Silflay Hraka

A reprint of a post from three years ago, in honor of the Man in Yellow, who–weirdly enough–also played a part in the very first post here at Hraka.

Men At Work

I’ve been going to concerts all my life. No matter what I’ve done, I’ve never been able to get front row seats. I waited for ten hours in the snow fifteen years ago to see Jimmy Buffett at the Dean Dome. I was 14 rows back. The closest I’ve ever been was an R.E.M show at Duke when they played Cameron Indoor Stadium. I don’t want to even think about how long ago that was. 5th row center, with a girlfriend, Phyllis, and a friend of hers whose name escapes me. Likely it escaped me then as well. Nice location, but still not the front. INXS at the Dome? 20 rows back. Violent Femmes and the Indigo Girls at Memorial Auditorium? 12 rows back.

Until Thursday, when I finally scored front row concert tickets, the always sought after and never realized acme of any concert going experience. Right in front, where the band can’t miss you. Down where you can count nose hairs. Just me, my wife and our toddler, going to see the Wiggles.

As far as Ngnat was concerned, we got our $75 worth just walking into the venue. She looked at all the kids and was overcome with delight. She walked in on red carpet and ran around for the sheer pleasure of movement, and bounced her seat up and down in manic bliss. She made peepee sitting on a men’s room public toilet amidst rapturous paroxysms of happiness. My, whatever we were doing was fun! There were even songs she knew playing in the background!

She sat in her Mommy’s lap and watched the curtain open. Then THEY walked out onto stage. Jeff. Murray. Greg. Anthony. It was as if a bus had fallen out of the sky onto her. She knows the Wiggles. We watch Wiggles videos all the time. We told her we were going to go see the Wiggles, but obviously she didn’t realize we were going to SEE THE WIGGLES.

The paradigm shift took about 4 minutes, during which she sat completely still on the sainted wife’s lap. She sucked on her thumb, then her thumb and a finger, then a thumb and two fingers, until eventually she was attempting to cram her entire fist down her throat. Finally, when Henry the Octopus walked onstage, she finished processing all the relevant data. She let out a scream that a Sinatra bobby-soxer or Beatlemaniac would have recognized instantly.

“HEEEEEEENNNNNNNWWWWWYYYYYYYY!!!” It was almost as if she wasn’t convinced that everything was real until she saw a gigantic purple mollusk stroll out and give her a wave. After that it was “Well, if Henry’s here, it must be ok.”

Then “Waaaaaaaags!”and “Dowafeeeeeeeee!”. She wasn’t the only one screaming either. The crowd noise had been growing with each introduction. It reached its apex when the Captain ran out. Ran out, rounded off a roundoff , shook his feather sword, and said “Ahoy there, me hearties!”.

Every kid in the building went apeshit, and it was a big building. And then the Wiggles sang.

I can’t tell you the songs. They’re all two minutes long and involve various acts of wackiness on the part of the Wiggles and their animal and pirate friends. The kids know all the words, and most of the parents know most of the words, including me. It’s not hard, remembering to sing “Hot Potato” five times in a row. They did all their hits, which you’ve never heard of unless you’re the parent of a toddler. If you are the parent of a toddler, then they did “Hoop-te-Doo” and “Wiggly Party” and “Emu Dance” and “Move like an Emu” and “Watch Out, The Emu Can Disembowel You With One Swift Kick” and “Quack Quack Quack Quack Quack Cock-a-Doodle-Doo!”, during which the Wiggles call out the names of various celebrities and the Captain sings as if he were that person. His Mick Jagger and Madonna versions were good, but his Eminem was absolute genius. And while I was joking about the Emu disemboweling you song, I’m not about the Eminem version of “Quack Quack…..”. It was one of the most surreal things I’ve ever seen. Every Wiggle up on stage obviously thought it was a grand joke, challenging the Captain to rap his signature song on short notice. Surely it was planned, but it didn’t feel like it.

