the astute observer.

By using words like “skeletal” and “musculature”, you’ll note, my theory sounds much more scientific than the closely-related “if you keep making that face, it’ll freeze like that”, but in a sense that is also true; you can see the laugh-lines around the eyes of people who’ve spent a lot of time smiling, and the downturned wrinkles that crease the faces of people who’ve spent most of their lives with a disapproving, indignant scowl, and hint at the grotesque. Who is to say, then, that I am wrong?

Also, when I guess right, it reinforces my belief that I am an astute observer. In that respect, at least, it’s quite a useful theory. Other astute observers will realize that the entire second paragraph in this entry is just a bunch of handwaving that doesn’t add any compelling logic but somehow makes the whole claim smell better. But that sort of thing is what makes astute observers dangerous.

I’m an astute observer, and that’s what makes me dangerous, baby.

The reason I bring this up at all is that I am teaching a course in French these days, and it’s starting to give me face cramps. Quebecois French is apparently some hell of a strain on my facial apparatus.

Depending on which sweeping generalization you’re most familiar with, the French are supposed to be either great lovers, terrifically rude, or a people who’ve long known politics to be a bloodsport, and right now I can totally get behind any one of those. The way my face feels, I’m thinking the French must be the Shaolin Monks of facial dexterity, that they’ve been in cruel and rigorous training for those engagements since they were small children.

Ouch, basically.

I’m hardly the guy to be handing out fashion advice, because come on seriously, but listen up, yo. Two things.

One: I’ve seen a lot of people this fall gunning hard for the jeans-and-blazer look, and I’ve got to tell you: those people look like idiots. You know how people used to describe mullets as “business up front and a party in the back”? When I see it, that’s what I think of. I think “this man is dressed like a mullet.”

Two: Are you wearing white sneakers, jeans and a collared shirt with the collar turned up just so? Got your Ray Bans on? Because there’s been an extremely strong correlation between being so dressed and my wanting to punch you out for no reason lately. That outfit might be the secret ceremonial robes of the Jackass Illuminati, or something.

Thank you for your attention in this matter, please resume getting down with your bad selves at your own convenience.

Update: “This somehow validates my own prejudice, mysterious stranger across the street!”

There are rich veins of barrel-bottom that have yet to be fully explored, it seems:

Phone: Bzzzz!

Hoye: Answers phone.

Robotic Feminine Voice: “Please hold, you have an important message from”

Hoye: Hangs up phone

Phone: Chirp.

Hoye: Goes about his business for five minutes.

Phone: Bzzzz!

Hoye: Answers phone.

Robotic Feminine Voice: “Please hold, you have an important message from a random merchant. To listen, please stay on the”

Hoye: Hangs up phone

Phone: Chirp.

Hoye: Goes about his business for fifteen minutes.

Phone: Bzzzz!

Hoye: Answers phone.

Robotic Feminine Voice: “Please hold, you have”

Hoye: Hangs up phone

Phone: Chirp.

Hoye: Goes about his business for two hours.

Phone: Bzzzz!

Hoye: Answers phone.

Robotic Feminine Voice: “Please hold, you have an important message from a random merchant. To listen, please stay on the line.”

Hoye: Muttering. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Crappy Elevator Music: “Doo de doo de doo.”

Hoye: Jaw clenches, brows furrow.

Telemarketer: “Hello, is this Mr. Howe?”

Hoye: “Who?”

Telemarketer: “Is this Mr. Howe?”

Hoye: “No.”

Telemarketer: “Is there anyone else there by the name of Mike Howe?”

Hoye: “No. Why are you calling me?”

Telemarketer: “Sorry, there’s no Mr. Howe there?”

Hoye: “No. You have the wrong number. Put me on your do-not-call list. Stop calling me.”

Telemarketer: “Could I speak to Mr. Howe?”

Hoye: Hangs up phone

Phone: Chirp.

Hoye: Goes about his business for half an hour.

Phone: Bzzzz!

Hoye:Answers phone.

Robotic Feminine Voice: “Please hold, you have an important message from”

Hoye: Brain explodes.

So, you phone me up, at home, work, wherever I happen to be, and the first thing you do is put me on hold? Nice. So, even though you’re in the middle of trying to sell me your product, you think my time is completely worthless.

As it magically turns out, I immediately feel the same way about your product.

I hate you so much. Seriously, if you are in advertising, I want you to kill yourself right now.

“It is the artist who is truthful and the camera that lies, because a photograph is a mechanical representation frozen in time. The photograph is false because in reality time does not stop. If the artist can succeed in representing the fluidity of motion in a painting, the work is much more original than the scientific image in which time is abruptly suspended.” – Auguste Rodin

I am going to tell you a story based entirely on pictures now, and thus made entirely of lies. Forgive me; beauty is truth, yes, and some moments demand poetry, but I am a far better liar than a poet, and even my flimsiest lies are more honest than any poem I have in me.

I call it “Geofford: The Happiest Lank In All The World”.

As many of you know, my good friend Geofford Seaborn was married just recently, and I will sum up the epic saga of the entire affaire as follows: he is now married, to a very lovely woman named Julie now-also-Seaborn. The funny thing is that the day beforehand, he had no idea what was going on until we gave him a coffee and told him he was, dude, getting married!.

That got his attention right quick.

So we had a celebratory meal, which was good, and people said some things, and some of those things brought out Happy Geoff, and other things brought out Angry Geoff, and the whole night was like that, some kind of Lanky Mood Roulette.

Entirely understandable, given the various disreputables involved, but in truth the real problem Geofford’s always had is not looking like he’s up to something. Well, that and finding a tuxedo jacket that will go all the way down his arms, but modern formalwear science has apparently made significant progress in recent years.

I’ll spare you the details but in the end, Geoff gets the girl and, as these things occasionally do, it wound up being a beautiful evening.

So we wrap up our saga with wishes of good health and best wishes to the lovely couple, who seemed both intact and happy the next day.

Good luck, both of you, and believe me when I say that these are the only photos I took that came out OK.

Ladies and gentlemen:

For about $60 bucks at Canadian Tire, and often on sale, you can acquire this cordless drill. It comes with a spare battery, which is absolutely critical. I also suggest that you obtain one of these which, the ratchet being cute but only rarely useful, is all about the wide variety of often-useful bits that it contains. If you’re feeling particularly indulgent, this small set of sockets is a nice addition for around-the-house work, as is a good set of drill bits.

If you’re going to be spending lot of time building, assembling or disassembling things, especially wood-based or Ikea-furniture-like things, a cordless drill and a good set of bits is a significant win, a huge time-and effort-saver.

Thank you for your attention in this matter, please go about your business.