Archive for March, 2010
A few years ago I made the mistake of photoshopping something silly onto a card for some one’s birthday. Ever since then, every single member of my extended family expects an embellished birthday card every single year. Frankly, I’m running out of things onto which I can photoshop my own face.
So my granmma’s birthday is on Tuesday, and today I saw a card with a picture of The David with a cake over his privates on it, and I thought “Awesome, I can easily photoshop my own face onto that thing,” which of course I did:
The only problem is that when you open the card, it says something like, “It’s Your Birthday, Have Your Cake and Eat It, Too.” I didn’t think about it at the time, but judging by the position of the cake over David’s thingamabob, I’m suddenly realizing that must be some sort of sexual reference.
Did I just basically tell my gramma to eat my thing? Please tell me I didn’t, as it’s already in the mail.
At least I didn’t make reference to how I need a bigger cake than The David does. Because I do.
March 14th was national Pi day (3/14 – duh), and I’m more of a science-fiction/science-fact nerd than I tend to let on. One of my favorite books is Carl Sagan’s Contact, and I’m pretty darned fond of the movie, too. But it was the end of the book that really blew my mind.
SPOILER ALERT: Although the movie omits this little coda, the book ends with Dr. Ellie Arroway getting back to the work of science after her struggles with faith and space-travel have resulted in an otherworldy adventure that nobody believes. As she questions her own beliefs, she ponders if there could ever be a “proof” that a devine creator existed. Then, while plotting out a square graph of the enigmatic digits of Pi using a base 11 structure, a perfect circle (traced out by a specific number) reveals itself in the grid, a hidden message proving a divine purpose to creation itself. I’ll try to illustrate this concept in the typically-rudimentary planetdan style below, using all the wrong numbers of course, but hopefully you’ll still get the drift:
The possibility of this blew my mind at the time. Of course, nobody has made such a discovery yet, but the other day I came across something that is almost as mindblowing and life-affirming:
That’s right. The mirror image of the first three digits of Pi (3.14) spells PIE. Does it prove a divine influence? I leave that up to you to decide. But I probably won’t be running off to church anytime soon.
I can’t decide what I like better. Pi or Pie. Now there’s the eternal debate.
I’ve got yet another sinus infection, and I think the medications have been making me loopy because my dreams have been even more vivid than usual, except they don’t seem to be mine. The dreams make perfect sense as dreams in and of themselves, but why dan would be having them makes no sense at all. For instance:
I dreamed that I was producing and starring in a movie called “Aspburglars” where I played the lead in a group of autistic bank robbers. My producer was arguing with me about how the title’s not-so-clever wordplay describing Asperger-Syndrome-afflicted thieves might turn people off. I disagreed and had a diva melt-down on the set, stomping back to my trailer, trying desperately to hide all the inherent insecurity of a stand-up comedian. I can only assume this dream was originally meant for Adam Sandler and delivered to my OTC-drug-fueled brain by mistake.
Last night I dreamt that Miley Cyrus and I were best friends, and we concocted a plan to distract the crowd at an Easter Candy hunt in order to collect and keep all the chocolate loot for ourselves. Miley would take the stage as Hannah, get the crowd into a raging frenzy, and I would run around collecting all the forgotten and discarded candy by the armfulls. The plan succeeded, and Miley and I giggled with delight at the sight of each-other’s chocolate-smeared faces. I’m a 35-year-old man who has never heard a Miley Cyrus song in his life. This dream was clearly meant for a fawning preteen Hannah Montana fan.
A couple nights ago, I dreamt I was ginormously overweight and didn’t care about it. I slicked back my hair with egg-yolks and lard. I defecated in public and in front of strangers with glee and my voice was so loud and oppressive even I could barely stand to hear it. Women scowled at me in the street and hid their babies’ faces from my gaze. I bought a Hoverround and decided never to walk again, out of sheer laziness. And yet I remained proudly obnoxious, unfazed by humanity’s disgust with me. It was almost liberating in a way, to exist in utter discord and contention with all people and the planet in its entirety. This dream was clearly meant for Rush Limbaugh.
I’m hoping tonight will bring me the dream of someone a little more exciting - like George Clooney or either of the Gilmore Girls - because those would be the dreams of gods.
I have mixed feelings about the Easter season. There is a lot of church going and giving things up and abstaining and fasting and all that disciplined business that doesn’t mix very well with my disposition. But then on the flip side there are Cadbury Cream Eggs.