So the Captain rapped, and he and the Wiggles sang more songs, and Ngnat danced in the aisle with the other toddlers, turning around and around in a jerky, skipping galumph of a dance. I watched her while the sainted wife waited in the merchandise line for 30 minutes, hoping against hope that they wouldn’t sell out of T-shirts before she got to the head of the line. It was the venue’s fault, sticking all of the various Wiggly items into one place. The booth, such as it was, was staffed by two elderly ladies who stared in absolute shock at the 15 person deep sea of parents surrounding them on all sides, intent on getting a damn feathersword for little Johnny come hell or high water.

They did sell out, but only after she bought a blue shirt for Ngnat featuring four cartoon Wiggle faces. She insisted we put it on immediately, while she danced. Mom pulled the T-shirt over her head while I unbuttoned the original outfit, then pulled it off via a convenient arm hole. Must preserve an aura of modesty, you know.

She went to bed in it that night. She got up and went to daycare in it this morning. She’s sleeping in it now. We have tried to take it off, in case you’re looking for the Social Services number, but she refuses to have anything to do with that.

“My Wiggles!” she yells. “My Wiggles!”

I know it will damage my hip credentials beyond all repair, as if a white guy in his thirties still had hip credentials, but I had a blast. The Wiggles had the crowd in the palms of their hands. It was really cool to look out over the sea of people and see hundreds of pre-schoolers bouncing up and down as one, doing a primitive version of the hand jive to “Hot Potato.” Yes, it’s probably easy to do when three-quarters of your fans are under five, but how many of you have done that to a crowd? How many of you have ever gotten…say ten…ten kids to do something at once? I was a camp counselor for years. It’s a lot harder than it looks, and these guys did it effortlessly. The concert didn’t have anything like the tightly scripted feel I thought it would have. Rather it was relaxed, casual. They laughed at everything. Jeff rode out on a tiny little tricycle, and the handlebars came off, and he couldn’t get them back on. And he laughed, and they laughed, and Jeff struggled to get the recalcitrant toy off stage, and laughed some more. I bet Madonna would bite off bat heads if her tiny tricycle broke.

I’d seen a crowd like that only twice before in my life. Once was at a Buffett concert, when I saw twenty-thousand people moving as one to “Fins“. The other time was hearing two thousand scream out the chorus to “Add It Up” as if they were exorcising demons. And I wasn’t even high this time.

The wife also had a blast, for perhaps different reasons. The only downside to the whole evening for her was having to wait in line so long. She wanted to see more of Anthony, who she hadn’t thought much of until she saw him in person, at which point she discovered within herself a rather seamy lust.

Her exact words–”Damn, Anthony is hot!”

I bet you don’t hear that at many Barney concerts.

Update: Ngnat has now worn her Wiggles shirt for a second straight day and is sleeping in it for a third straight night. We managed to get her to take a bath today only by promising her that she could immediately put her shirt back on after the bath.

And, one thing that I left out. Anthony had an American flag guitar strap. I thought it a nice touch. Of course, it might not mean anything, but it’s hard not to see it as a gesture of support.

Much Later Update: Scotty M is now the proud owner of the Blue Wiggles t-shirt, Ngnat having outgrown it long ago. The images are faded and cracked, but it still gets worn to bed at least once a week in the warmer part of the year.

Continue reading ‘Wiggle No More’ »

Dinner last night was spaghetti with homemade sauce, since there was no Prego at hand in the pantry, and Texas Toast. Ngnat, as is her wont when faced with even the slightest of culinary experiments, found something to complain about–in this case the lack of a spoon with which to eat said dish. After demonstrating the absolute uselessness of a fork when it comes to consuming spaghetti by stabbing at the noodles a couple of times, she breathed out the weary sigh of a epicure denied, then rested her head in her hands, gazing listlessly at the pedestrian nutriment set before her.

“Elbows off the table, dear.” I told her. Her mother echoes me from across the table. “Yes, you aren’t supposed to eat like that.”

With yet another sigh, she turned to me with palms upraised, and in the most reasonable of tones, tried out the newest of the schoolyard epigrams she’s recently been exposed to.

“Daddy, how many times do I have to tell you? You’re not the boss of me.”

