Won't somebody please think of the children!?

The other night I was at my local public library for the first time in probably 10 years. Now I've been in a library in the last decade, just not this one. And instead of describing the minutiae of my visit, I'm going to let this photo sum it up:

This is why I love living in Massachusetts. In other states, people were losing their minds that a movie poster had the word 'porno' in it. My local library has a copy on Blu-Ray (very high tech) that you can borrow for a buck a week.

*I modified the library name because I don't want to give anyone with an agenda some ammo. In fact, I'm sick of all these people who use protecting the children as their excuse to push their social agendas (Maine's voting down of gay marriage) and attempt to limit free speech. How about instead of trampling all over everyone's rights, why don't you be a responsible parent and educate your children about the real world out there that contains scary things like atheists, homosexuals, liberals, and S-E-X? They're going to learn about it sooner or later. So to borrow one of your favorite phrases...

White Boys Can Dance Last-Minute Halloween Tips '09

Halloween is hands down my favorite holiday of the year. I don't think I really need to use that many words to justify why I feel this way, so I'll use these: parties, candy, slutty costumes, fiery gourds, and all things spooktacular (a criminally underused word).

So to help out some of the other single gentlemen of the world to better enjoy their festivities this weekend, I'm going to dole out a couple of costume-related tips.

If you're trying to meet the ladies, don't wear one of the stupid sexually suggestive costumes that your buddies snicker at in iParty.

"Who has two thumbs and is a douche?"

That is unless you're looking for a girl who doesn't wear underpants to church (a whore); they eat that shit right up. In fact, I've devised a whole theory of clothing. Here's the quick 'n dirty: I think you dress yourself not necessarily in a style that you like, you dress in said style to attract a certain type of person. If that's too mind numbing here's an example: if you want to attract some Jersey trash, then wear an Affliction shirt. And here's me using a colon in a third consecutive sentence: there it is. And now that I typed it out it seems so obvious that I should delete it, buuuuuut I don't want to delete my shot at Affliction shirts because seriously, look at them. Moving on.

This one is better because it's not inviting anyone to fellate you, but I feel it still comes off as you having a high opinion of yourself. I would equate this to wearing a t-shirt that says "Italian Stallion" or "Everyone Loves a Greek Boy". However, it's a great costume for a fat guy because irony is always funny (for awhile at least).

If you're looking for a real chick magnet get yourself one of these:

Now you may think Mr. Jackson's deceased status or questionable record when it comes to children would be a turn-off. You would be wrong. I wore my Thriller jacket to a party last evening and by the end of the night it had more breasts in it than the poultry section of your local grocers. That might be a bit much in the information department, but it actually serves a purpose. That that type of playful interaction leads to conversation, and if you play your cards right, phone numbers. You're welcome.

Oh and one final tip. Don't get blackout drunk in a bar party or pictures may end up on Facebook of you licking some random shirtless guy's nipples on the sidewalk for no discernible reason -- at least that's what I heard from my friend in Canada.

The Almost-Erotic Travels of Jon: Chapter One

Back in the spring, my then current-girlfriend and I visited some of my friends living in London. Their flat was pretty central to everything that tourists would want to see, so we spent a considerable amount of travel time on foot. I had been to London before so I wasn't really down for the touristy stuff, but she had not. And not to toot my own horn, but because I was an awesome boyfriend I let her dictate most of our destinations.

It turns out that days of non-stop walking around the city takes a toll on your legs and feet after shutting them down for the winter and not waking them up for spring. And for me, fashion comes before function, so I paid a few extra pence to the collector (my sneakers did a better job looking good than cushioning my feet). So one evening after scouring the Soho district we came across a massage parlour and I decided a massage was in order. She didn't really want to spend the money, but with how my lower extremities were feeling, I wouldn't accept no as an answer.

We enter the office (I'm calling it an office because there was a tall Asian man in a doctor's coat, so I will assume that he's had some medical training, right? And I'm going to call him Doctor C. because I'm pretty sure he was also Chinese. Assumptions abound!) and I inquire as to the cost of a massage. We spend a few minutes working out the details and are asked to sit down. As we are sitting there two women start to fill pans of water with what looks like an office water cooler without the bottle on top. They are there for a couple minutes and seem to be having difficulties, so they give up and head downstairs. After a minute or two Doctor C. tells us we can head downstairs. After passing a still-boxed LCD TV in the tight hallway -- I've noticed that there always seems to be boxed electronics out in the open in Asian businesses, just saying -- we descend down a metal spiral staircase to a questionable basement.

