A place called B.L.O.G.

That’s right. Honk if you love my blog. You probably aren’t driving at the moment, so you will have to wait until the next time you are in your car. That’s all right. The important thing is that you honk at some point. OK? Good. Now, whenever I’m out walking or driving and I hear somebody honk at me, I’ll assume it’s a fan of my blog, and I’ll wave in a friendly manner.

Or, if you just can’t wait until you get to your car, feel free to make your own honking sound right now as you read this. Perhaps you could do your best goose impersonation. If anybody else is around and they ask why you did that, explain it away by saying you have a disease that makes you honk. If they keep asking questions, say you have to go check the laundry, but instead leave the house and go to Mexico.

Other suggestions for things to do if you love certain things:

x  Snap your fingers if you love Slim Jims

x  Clang a spoon on your sink if you love pine nuts

x  Scratch your head in a thoughtful manner if you love knowledge

x  Squeal your tires if you love getting pulled over by cops

x  Stand on one foot if you love flamingoes

x  Calculate the square root of 194 if you love pain

x  Take a nap if you love America

OK, so I’m in that little room again today and I look at that confusing ice-scoop sign again. SHOCKING NEW DEVELOPMENT: It turns out that I inaccurately relayed the exact wording of the sign the first time I discussed this matter here at “A Place Called B.L.O.G.” The actual wording is:

“Please only use the scoop for ice”

OK. Thinking about this again, there are two ways to interpret that. One is “don’t use the scoop for anything other than ice,” which is the way I took it at first, which is why I felt the need to blog about it the other day. Because what else would you use it for? But the other way to read the sign is “please don’t use anything other than the scoop for ice.” Now THAT makes sense. Because they don’t want people sticking their hands in there or using their dirty cups as scoops. So, that must be what it means. Mystery solved.

I put it to you, however, that the correct wording should have been “Please use only the scoop for ice.” There is just one way to interpret that sentence. The placement of the modifier makes all the difference here. When will the world begin to take modifier placement seriously? When, I ask you, WHEN?

This just goes to show you how important good editing really is to the world. I could have been spared all those hours of torment, the sleepless nights spent trying to figure out that sign, if only somebody had worded it properly. Likewise, you wouldn’t have had to read about it twice on this blog. The point: We’d all be happier.

So I guess what I’m saying is that good editing is essential for happiness.

Good day to you!

“Screw you and your goddamn crabcake!”

“Do you expect me to believe that your bank is the first in the history of the world where customers count? Please do not insult my intelligence!”

“Actually, I’m quite comfortable here on the Itanic, but thank you for asking!”

“A sideways ‘Z’ does not morph easily into an ‘M,’ and your lame attempt at this transformation does not make me any more likely to eat breakfast at your fast-food restaurant!”

I have a plastic bottlle at work, and I often fill it with ice water to drink as I carry out my work-related activities. This has replaced the formerly ever-present bottle of Diet Dr. Pepper at my desk, which probably pleases my body, considering the long list of dreadful side effects of aspartame.

I need to fill my ice water bottle regularly. If I navigate my way through a series of winding halls and cut through the composing area, I come to a small, tucked-away room where there is an ice machine. I open up the lid of this thing and I find a large scoop and a huge mound of ice. I dump a few scoops of that stuff into my bottle, and this allows the water to attain the degree of coldness that I require.

Strange thing is, there is a sign right above the ice machine that says “Please use scoop for ice only. Thank you.”

The first time I saw that sign, I looked around the room. There are four vending machines, a microwave, a small stainless-steel sink, a hand-soap dispenser and a paper-towel dispenser. That’s it. What else could anybody possibly use the scoop for in that little room? I honestly can’t think of a single thing.

I can’t, for the life of me, figure out why that sign is there. Why was it necessary to have this sign made — it’s a very nice sign, by the way — when the company could have spent that money on a raise for me, or something else that’s more useful?

Any ideas? What does this sign mean?

Lately, I have been spending a lot of time in coffee shops. I sit there, I drink coffee, I read, I write. Sometimes I look up at people as they walk by. Sometimes I catch snippets of other people’s conversations. Sometimes I use the restroom. It’s very nice.

