For some of you, this is just gonna make you sad. And hungry.

Road trip?

Someone has stolen the cover to my grill. The grill itself is intact.

Here are some delightfully twisted cards in honor of today’s saint.

And I say this as someone in the employ, tangentially, of the music industry. Here.

Bad News Hughes breaks it all down for you.

The Renaissance Faire may not be the source of all your problems, but it sure as shit isnÕt helping any. If, while chugging a beer, the phrase, ÒI bet this is going to be the last coherent thought I have tonight,Ó runs through your head, get someone to take you home. Now. The cops never think itÕs as funny as you do.

Jim Anchowers of the world, take note.

Today, we noticed we were running low on red wine glasses. They’re crystal, so we just accept a certain attrition rate. Of course, “crystal” also means “not cheap,” so we were momentarily vexed.

Fortunately, I remembered something. I went to the kitchen closet and pulled out my previously-forgotten, unopened “reserve” box of glasses. Said Erin, “Oh yeah, there was a New Economy there for a while, wasn’t there?”

Heh.

“Googlestalking” is using the search engine to locate bits of information about friends, family, past loves, etc. It’s surprisingly widespread, but itsn’t without its pitfalls.

Last week, I read a really funny story about such a pitfall on a private conferencing system. I discovered today that the author also put it in her blog, so you may all now giggle at her discovery. Call it “Whatever happened to that girl from Chorus, and does she have trouble witih speed limits?“

Pointed out by My Attorney:

Don’t you drink? I notice you speak slightingly of the bottle. I have drunk since I was fifteen and few things have given me more pleasure. When you work hard all day with your head and know you must work again the next day what else can change your ideas and make them run on a different plane like whisky? When you are cold and wet what else can warm you? Before an attack who can say anything that gives you the momentary well-being that rum does? The only time it isn’t good for you is when you write or when you fight. You have to do that cold. But it always helps my shooting. Modern life, too, is often a mechanical oppression and liquor is the only mechanical relief. Ernest Hemingway (1899-1961)

Speak slightingly of the bottle? Not I. Cheers.

My house has very tall ceilings on the second and third floors, which means very inconveniently placed smoke detectors. In our bedroom, the device is about twelve feet up, if not more. This is, of course, exactly where you want such a device, but this is not without its challenges.

As I am not twelve feet tall, I had not bothered to inspect said detector since moving in. I could see a red light, and assumed all was well. They’re integral detectors with a backup battery, so drain on the battery is presumably quite low — so low, in fact, that it took more than three years for the battery to began circling the drain, emitting its beep occasionally and irregularly, but (mostly) not at night.

We, of course, ignored it.

As the beep became more frequent and persistent, we began asking friends about borrowing ladders, but the logistics were always a bit ugly — neither Erin nor I own a car that can transport an extension ladder long enough to reach the detector. The best option seemed to be walking such a ladder over from Chris and Joann’s place, about half a mile away — a plan that was appealing on a surreal level, at least. (“Where are you going with that ladder?” “What ladder?”)

Saturday night, the beeps reached a fever pitch. Around 4:00 AM, we decamped to the spare bedroom and promised ourselves we’d resolve the battery issue on Sunday, and that we did. At Home Depot — previously maligned in this space, you may recall — we located a weird sort of hybrid ladder made by Gorilla (not “made by A gorilla,” mind you) that manages to be both an extension ladder and a stepladder. It’s quite a clever animal, and compact to boot — in its extension form, it’s good for eighteen feet, but is only about five and a half feet long when fully folded; a similar extension ladder would be twice as long. It wasn’t cheap — $200, vs. about $120-$150 for a regular extension ladder — but the added flexibility more than compensates. It’s certainly cheaper than owning BOTH types, and takes up less space to boot.