The women direct us to separate rooms. While discussing treatment upstairs, I was under the assumption that we would be in the same room, but these rooms did not have the capacity to allow it. That and I didn't really understand half the stuff Doctor C. was saying, so I could have made that up in my mind. We go into our separate rooms and now this turns into a singular narrative. I remove my socks and shoes and hang out for the masseuse to enter the room. She enters with a pan of water with some flowers in it. She asks me to place my feet in the pan and I oblige. As I plunge my feet into the pan she apologizes for the water not being warm. I guess the water cooler thing upstairs was the only means of heating water in the office because the sink they got this water from clearly did not have hot as an option. She leaves the room.

So now I'm sitting in a dark room with my feet in a pan of cold water for a couple minutes. She returns and has me lie down on the table. She places a towel over my lap and grabs a jar of Vaseline. What? The? Fuck? So as the reader you must be thinking something sketchy is about to go down, right?

Nope. She goes to town massaging the shit out of my feet. It was one of the most amazing massages I've ever received in my life. The days of abuse just melt away with each stroke and clutch of her hands. Thirty or so minutes later the massage is over -- now this is where is gets sketchy. I lie there for a few minutes beyond relaxed and she just hangs out at the end of the table just sort of staring at me. She doesn't put anything away. She doesn't turn up the lights. She doesn't open the door. She doesn't say anything. She just stands there but makes sure I'm aware of her presence.

I could hear that the girlfriend was done and had already headed upstairs. Now I'm at a crossroads. Do I get my things together and join her upstairs, or have the masseuse make sex acts on me? I do have a thing for Asians and she was smoking hot; and not in that 3 Fast 3 Furious race-scenester-sort-of-look, but more of a classic beauty. But as I mentioned earlier, I was an awesome boyfriend, and not a cheater so I gather my things and head upstairs after giving her a tip -- just not that tip.

Now I know by now you're saying that Asians are smart and knew that were were together, so there's no way she would be in contact with my special area, but I discussed some of the quirks of the experience with the girlfriend to which she informed me of a vastly different experience for her. Plus they gave her the ugly one. Check and mate.

PCI Security Awareness

The HR manager in my office walked around today handing out a postcard-sized memo regarding office security. Because of today's history, I've decided to share this valuable information with you. Below you will see a photograph of the memo and I will also provide a transcript.

The Importance of Maintaining a Clear Desk or Workspace
Maintaining a clear desk or workspace is important to help ensure sensitive information is not physically exposed when you are at your desk, when you leave your desk unattended during the day, or when you leave at night.

-Lock sensitive documents in a drawer or cabinet when not being used.
-Ensure all paper based information is securely disposed of (i.e. shredded).
-Do not write down passwords and display them for others to view.
-Always lock your computer when leaving your desk (Ctrl+Alt+Del then enter).
-Lock removable storage media away when not in use.
-Physically secure laptops to something immovable with a cable lock.
-Encrypt all sensitive information stored on laptops or removable storage media.
-Remove all information from meeting rooms when you leave.
-Collect documents from the printer as soon as they are printed.
-Always take valuables with you when you leave, or lock them away.

Or to summarize it up in eight words: Don't leave out shit you don't want stolen.

Take that you terrorist sons of bitches! USA! USA! USA!

The Mustache Experiment: Update

Day 4-

I think this mustache is starting to take over. I'm seriously considering robbing a train on horseback.

I also enjoy when Chevy Chase does this...

My office co-inhabitant has been on vacation this week. This is excellent news. Normally that statement would be made because the subject of said statement is a self-absorbed prick, smells bad, or [fill in any other negative attribute you could label a person with]. Not him. He's a nice guy, with good enough hygiene (doesn't stink from where I sit), and sports a glorious, curly mullet. Oh, and did I mention he loves classic rock? Well you had to see that one coming. And I don't think I'm exaggerating when I say he loves it potentially more than his children. He's basically a blue-blooded version of Joe Dirt.

So why the joy over his temporary departure? Since he's a rocker through and through, rules dictate that the act of rocking must be constant and take place at an acceptable level regardless of professional surroundings; which translates to a constant audio blitz of the sounds of the 60's and 70's emanating from his desktop speakers. Also, none of this pussy level 3 shit. Rocking takes place at 8 or 9, minimum (7 for conference calls). And I wouldn't be surprised if his speakers actually went to 11.

Now, I should be able to get behind this because being a fan of music I try to listen to it all day too. But due to my inferior speakers and/or desire to not exclusively listen to guitar-driven anthems, I just can't compete with him. Now I'm not disparaging classic rock at all. I love it. I just don't need to hear Boston's 1976 debut album thrice a week, followed up with a one-sided, in-depth discussion of a Brad Delp side project (I nod politely). I also don't need to be reminded several times a week that two original members of Boston are in a band with an original member of John Cafferty & The Beaver Brown Band (the fucking stupidest name for a band ever) and a local car dealership tycoon.