I’ve been exploring the coffee shops of the Twin Cities for a couple months now. There are some good ones. I’ve checked out the Blue Moon on Lake Street, the Bean Factory on Randolph, Coffee Grounds in Falcon Heights, A Fine Grind on Marshall, Caffetto off Lyndale, and others. The one I’ve spent the most time in is Nina’s, on Selby. Love that place. Great atmosphere. I have also, as you can probably guess by the title of this blog entry, gone to the Hard Times Cafe in Minneapolis.

I like it there. I like the crowd there. Lots of different people. You’ve got your requisite guy with the laptop, the requisite chick with an iPod, and the requisite guys playing chess. But you’ve also got a wide variety of tattooed and pierced folks, a couple of guys who look like they just got off their shift at the foundry, a guy who probably slept at the bus station last night, and, the last time I went, a whole table of people dressed in Renaissance-style clothes. (I didn’t ask.) They also have good vegetarian food there, and there’s usually good music on. Like I said, good place.

However, I wonder something. Do I really qualify to hang out in the Hard Times Cafe? Is my life difficult enough? Is it necessary that I have fallen on hard times to feel like I have the right to sit there with my book and drink coffee? Is there a minimum duration requirement for the hard times, or could one get by on the sheer intensity of the hard times?

I have devised a system to determine whether I can legitimately claim to belong at a place that calls itself the "Hard Times" anything. Basically, there are 10 factors that I consider the main elements of what you might call "hard times":

1) Financial difficulties/loss of job.

2) Diseases or other physical maladies.

3) Mental illness.

4) Heartbrokenness/other problems with the opposite sex.

5) Trouble with the law.

6) Death of a loved one.

7) Living during the Bush administration.

Addiction to drugs/alcohol/gambling/etc.

9) Being discriminated against or harassed based on race, sexual orientation, etc.

10) Being the victim of crime.

I figure if you can claim at least four or five of these, you can say you truly are the victim of hard times. Or, if you only have a couple but they are really bad, you could probably slide by. Perusing the list, I think I could make a case for four or five of those, depending on whether traffic tickets qualify as "trouble with the law" and whether asthma is serious enough to fit under "physical maladies."

My conclusion is that even though I don’t really dress the part or act really ornery most of the time, I have a solid case for admission to the Hard Times Cafe. So, if, the next time I’m there, somebody says to me, "Hey, mister, you don’t look like you’re actually suffering through hard times," I’ll have a retort all ready to go.

Recently, I aquired for myself a new pair of jeans. This pleased me. I had been lacking in the jeans department.

However, there are always a handful of surprises that go along with having new jeans. I experienced one of these the first time I applied the jeans to the lower half of my body and transferred my loose change, cell phone, etc. into the pockets. I thrust my hand in and, lo and behold, shallow pockets.

Allow me to explain. My two other primary pairs of jeans had what I assumed were pockets of normal depth. I could shove my hands down in there to a point well above the wrist. Heck, I could almost scratch my knees with my hands in my pockets. This provided a sense of security that my things would not go tumbling out of my pockets were I to relax into a reclined position or be scooped up by a rogue professional wrestler and dangled upside down for a few moments.

But these new jeans have shallow pockets. Whenever I go for my change or my cell phone now, I unexpectedly hit bottom a split second before I expect to, and I say to myself, “Gee, these are shallow pockets.” With my old jeans, I could conceal an entire package of Starburst candies in the pocket (yes, that was a package of Starbursts in there, ya sicko), but now, I think a little bit of yellow wrapper would stick out of the top. Where am I to conceal my Starburst candies? Where? I am going to have to stop eating Starburst candies. (That’s probably OK, though. Candy is not good for me.)

Anyway, back to the matter of the shallow pockets. I’ve considered visiting my local tailor to see if I can have the pockets deepened. I would walk in, carrying the jeans, and say to the nice tailor, “Good sir tailor, might there be a way to deepen the pockets of these jeans? They are simply not deep enough for my tastes.” I wonder what they would say.

I do have one concern, however. People with deep pockets are always getting sued. I don’t really need that in my life. Perhaps this provides motivation enough for me to keep the shallow pockets. Even if the lawsuits are baseless, I don’t want the hassle and expense of lawyer’s fees and court appearances.