Of course, this development makes me wonder how long ladders as a category have gone without significant advances in design or materials. Certainly extension ladders became more viable at greater lengths as materials got lighter and stronger, but they’re still fundamentally a straight-line unsupported ladder, and I’d be willing to guess such devices have been around for thousands of years. In any case, it appears that the Gorilla is the result not of material science advances, but of simple human cleverness, and that appeals to this here geek.

While Chris Kirk was out of town, some friends wrapped every item in his apartment with tin foil. (Via BoingBoing)

The best exchange of comments on this site is right here.

We at Heathen wish to point out the Onion’s Tips on Responsible Holiday Drinking, which include:

• Always drink from the bottle labeled “XXX.” The bottle with the skull-and-crossbones on the front is poison.
• Drinking more than seven nights a week is not just irresponsible, it’s impossible.
• If someone you know is too drunk to drive, demand that he let you have his car keys. If he refuses, pull out a gun and demand the car keys again. This also works with people who are not drunk, and whom you do not know.

And, of course:

• Never drink with Tyler Schneeklov.

Keep in mind that you may be someone’s “Tyler Schneeklov”.

Erin’s present came today, so I went to Walgreen’s.

• Slightly haggard four-foot artificial tree: $14.99
• Moderately cheesy 7-light star: $7.99
• Rudolph-the-Red-Nosed-Reindeer “Abominable Snowman” ornament: $5.99
• Gold bead garland far too long for tree: $1.99
• Box of old-fashioned glass Christmas balls: $1.99
• Box of ornament hooks: $.69
• Look on Erin’s face when she discovered we actually had a tree after all: priceless.

Received in email:

From: Erin Willis 
Subject: invitation
Date: December 12, 2003 12:30:29 PM CST
To: Chet 

who - Chet Farmer, Erin Willis & Bob
where - living room couch
what - Two Towers
when - 7:30 pm
why - I love you, duh.

RSVP by 2:30. 

Erin and I heard a great feature on NPR this morning about, well, really big trees in the Pacific Northwest. The reporter followed tree hunter Bob Van Pelt on his quest to identify and measure a giant fir he’d seen a few years before.

The tree in question had in fact fallen due to a fungal infection, but the statistics are still astounding: it had a trunk circumference of more than FORTY TWO FEET. That’s the broken stump at right; NPR reporter Ketzel Levine is about halfway up the stump on the left side in a green slicker.

There’s a summary of the feature at NPR, of course, which also includes a slide show of 8 other giant trees. These things can be literally thousands of years old. Astounding.

Simian Design’s Blog-Fu points us to The Basic Laws of Human Stupidity. Now you know, and knowing’s half the battle.

If you’re followed any of the links I’ve posted to Slacktivist, you know he’s a clever, witty sort. He’s also a Christian, and not of the knee-jerk Fundamentalist right-winger sort, either.

Lately, he’s been writing a series of entries analyzing the extraordinarily popular Left Behind series of books. The books purport to be “Christian thrillers,” and deal with events that happen in the End Times, after all the good people have been taken to Heaven (hence the title). They are, of course, unadulterated crap, on a number of levels. Slacktivist, though, hits them where it hurts: right in the dogma.

He points out again and again how badly wrong LeHaye and Jenkins have it based on honest-to-God (literally) theological research. His ongoing point is how frighteningly misguided these books are, and how they fuel decidedly wrongheaded notions of Christianity, at least as he (and the rest of us not on the far right) sees it. His latest entry on the subject quotes a Mennonite theologian, who says:

Ultimately, it is not [LeHaye and Jenkins’] interpretation of the end times that troubles me so much as their interpretation of Christianity. It is devoid of any real theology, or substantial Christology, or any ethics that are recognizably Christian. This is a vision of unredeemed Christianity. Loren L. Johns

Ouch. But Slacktivist goes further:

L&J present a political perspective that is every bit as corrosive as their theological views. And that political perspective is being read and absorbed by millions of Americans. The political impact of L&J’s brand of dispensationalism is difficult to measure and difficult to overstate. It affects people’s attitudes toward religious pluralism, multilateral and international institutions, diplomacy and peacemaking. To give one specific example, adherents of L&J’s apocalyptic worldview are vocally opposed to the “road map” peace initiative in the Middle East. At a very basic level, this worldview opposes and undermines any long-term thinking, any sustained effort to make the world a better place — replacing the hope of redemption with a perverse longing for apocalypse.