As a polite person -- really, I hold doors for women and always say "thank you" -- I find it difficult to ask him to shut the fuck up. I've tried to put myself in his mindset to no avail. Is he really that inconsiderate? Can he just not hear that well anymore after the combination of years of concerts and getting old? Did all those drugs he enjoyed in the 70's eat his brain?

To support one of those guesses (drugs) I will add that he also loves ABBA, which doesn't really fit into the M.O. I've laid out. At least several times a week, when I come in to the office in the morning ABBA is playing. Some people drink coffee to get their day going. Others go for a run. Yet others rub one out. He feels it necessary to start his day with live versions of "Super Trouper" and "Fernando" playing over, and over, and over, and over again. Most likely while rubbing one out. Gross.

Dr. Thomas Neill Cream and Me

I've always had an interest in mustaches but have never worn one -- until today. And that's discounting the indicator mustache that most facial hair-baring teenagers grow as nature's way of saying it's time to start shaving. I had a pretty furious beard for the past couple months to the point where I was routinely being called out for looking like Ted Kaczynski, so the terrorist beard had to go. Although to be more accurate it was more of a depression beard.

But since I'm feeling good these days, and it's been the opposite temperature of a witch's tit, the beard had to go. It did go out with a bang though. Over the weekend, I won a trip to the Virgin Mobile Freefest coming up in a couple weeks and had to take some promo pictures for marketing or whatever (the PR woman's personal collection); so if you come across a picture of some thin Zach Galifianakis looking motherfucker holding a robot lion/tiger cub, congratulations, you have located a picture of me.

A terribly out of date picture. I mean, it's been at least eighteen hours since I've had a full beard -- and in this Facebook/Twitter world that we live in, anything that is older than fifteen minutes is old news. So I decided to keep a handlebar mustache. Seriously. I look like I belong in a barbershop quartet, or I should be lifting those trapezoidal dumbbells while wearing a one-shoulder singlet. There are so many prospects for my new facial hair, I may keep it forever. And by forever I mean maybe through the weekend after attending a bachelor party. Nothing say classy to a stripper than a sweet, sweet handlebar mustache.

Konnichiwa, bitches!

(Especially me. See below.)

Well blog, long time no write.

Just to get it out of the way, the relationship I referenced in a few posts last year has come to it's conclusion. That is all I'm going to say about that until I can come up with something funny about getting dumped and being terribly depressed. Boo hoo!

Moving on. I'm sorely out of practice at trying to be funny at any length larger than a paragraph, so getting back into this is going to be like swimming in the Atlantic Ocean in New England -- I'll need to ease myself in or I'll freeze my balls (literally). So here's something quick that I read today:

WASHINGTON (AFP) – Five months after it was launched on a mission to find earth-like planets, the Kepler space telescope has sent back to Earth high-precision images of a planet some 1,000 light years away, NASA said Thursday.

But the real excitement at NASA was over how well Kepler was working, and the promise it holds for the future.

With Kepler only in the calibration phase, the telescope, which was launched in March on a mission to find earth-like planets in the galaxy, sent back to Earth highly precise images of a planet with the unromantic name of HAT-P-7-B.

The images of the so-called "hot Jupiter" planet located about 1,000 light years (around 5.9 quadrillion miles, 9.5 quadrillion kilometers) from Earth were "the first time anyone has seen light from this planet," said William Borucki, the principal science investigator for the Kepler mission and lead author of a report that will be published Friday in Science.

But while the scientists were enthusiastic about Kepler's discovery of optical light from HAT-P-7-B -- Carnegie Institution astrophysicist Alan Boss called it "stunning indeed" -- they were even more excited by the fact that Kepler was working, and working well.

"The real headline is Kepler works," said Boss.

Amazing! High precision images of a planet light years away! But that's not what gives these scientists a space-boner; oh no, it's that the piece of equipment that they spent years engineering and billions of dollars building is doing the job that they designed it to do. And this isn't an isolated incident. I'm too lazy to dig up any actual articles to back this up, but every time a piece of space equipment does it's job the scientists seem surprised.

"Holy shit! The Mars Rover landed on Mars and is now roving it. This is the exact opposite of what I expected to happen, despite spending 15 years of my life dedicated to this project."

Where can I get a job where failure is expected? Relationship counselor? Actually, that's not a good example at all.