Across the table, Sainted Wife chokes on her milk. Inwardly, I’m chortling. Outwardly, I’m all Daddy voice.

“Go to your room. Get in your bed. You’re done for the night.” Challenge my authority, will you?

Ngnat’s face turns red, crumples, and tears begin to leak as she gets up and heads for the stairs. I twist the knife.

“I guess I am the boss of you, huh?”

I’ll pay for it one day, I suppose. One less trip she’ll feel obliged to make to the nursing home. Right now, though, Ngnat is far more concerned with the fact that her homework isn’t done. Between wails she relates this information to the world around her.

“I-hi ha-haf to-oo do-oo my-hi homewohk!”

“You should have thought of that before you started mouthing off at the table, Little Miss,” her mother informs her, and the wails retreat upstairs and fade, somewhat.

We consider the matter at hand, wife and I, while Scotty M from his seat informs us somewhat nervously that he is a very good boy. It’s three hours before bedtime, which means that we have over-punished, and need to back down–without, of course, appearing to have backed down. Fortunately there is an existing example for us to follow; English Common Law and The Royal Prerogative of Mercy. Robert Hughes, in The Fatal Shore, describes it thusly;

“This drama of immutable rules lay at the heart of the tremendous power that Law held over the English imagination. The judge simply surrendered to the imperative of the statutes, a course of action that absolved him of judicial murder, and that caused him to weep. His tears humbled him not before the men in the dock, which would have been unthinkable, but before the idea of Law itself. When the Royal Mercy intervened as it commonly did, transmuting the death penalty into exile on the other side of the world, the accused and their relatives could bless the intervening power of patronage while leaving the superior operations of Law unquestioned. The law was a disembodied entity, beyond class interest; the god was in the codex.”

That’s pretty much an accurate description of our parenting philosophy, minus the hanging and judgely tears. Over sentence as if we had no choice in the matter, then intervene at a later time to commute or reduce the punishment. In this case, this was about a half hour later, after the table was cleared and the kitchen cleaned. That’s the nice thing about the exercise of the Royal Prerogative. Once one knows that it is to be exercised at some point, you can schedule it for the most convenient time, or, if there’s something interesting on TV and you really don’t want to be disturbed, after that.

Ngnat was encased in her comforter, red-faced and damp, when I entered her room. “Do you know what you did wrong?” I asked her. She nodded, too overcome to speak, hiccupping her grief every few seconds.

“Okay, then. I’ll talk to Mommy about maybe letting you to do your homework, but only if you concentrate on it and do a really god job. ”

“Thank you, Daddy,” she squeaked, and then burst into fresh tears. I sat and took her in my lap. The sobs slowly wound down.

“It’s okay, honey. You won’t do it again.”

“No, daddy.”

Mission accomplished.

Someone in the New York Liquor Authority has been misreading his Dickens. After his visitations, it was ghosts that Scrooge had no more commerce with, not alcohol.*

Forget about buying Rudolph’s Revenge Winter Ale, Seriously Bad Elf Double Ale or Santa’s Butt Winter Porter, at least in New York.
…
On Oct. 3, a representative for Shelton submitted the six Christmas-themed beers to the Liquor Authority for approval, as required under state law. The others were Warm Welcome Nut Brown Ale, Very Bad Elf beer and Criminally Bad Elf barley wine.

The suit points out that nearly 12 Christmas-themed beers already exist in New York, including Samuel Adams’ Old Fizziwig Ale and Anchor’s Merry Christmas and Happy New Year beer.

Here’s two of the labels in question, courtesy Will Shelton.

Butthead: Huh-huh, Huh-huh. Nut Browned. Hey Baby, would you like one of Santa’s Toasted Nuts?

Beavis: Heh-heh. Fire! Fire!

“Butt,” for those of you who also have an internal B&B dialog of your very own, actually refers to the type of beer within bottle rather than Santa’s hairy nethers, and has for nearly 300 years.