He wraps with this, which is impossible not to love:

As such, L&J ultimately are like any given set of villains from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. They want to open the Hellmouth and bring about the end of the world. Stopping them, as always, begins with research. So let’s send Xander out for donuts and get back to hitting the books.

Amen.

Here’s some cool stuff that happened this week:

• I saw the last Matrix flick, which I actually enjoyed. I’m sure the fact that I saw it at a pseudo-art-house theater with 4 other people while sipping a Diet Coke I spike with Jack Daniel’s had something to do with my positive opinion of the film, of course.
• Erin and I watched Pirates of the Caribbean, which is an awful lot of fun. No kidding.
• I completed the trifecta of film by seeing the aforementioned Bruce Campbell flick Bubba Ho-Tep. FfffanTAStic.
• I upgraded my Powerbook to Panther, which is definitely worth the bucks if only for the speed increase and Expose.
• I picked up two excellent Christmas gifts, about which I expect the recipients will be pleased.
• I finally gave in and bought the Outkast record, which is really fine.

Televisions. Motorcycles. VCRs. Microwaves. Cars. Handheld computers. All things the West used to make, and make well, only to be eclipsed by our friends in Japan.

Unfortunately, we must now add whiskey to that list, since the 20-year-old Nikka Yoichi, distilled in Hokkaido — which is decidedly not in the Highlands, Lowlands, Speyside, or Islay — beat heavyweights such as the Lagavulin 16-year-old and 12-year-olds from Cragganmore and Balvenie in a blind tasting.

My beloved Islay came in second; the 12-year-old Yoichi was third, followed by the Balvenie, the 10-year-old Yoichi (oh! the agony!), and the Cragganmore (which I’ve always felt was overrated anyway).

Frank? This is what we want for Christmas. It’ll drive Lindsey nuts. Of course, it’s also $250 for the one that’s almost old enough to drink itself, so I’ll settle for the 12-year-old, which is a paltry $87.

In January, it will be possible to buy genetically engineered pets.

Every day, it seems more and more like we’re living in a William Gibson novel. Or maybe one by P. K. Dick.

• A martini ice sculpture is a deceptively evil thing, and joins my car in the list of things we may describe as “a bad idea, done very very well.”
• When the chips are down, my ex-girlfriend is more than happy to help Erin with emergency dress adjustments & repair.
• “Fuck ’em and feed ’em fish heads” is the sort of thing I should probably say more often.
• It’s possible to go to a reception, not dance with your girlfriend, and somehow not get into trouble. It must be a very, very good reception, though.
• La Colombe d’Or will throw your sorry drunk asses out at half past two if you’re so loud you keep the other guests awake, even if the set of sorry drunk asses includes those belonging to the bride and groom.
• Voice mail messages left by the groom on your cell phone at about that time in re: the location of the after-party and his own plans for the immediate future can be a source of great amusement at breakfast the next day.
• One half of the wedding couple singing to the other half needn’t be awkward or tacky; in fact, it can be beautiful, moving, and hilarious all at once. Especially if the groom took 7 years to propose, and the bride sings “At Last” with a full swing band backing her up.
• I cannot drink like I could in college, even if several college friends are here. Maybe that should be “especially.”
• A black tie wedding affords guests the opportunity to retain some dignity upon being ejected from ritzy hotel bars at 2:30AM because, hey, we may be drunk and loud, but at least we look good.
• It is handy to have attended college with an opera-singing voice major willing to perform at your wedding, as Carl’s friend Julie did.
• A member of the groom’s party should always have a kit including:
  1. Painkillers
  2. Heartburn remedy
  3. Breath mints
  4. Contact lens solution, if appropriate
  5. Bourbon
  6. Lint brush
  You could be surprised at how many of these prove useful. Trust me.
• In a pinch, it is possible to get by with only #5.

and

• There’s just about nothing so cool as seeing two dear friends fall in love and get married. Congratulations again, guys.