The majority of Easter candy is pretty gross, though. Those hollow chewy sugar eggs, for instance. Circus peanuts. Unflavored jelly beans. Peeps. Even the chocolate bunnies are rather subpar.
Did you know that the eyes of Peeps won’t dissolve in anything? “Furthermore, Peeps are insoluble in acetone, water, sulfuric acid, and sodium hydroxide,” say Wikipedia. They don’t do very well in stomach acid, either, from what I can remember.
On Easter morning when I was little we would get an old ice cream bucket stuffed with plastic grass, a handful of unflavored jelly beans, some of those gross hallow chewy sugar eggs, a malted milk ball or two, and some Easter eggs. I still don’t understand how hard-boiled eggs are supposed to enhance the flavor of chocolate, or how anybody ever thought of mixing the two into an Easter basket. Those are two great tastes that do NOT taste great together. And this was apparently the reward for not drinking soda pop or eating candy for an entire month? So not worth it.
Although I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the year I got a Go-Bot:
It was Sky-Jack, for anyone having a nostalgia seizure like I am right now.
C-Minus is totally super pregnant these days, so there’s a lot of talk about having babies and changing bodies and amniotic sacs. It’s grody to the max. She’ll be mid-sentence and she’ll suddenly stop talking and sit up straight. Her eyes will go wide and she’ll ominously say something like, “it’s moving,“ sending a shiver down my spine. I get slightly nauseated at the disgusting thought of the bone, flesh, and hair soup she’s got floating around in her abdomen. Apparently some people think it’s a beautiful miracle to willingly host a parasite inside of you like that, but I’m thoroughly revolted every time I think about it.
Still, the end result is generally pretty cute, so here are some related animated GIFs to give C-Minus something to look forward to, and to keep her mind off of the mutating, thrashing alien growing inside her.
Slathered in irony.
I was talking with my friend the other day about Alan Thicke, and she remarked he doesn’t look like he’s aged a day. Some people might think it’s abnormal to still be talking about Alan Thicke in 2010. Some people might think it’s even stranger to have enough interest to google-image-search Alan Thicke to see if he has indeed aged well. And then blog about it. To hell with all those people.
But even though I am clearly very open and accepting of people who have an abnormal marked interest in Alan Thicke, I was still very surprised to find this image, of what must have been the LEAST SELLINGEST ISSUE OF PLAYGIRL MAGAZINE, EVER.
Playgirl Coverboy Alan Thicke? And a little Mick Jagger to boot? Even in the 80′s this couldn’t have been a good idea. Half off, indeed.
My birfday week has officially kicked off, starting with a feast at Boca Chica, where I celebrated Mexican-style with tacos and tequila.
Birfday week is my favorite, obviously. And I got lots more planned for the rest of the week.
It seems only fitting that the new planetdan launched just in time for birfday week.
Getting back into the swing of this blogging thing feels daunting. I better start off slow, take it nice and easy.
Good luck this week, Obama!
New life lessons on the new and improved planetdan:
Lesson 1: Live Without Fear
Lesson 2: Never Say Die
Lesson 3: If You’re Gonna Fail, Fail Hard.
I try not to say anything nasty about Google. I like Google. I proudly own seven shares of Google (it’s all I could afford). But Google owns Blogger, and Blogger has seriously effed me over.
Blogger stopped supporting FTP, which is how I published to my blog. They claim only .05% of users used the FTP option. But the truth is that only serious people who knew what they were doing used the FTP option, and had spent a long time setting up their custom domain to have maximum control. The other 99.95% of users are twelve year old girls and spam artists. Or maybe I should leave them out of this. This snafu is Blogger’s fault and frankly I’m taking it out on the wrong people.
Basically, none of the blog transferring tools or “post import” features offered by WordPress worked on my blog. And all of the online tutorials failed as well. And one of the tutorials steered me in such a wrong direction that Blogger ended up deleting all the User Comments on my site. Luckily, I had a static backup of the pages with all the User Comments in tact. But Blogger won’t allow me to reimport them because I can’t reinstate FTP publishing. It’s a big round circle of pain that I’ve been buried in all weekend.
SO, all the old posts and comments still exist and can be accessed from the archives menu on the right. You just won’t be able to add new comments to any of them. All new posts will be in this new system.
Oh well, onward and upward.
Anyone want to buy seven shares of Google?