“Before the year 1730, the malt liquors in general use in London were ale, beer, and two-penny, and it was customary for the drinkers of malt liquor to call for a pint, or tankard, of half and half, i. e. a half of ale and half of beer, a half of ale and half of two-penny, or half of beer and half of twopenny. In course of time it also became the practice to call for a pint or tankard of three-threads, meaning a third of ale, beer, and two-penny; and thus the publican had the trouble to go to three casks, and turn three cocks, for a pint of liquor To avoid this inconvenience and waste, a brewer of the name of Harwood conceived the idea of making a liquor, which should partake of the same united flavours of ale, beer, and two-penny; he did so, and succeeded, calling it entire, or entire butt, meaning that it was drawn entirely from one cask, or butt; and as it was a very hearty and nourishing liquor, it was very suitable for porters and other working people; hence it obtained the name of porter.”

When it comes to Christmas beers, I’m partial to Old Jubilation and the yearly Anchor Steam Christmas Ale, but any beer featuring a label referencing Santa’s private parts will inevitably find its way into my beer cellar….err, cabinet. As will the sociopathic elf brews, if only to give me the transient feeling of striking a blow against the Man–who, after all, has already done away with ads for my beloved Christmas tobaccy in the guise of defending the impressionable youths.

The problem with the neo-puritanism evident at the New York State Liquor Authority is that, not only does the board usurp the role of the parent when it decides what can and cannot be seen by children, it sets the standard for its censorship at the lowest common denominator level of “I know it when I see it.” So children like Santa. Big deal. Children like witches as well. Does that mean that the Pendle Witches Brew or Achouffe Macral should be banned as well? Beer Advocate, where you can see the rest of the labels in question, makes a similar argument.

What about Chouffe or Urthel beers? Those cute little gnome-like creatures that adorn their labels are literally taunting teens to pick-up their bottles and play. What about Rogue’s Santa Reserve or Gale’s Christmas Ale? They have jolly old Saint Nick on the label. Hell, I could cite off dozens of “questionable” labels on beers available in NY. Why are they allowed?

Once the act of censorship becomes common practice, it will always be safer to err on the side of the censor when it comes to the “questionable.” Just ask the Danish cartoonists. Once beer labels featuring Santa are banned, those featuring naked ladies, mildly risque phrases, or a weird depiction of someone’s god won’t be far behind. Censorship knows no bounds, because there’s someone who can be found to take offense at something, or a group that needs “protection” from a insidious combination of words and images. Censorship is always its own slippery slope.

* “A merry Christmas, Bob,” said Scrooge, with an earnestness that could not be mistaken, as he clapped him on the back. “A merrier Christmas, Bob, my good fellow, than I have given you for many a year. I’ll raise your salary, and endeavour to assist your struggling family, and we will discuss your affairs this very afternoon, over a Christmas bowl of smoking bishop, Bob. Make up the fires, and buy another coal-scuttle before you dot another i, Bob Cratchit!”

Smoking Bishop

5 unpeeled oranges
1 unpeeled grapefruit
36 cloves
1/4 pound of sugar
2 bottles of red wine
1 bottle of port

Wash the oranges and bake.

Once they begin to brown, stick 6 cloves into each orange, and transfer the lot to a large container, pot or bowl.
CAUTION: Should you live in New York, make sure the container in question is not appealing to children at all, else the New York State Liquor Puritans may come after you. Perhaps a chamberpot? Certainly it would help re-create that real Dickens atmosphere.

Add the sugar and wine - leave the port for later

Cover and leave in a warm place for a day.

Squeeze the fruit into the wine/fruit mixture, then strain out the oranges and cloves.

Add the port and heat, but do not bring to a boil

Kramer, remixed.

via althouse

Hello and welcome to the Carnival of the Vanities. This week’s 219th edition bears a Thanksgiving theme, even though Thanksgiving has come and gone. I personally feel that thanks is something we should give all through the year.

One thing I’m thankful for this week is the time to edit the Carnival. The last few editions of the Carnival have been unedited due to time constraints. I haven’t even had time to read all the entries. This week, I do. For those of you in the Carnival this week, you should be thankful that you’re in it. Not everyone who submitted an entry is included. Why? Because I’m an asshole, that’s why.