And it’s on account of these two gettin’ all married up this weekend. Congrats, kids. Ain’t they photogenic?

There is no way I can complain about my housekeeper’s new assistant storing our flatware incorrectly — e.g., she cannot seem to differentiate between dinner and salad forks, or between tea and soup spoons, nor has it dawned on her why the drawer has four such compartments (she blithely fills two with assorted spoons, and the other two with assorted forks) — without sounding like an asshole, is there?

This has been passed around a bunch, but it’s still funny:

The consecration of Gene Robison as bishop of the New Hampshire Diocese of the Episcopal Church is an affront to Christians everywhere. I am just thankful that the church’s founder, Henry VIII, and his wife Catherine of Aragon, and his wife Anne Boleyn, and his wife Jane Seymour, and his wife Anne of Cleves, and his wife Katherine Howard, and his wife Catherine Parr are no longer here to suffer through this assault on traditional Christian marriage. Paul Emmons, West Chester University

Cheeta, the world’s oldest living [nonhuman] primate, starred opposite Johnny Weissmuller in Tarzon pictures back in the 30s and 40s. Now 71, he’s retired now, and lives in Florida, where he paints. This guy got a painting for his birthday.

The online journal Exquisite Corpse is a fine thing, which isn’t at all surprising; it’s edited by Andrei Codrescu.

Your kids need clothes from here and here, and I may just buy ’em for you.

It would appear my brother has been too busy to get a haircut.

In Which We Discover that Rain Man Lives in My Shower Spigots

When the water to the hot-water heater is turned off, the pressure failsafes in my shower and tub faucet mechanisms (designed to keep me from scalding myself, presumably to avoid the eponymous “hot water burn baby” scenario) prevent any water flow, which means that showers are an all-or-nothing affair. No amount of determination on the theme of “fuck it, I’ll take a cold shower” will result in a shower, cold or otherwise.

Presumably, the Balance of the Name is still Accurate

Nick’s Plumbing is not actually owned by anyone named “Nick”.

Home-office Advantages in the Realm of Chronologically Challenged Plumbing Personnel

The plumber was set to arrive at 0730 this morning. The morning plumber, a tall hipster-sideburn guy, showed up about an hour later.

If We Must Allow Electrons Spontaneous & Unfettered Movement from Pipe to Pipe, The Terrorists Have Already Won

Electrolysis is the enemy. You want brass nipples on those, you see, not galvanized.

I’ll Bet They Won’t Let You on a Plane with Either One

I’m not sure if “brass nipples” would be funnier as a previously-unknown gangland fighting tool (perhaps employed primarily, but not exclusively, by female gangs), or a brand-new-fad from the world of body modification.

A Discussion of the Failings of the Morning, Hipster-Sideburn-Plumber and His Silent Sidekick, Part 1

Diagnosis and follow-on discussion were quite brief (as the problem and solution were pretty obvious), whereupon he stated it would take “about an hour or so” to get a heater and return. He and his silent sidekick left. About two hours later, I heard from the main office. It appears hipster-plumber has told them I want the work done on Wednesday. Would it be okay for someone else to come on back and do the replacement this afternoon instead? Why yes, yes it would.

A Discussion of the Failings of the Morning, Hipster-Sideburn Plumber and His Silent Sidekick, Part 2

Despite what the hipster morning plumber said, my water heater is from 1997, not 1988. This is obvious from the most cursory examination of the serial number, a point not lost on the Afternoon, More Conventional Plumber Guy or the crack NoGators Plumbing Team. This is, coincidentally, the year the house was built, and is therefore not nearly as puzzling as the alternative date supplied by Hipster Guy.