I will be devoting a lot of time to thinking about this problem, and I hope to arrive at a decision soon. I’ll keep you posted.

The scene: Breakfast this morning, in my slanty apartment. Me and Jimmy. Following are actual chunks of dialogue, presented for your amusement:

Jimmy (eating strawberries): “The best thing about strawberries is that they’re so edible. And delicious.”

–later–

(After I had been marveling about the fact that his new frog cost only $3, which is less than it costs to eat at Taco Bell)

Jimmy: “There sure are a lot of inanimate objects at Taco Bell. Everything there is an inanimate object, except the customers. And the clerks.”

–later–

Jimmy (while drinking Apple Raspberry juice): “I think Apple Raspberry juice is apple juice made from raspberries.”

Me: “Hmmm. You think so? I think maybe it’s apple juice mixed with raspberry juice.”

Jimmy: “That was my next guess.”

Is this kid his father’s son, or what?

We at the EAGLE think every EPHS student should know that its simple, the U.S. should not let people from Dubai work at the ports. It’s like on 24, there are terrorists everywhere, especially in places like Dubai and Chechna, and they probably want to find ways to bring nerve gas or nuclear bombs to our country, and what better way than ports?

We at the EAGLE call to mind the EPHS “Eagle Creed.” E.A.G.L.E: “Enthusiasum, Achievement, Good Deeds, Learning, Excellence.” From the food in our cafeteria to the success of our Knowledge Bowl team, students at EPHS insist on these things in everything we do. We are the next generation. Let us ask ourselves if President Bush’s plan to let nerve gas come into the ports achieves these qualities? Certainly not! If High Schoolers can see this, why cannot the president?

We know that the makers of The Constitution wanted there to be Checks and Balances. But my friends let us remember that this phrase applies to more than just your dad balancing the checkbook. The people in Congress, whoever they are, and in the U.S. Supreme Court, our U.S. Government Classes tell us, should be made part of such a momentous choice as well, and as far as we know the president is not going through the proper channels. That is what Sports Editor Danny Kaufmann’s Dad told us, and he reads the paper.

You may ask why this issue is of importance to us here in Eden Prairie, Minnesota, because we don’t have ports. Well if you cant figure that out, you should think about it some more, because obviously terrorists can move their bombs and nerve gases on trucks or trains once they get it into the ports. Plus we have a port in Duluth, which they can get to through Lake Superior. This issue is important to all of us here at EPHS, home of EAGLE PRIDE!

Finally, we want to take a moment to send a good luck message to the EAGLE DANCE TEAM, which will be competing in both the high-kick/precision and jazz/funk competition during the Tournament at the Xcel Energy Center this weekend! Go get em, girls!

Many of you are rabid fans of my weekly “best of the police blotter” e-mails. Those of you who are not, well, you are missing out. What’s wrong with you? I compile all the funniest incidents from the three crime blotters I write for the Strib’s suburban sections. Lordy, lordy, people do some crazy stuff.

Well, I came across something today that might be the best blotter item of all time. That’s really saying something. Is it better than the family who called the cops because their oven door would not open and they were afraid their pizza would burn? Maybe. Is it better than the guy who stabbed his buddy in the back with a sword during a drunken fight over a video game? Perhaps. Could it even be funnier than the guy who burned a pair of jeans and threw the ashes in a duck pond? Hmmm. That’s hard to top. But enough buildup. Now that I’ve talked it up so much, it’s going to be a letdown, isn’t it? Oh, well. Without further ado, here it is, from the city of Hopkins:

“Forgery. A Burnsville woman, 41, was charged with theft after she allegedly wrote out a check stolen from a Hopkins man. She wrote the check to pay a fine for another fraudulent check case, this one in Dakota County.”

To quote Dr. Roger Fleming: “Such irony.”

1) Take hostages

2) Write the Great American Novel

3) Write a shitty American novel

4) Win the heart of a wealthy dowager

5) Watch TV

6) Eat black-eyed peas

7) Eat regular peas

Give myself a titty twister

9) Ignite a global controversy

10) Offend an Amish person (that I know of)