Actually, I feel a little pruning of the carny is good for it, allowing it to grow stronger in the weeks and years to come. I include what I feel led to include and exclude on the same basis. If you submitted and didn’t make it in this week, keep submiting. You might make it in next week.

Anyway, I have time, but it isn’t infinite so I’ll get on with the show.

***

As I said, this week’s edition has a Thanksgiving theme. Thanksgiving means gratitude and plenty of bloggers were talking about it. My favorite bit of Thanksgiving gratitude comes from Sarakastic in Who says I’m not grateful? I think she’s got the Thanksgiving holiday nailed. She reminds me to say “Thanks, mom” for all the years of turkey and trimmings and thousands of other unsung acts.

Daniel Brenton speaks of gratitude in What a Difference a Day Makes, a reminiscence of Septemer 11th.

Christine Kane explains Why Gratitude Makes You Happier and Wealthier. I’m really, really grateful for everything. Really. Where’s my money?

Lisa shares the Thanksgiving experiences of her son inThanksgiving with the Lil’ Duck. It reminded me of my own Thanksgiving in Boston, spent with my brother and his family. I was thankful to be able to spend some time with them all since I don’t get to see them often. I was also thankful for the twelve hours a day we spent playing Lego Star Wars II.

Sortof, kindof related, dad tells how he duped his son into eating bread crust in Dealing With a Finicky Four Year Old Eater. I am thankful for every sandwich I ever received that was cut in triangles. I like triangles.

I’m also thankful for Cracker Barrel. I love that restaurant. There’s one off almost every Interstate exit from North Carolina to Mississippi and I ate at almost every one of them the last time I drove my folks to the family reunion in Gulfport. I also had breakfast there on Saturday before flying home from Boston.

Love.it.

It’s not for everyone though and especially not for gays. I say all this to set up Rich’s post on Boycotting Homophobia. Sorry, Rich. I’m thankful for Cracker Barrel’s “Sunrise Sampler” with biscuits and apple butter. Yum.

Phil expresses his thanks for endless piles of junk mail in Dear Junk Mail Solicitors. I’m sure we can all give the same thanks. I’m thankful for OptOutPrescreen.com, a website that allows you to opt out of prescreen credit offers. I receive less junk than I did.

Jennifer Miner is, overall, thankful for JetBlue Airways and weighs the JetBlue Airways Pros and Cons. I am thankful that my own holiday travels were uneventful. No delays, no lost luggage, no huge crowds and smelly, sweaty stranger next to me on the plane. I even had an empty seat to me on the way to Boston. I’m officially the luckiest man alive. Some might even say I lead a charmed life. It’s true. And I’m grateful for it.

What else am I thankful for? I’m thankful that Wayne Hurlbert finally ended his boycott of Blog Carnival and used the website to submit his post. It makes it so much easier on me. Thanks, Wayne. I’m also thankful for the fifteen minutes of fame this blog brings me every week around Carnival time. That and Andy Warhol are, coincidentally, the subjects of Wayne’s Carny entry this week.

Looking ahead to the Christmas holiday, Madeleine Begun Kane gives us rules for attending company office parties in Office Party Follies. Sounds like she’s had a lot of personal experience with these things. Still, office parties are better than no office parties. I’m finally with a company that throws a holiday office party. This year’s bash is at the High Museum of Art in Atlanta. I’ll be truly thankful if there’s an open bar.

If there is an open bar, I’ll be thankful for beer goggles.
Mark A. Rayner talks about The Beer Goggle Effect with Professor Quippy. One factor he fails to mention is the amount of time that has passed since one has enjoyed the companionship of the opposite sex. I’m sure that has something to do with the power of beer goggles.

From Goggles to Google: (Don’t you love my smooth transitions? Sure you do.) Leon Gettler asks How does Google stop turning evil?. Answer: sharing the wealth. For which we’d all be grateful.

Back to Christmas, Steve Faber gives a word of warning about Deficit Spending – It Works for the Feds, Why Not You Too? I found it personally relevant as I’ve been spending like nuts since moving to Atlanta. The new furniture is nice, however. I’m thankful for it.