Wherein the High End of Water-Heating Devices is Considered, Albeit Briefly

There exist tankless water heater devices that create hot water on demand. This means you can’t run out. This is good. They cost $2,000 and up. This is bad. NoGators HQ has elected for a conventional pressurized-container-of-scalding-water instead.

Wherein We Ascertain the Cost of This Particular Affair

Conventional water heaters cost $650 (installed). This includes the brass nipples.

A Discussion of the Failings of the Morning, Hipster-Sideburn Plumber and His Silent Sidekick, Part 3

Despite what the hipster morning plumber said, they do not in fact take American Express.

In Which We Ascertain, with the Help of the Afternoon-Conventional-Plumber, Which Payment Methods Are Acceptable

Checks are fine.

Lest We Be Unfair, a General Discussion of Why We Like the Afternoon-Conventional-Plumber

I now know what to do to keep my water heater happy for 15 years or so, though the methods involved (“open the valve at the bottom and drain it into your yard about once a year”) imply a level of water waste bound to be unpopular with certain other NoGators personnel. Oh, and the brass nipples help, too.

And Then There’s This

When I turned the breaker back on, he waited in the garage with the heater “in case anything blows up.” We are not sure if he was joking.

Don’t Leave Us Hanging Like That

No, nothing blew up.

A General Discussion of My Hygiene Standards

I will shower immediately, despite plans for exercise in an hour, as I am too dirty to sweat.

A General Discussion of Why My Hygiene Standards are Silly

I last showered not quite 24 hours ago.

In Which we Acknowledge Generous Offers Made Elsewhere

My Attorney’s offer of late-night plumbing assistance is greatly appreciated, though perhaps unvetted by the likes of Mrs Attorney and ~, and (even more likely) may be based in part on a poorly worded initial draft of the earlier entry. A cocktail instead?

Sleep late. Make breakfast with Erin. Watch TV. Get hungry. Go eat. Go to Surly Table. Talk to Joy. Go see a movie. Go to a bar. Visit friends. Drink vodka. Go to a restaurant. Eat. Enjoy. Laugh. Talk. Moan about Alabama. Joke about weddings. Make fun of show tunes. Deconstruct movies. Express dismay, again, that you enjoyed Underworld. Get tired. Get the check. Split the check. Pay the check. Go home.

Turn into driveway. Open garage door. Notice loud noise. Assume it’s the car. Pull into garage anyway. Turn off car. Notice noise again. Open car door. Notice you’re getting wet. Notice geyser shooting from top of water heater. Assume this is bad, since “containment” is a core attribute of the object “water heater.”

Take off shoes. Take off shirt. Toss inside. Close valve to water heater. Put car back in driveway. Begin moving Erin’s stuff. Realize how much water is involved (it’s running into the street). Realize you’ve been gone since 3:00. It’s midnight. Wonder how many of those nine hours involved a mini-Old Faithful in the garage. Keep moving Erin’s stuff. Notice lowest level of boxes occasionally soaked. Take inside, give to Erin to unpack and dry.

Finish moving boxes — the ones you can — out of harm’s way. Have creeping realization that there’s a closet opposite the water heater. Rush inside to find Erin already there, moving things into the office, drying boxes. Be very glad modest comic book collection is all in mylar bags, as box itself is wet-but-not-soaked. Mop closet floor.

Move more boxes in garage. Call Joy, who is still at the restaurant, for plumber referral. Realize midnight-on-Sunday is not a good time to call plumbers, as their rate-o-meters are doubtless set to “obliterate” for anything between the evening news and football on Sunday. Settle things as best you can. Move boxes around. Put car back in garage. Sit on couch, wet, tired, and sort of hung over. Fall asleep on couch watching Tivo and drinking ginger ale. Be thankful water heater, at least, was not in an improved area of house. Wonder how much water heaters cost.