Speeding things up because I’m winding down:

Avant News presents Magician Disillusioned. This reminded me of the recent movie “The Prestige”. I read the book and thoroughly enjoyed it. Avant News has apparently seen it as well.

Brandon Peele presents The 3 Lens Integration. Brandon submitted three different articles for inclusion in the carny. Brandon, be thankful you got one in. I include this one over the others because I was talking to a friend of mine the other day about the “Seek Ye First” Bible verses.

Paul gives advice on How to deal with information overload. To be honest, I only read the headline. One step ahead of you, Paul.

motherjones-rn presents Nurse Ratched’s Place: Confessions of a Closet Trekkie. Nurse Chapel: meeeooow!

Starling David Hunter presents No Fries With That, Sheikh?. No comment. Fading fast. Sorry.

Big Picture Guy presents Court Martial. I’m thankful I’m not being sued. Thanks for sharing, BPG, and good luck.

Abu Sahajj presents Geisha: The Center of Social Contrast. Note: Geisha’s are not prostitutes. Thanks for clearing that up, Abu.

***

Lastly, I’m thankful that it’s bedtime. I’m worn out and need some shut eye. Thanks to all those who submitted to this week’s Carnival of the Vanities and thanks to all of you who’ve stopped by to check it out. CoTV is truly thankful for all the support.

If you’d like to submit an entry for consideration in Carnival of the Vanities, you can do so at Blog Carnival. CoTV appears in this space every Wednesday and the submission deadline is 8:00 p.m. on Tuesday evening.

Thanks again for stopping by and, until next week, enjoy your Carnival of the Vanities.

As kehaar mentioned, I am beside myself. Basically, it is similar to an out of body experience. But, it has to be true, I mean I saw it. I think…..this season is all kind of hazy and foggy now - but could the Deacs really be this good? I guess I should just get over it and accept the fact the Wake Forest University Demon Deacons (enrollment size 4200) are 10-2 and headed to the ACC Championship game to face Georgia Tech.

And the first onslaught of accolades have arrived:

Wake put a bunch on the All-ACC teams.
1st team:
Offense: OL Steve Vallos, a complete haus on the line - started all 46 games of his carerr.
C Steve Justice - an athletic center, who will get looks from the NFL.

Defense: LB: John Abatte, who I met and is smaller than I am. I am sure some of you have heard the heart-wrenching story of the death of his brother. Just a fantastic family, and the Wake community has embraced them.
S: Josh Gattis out of Durham, who did not get scholarship offers from NC State or UNC. Both programs fell in love with Gattis’ high school teammate AJ Davis…..the Heels and Pack might want a re-do on that one.
K: Sam Swank: made 4 kicks of 50+ yards this year. Also, named Honorable Mention as a punter. FSU took Gary Cismesia over Swank. Yeah - FSU might want a re-do as well.

2nd team:
Offense: QB Riley Skinner. Redshirt freshman, who was the third string qb when the fall practice season started. It looks like he will never sit on the bench again.

Honoroble Mention: S Patrick Ghee, 4 year starter that graduated in 3.5 years.
DE Jyles Tucker (pure speed at that position and has given Wake a much needed boost in the pass rush.

And just today:
Skinner is the Rookie of the Year
and if any doubt:
Grobe is the Coach of the Year

Still a lot to play for. But these kids deserve this. Especially after being picked to finish last in the ACC Atlantic Division. This was suppossed to be a solid year 6 maybe 7 wins. Next year was the year Grobe and his staff were building towards. But, who’s complaining?

(Hey, did I mention that the men’s soccer team is in the Final 4, and the young basketball team is off to a 5-0 start?!!??!?)

Scotty M’s voice floated downstairs last night an hour or two after he had been put to bed. Something was missing. Something important.

“Bankie? Bankie, where are you?”

Bankie was on the floor in front of me. I picked it up and made my way to the stairs. SW cooed over the innate preciousness of her three-year-old talking to his security blanket. Appropriate, certainly, but I had other plans. Standing at the base of the stairs, I called back in a high falsetto.

“Cowin! Cowin, it’s me, Bankie! Where are you, Cowin?”

Silence. Dead silence.

“Cowin ! Where are you Cowin? I miss you so much!”

…..”Is that you, Daddy?”

“No Cowin! It’s me, Bankie! Why did you go away, Cowin?”

Sharp intake of breath from above. Scotty M. bursts into hysterics and retreats back to his bed. SW and I proceed up the stairs to calm him down and restore Bankie to its proper place in life, but we have trouble stifling our laughter on the way.

I’m at home on my four-hour delivery window for my new Rooms To Go furniture and things are going haywire so I thought I’d blog it. Blogging things that go haywire always seems to be a good thing.

Problem number one: I’m waiting on Rooms To Go to deliver my furniture and they don’t have a phone number at which they can currently reach me. Absentmindedly, I gave them my home phone number and my work number rather than my cell. I always do this to potential marketers. I don’t want them calling my cell, so I give them my home phone instead. Using Vonage, I just have my home phone number forwarded to my cell anyway. It allows me just a little more screening than I would have if someone just called my cell.

My plan on moving to Atlanta was to get the $99 dollar, all-inclusive Comcast cable, internet and voip services and to cancel my Vonage account. I got a new number through Comcast and have been meaning to forward that to my cell number. Knowing that Rooms To Go doesn’t have my cell, it’s imperative that I do so. Otherwise they’ll come and go and I’ll have no way of knowing unless run down six flights of stairs every ten minutes. Problem number two is that the elevators in my building aren’t working but we’ll get to that in a minute.

Anyway, I go online to the Comcast Digital Voice Center in order to set up my call forwarding. The dashboard doesn’t seem to have any way for me to do this. After looking through the help menu, I find that I can do this through my handset. I don’t have a handset which is why I need to forward the number in the first place. I call Comcast in order to have them forward the number and they can’t do it either. I have to use my handset.

I tell them to cancel my Digital Voice service right then and there. I’ll be transferring my new number to Vonage. For one, Vonage is cheaper and gives me exactly the features and functionality that I need. Screw the $99 dollar a month “introductory rate” package. It’s not worth it. On top of that, the Comcast technician that came to set up my service didn’t even know how to set it up so I could use my own cable gateway in place of the Comcast modem. I had no desire to use their modem and no desire to have it junking up my home but the guy had no clue if I could even use my own modem. My experience with Comcast thus far is that they are a very expensive joke. If you have Vonage, stick with it. If you don’t, switch to it. They may be losing money like crazy but I’ve never had a single, solitary issue with their product or their service. If other cable providers are like Comcast, there is no comparison between the services.

Problem number 2: the elevators in my building are not currently working. I live on the sixth floor. If and when Rooms To Go shows up, I have no way of knowing and they have no way of getting my new entertainment center, night stands and lamps to my apartment short of carrying them up six flights of stairs. I am guessing they don’t want to do that.

I’m also stressed because I feel I should be at work right now rather than sitting at home waiting on deliveries. I already had to take four hours a few weeks ago to deal with the miserable Comcast guy. I’ve also had two experiences with the Best Buy delivery people, but they gave me a two hour window and called ahead of time and they deliver on Sunday so no problems there. Good on Best Buy.

Now, on top of it all, I have a headache. I need lunch and a few aspirin and I have to hope that Comcast’s Digital Voicemail notification email will be enough to let me know the RTG people are here. Elevators should be fixed by now.

***

I know you all missed me.

Gotti Grandson Arrested on Drug Charges

Perhaps only temporarily, though.

DB corruption issues have lead to all the comments being lost, as well as denying us the ability to post for a week. I’ve had to turn commenting off and rebuild the entire site in order to get posting back. Now that that’s done, I’ll see if I can restore commenting–though I strongly suspect that all the historical comments are gone for good even if I can bring back the functionality.

Update: No luck. Comments are now on indefinite hiatus. If anyone knows an easy fix for the “Building date-based archive ‘Monthly20061101000000′ failed: Build error in template ‘Date-Based Archive’: Error in <MTEntries> tag: Error in <MTIfCommentsActive> tag:” error, drop us a note.