Archive for the ‘Aimless Riffing’ category

What’s Up With That? #86: The Cocaine Fairy delivers to the back door

October 6, 2010

I’ve heard some lame excuses in my time, but this one touches bottom.

Literally.

In Manatee County, Florida, 25-year-old Raymond Stanley Roberts was pulled over by sheriff’s deputies in a routine traffic stop. When the officers smelled the familiar aroma of marijuana, they conducted a search of Roberts’s person. During the search, deputies discovered what appeared to be a small, soft package firmly ensconced between Roberts’s buttocks. This object proved to be a baggie filled with 4.5 ounces of cannabis.

Additional manual inspection of the suspect’s nether regions turned up yet another bag, this one containing 27 chunks of rock cocaine, weighing a total of 3.5 grams.

Confronted with the evidence, Roberts told the police:

“The white stuff is not mine, but the weed is.”

What say, Ray? Only some of the junk in your trunk is yours?

With this simple yet eloquent sentence, Roberts easily outstripped previous Lamest Excuse Ever recordholder Lindsay Lohan, who once famously denied that the cocaine that police found in her pants was hers, given that she was wearing someone else’s pants. I’m not sure how one would go about convincing the authorities that the buttocks upon which one was seated were someone else’s buttocks, but if it works, it works.

Apparently, it didn’t work for Mr. Roberts. He was charged with possession and is presently free on bail.

A word of advice, Ray…

Watch your (lower) back.

Just a reminder

September 29, 2010

For those of you keeping score, I’m still on jury service through next week. Hence, the paucity of posts.

That’s all that’s going on. I’m perfectly fine. And it’s not that I don’t love you, honest. (Well, perhaps one or two of you. You know who you are.) So, please don’t worry.

I’ll get back to a more regular update schedule once the trial is over.

In the meantime…

…how about those Giants?

Aye, there be pirates here!

September 19, 2010

Avast there, ye son of a bilge-rat!

Ol’ Cap’n Swan ain’t here today. Out celebratin’ his favorite holiday, he be.

Aye, that’s right, me bucko — it be International Talk Like a Pirate Day!

September 19 be International Talk Like a Pirate Day!

So the good Cap’n says to raise a flagon o’ grog — preferably of the nonalcoholic variety, especially if ye be plannin’ to sail anytime today — and plant a smooch and a squeeze on the willing wench or sturdy swabbie (whatever be yer preference — Cap’n Swan don’t judge) o’ yer choosin’.

And stay off the poopdeck, ye slitherin’ sea snake, or the Cap’n’ll hoist ye up the nearest yardarm!

Sometimes, I feel like the Morton Salt girl

September 9, 2010

When it rains, it pours.

Oh, don’t cry for me, Argentina. My problems — at least those of which I’m speaking here — are strictly of the First World variety.

For most of this week, I’ve been without Internet access here at Casa de Swan. After a few pointless calls to AT&T DSL tech support, I figured out a workaround that has restored my connection. I still am without wireless hookup, so I’ve resigned myself to being chained to my office for the nonce, but at least I can communicate with the universe.

I also had jury duty this week. A duty which resulted in my being selected to serve in a trial that begins next week. So if postings are sparse here for the next little while, I know you’ll understand.

And… boom goes the dynamite.

What’s Up With That? #85: Yes, Jacquelyn, there is a Santa Claus…

September 1, 2010

…but you are not he.

This weird tale comes to us straight out of the pages of EC Comics — or would, if EC Comics were still being published, and were based in Bakersfield, California.

The decomposing corpse of physician Jacquelyn Kotarac, MD, was found lodged in the chimney of her ex-boyfriend’s home, after the good doctor showed off her best impression of St. Nicholas on Christmas Eve.

This brainstorm came after Dr. Kotarac attempted unsuccessfully to break into Mr. Lucky’s bachelor pad last Wednesday evening, using a shovel as a battering ram. Kotarac then climbed onto the roof of the house using a ladder, and slid down the smokestack feet first, apparently unaware that the jolly fat man can only accomplish this task via the power of imagination.

Meanwhile, the ex-boyfriend slipped out the back door.

A woman who was weekend house-sitting for the absent Lothario discovered Dr. Kotarac’s remains on Saturday when she, as the Associated Press so delicately put it, “noticed a stench and fluids coming from the fireplace.”

Don’t jilted lovers just boil rabbits on the stove anymore?

Engineering consultant William Moodie, the ostensible target of Dr. Kotarac’s ardor, said of his departed paramour:

She made an unbelievable error in judgment and nobody understands why, and unfortunately she’s passed away. She had her issues — she had her demons — but I never lost my respect for her.

Issues? Dr. Kotarac makes Lisa Nowak — the infamous diaper-clad NASA astronaut who drove from Texas to Florida to assault her ex-lover’s new squeeze — seem positively sane by comparison.

Let this be a lesson to you medical students: Pay attention in anatomy class. Especially to the lectures on the limits of skeletal flexibility.

Just a guy named Joe

August 31, 2010

I went shopping at Trader Joe’s this afternoon.

Now, I realize that doesn’t sound especially momentous. This was, however, the first time I’d darkened the doorstep of a Trader Joe’s in a good eight years — since my corporate days, when I worked a mere two blocks from the local TJ’s and dropped in there frequently. My new life in self-employment keeping me chained to my desk at home most of the time, and with the home of the “Fearless Flyer” being now more than a little out of my way, TJ’s and I have drifted apart.

But not today.

A shiny new Trader Joe’s opened in Santa Rosa a while back, right around the corner from my favorite Hawaiian barbecue joint — which, as fate would have it, has been closed ever since some nutcase drove his car through the front of the restaurant. With the news of the recent death of Trader Joe’s reclusive German owner, Theo Albrecht, fresh in my mind, and with a few hours of free time on my hands, I decided to venture in and check out the goods.

For the benefit of those of you unfortunate enough to live out of range of a Trader Joe’s, I’ll explain what I’m talking about. Trader Joe’s is a chain of specialty markets that’s big here in California. Originally a group of convenience stores, Trader Joe’s changed its image in the late 1960s, adopting a Polynesian motif and stocking select products sold mostly under its house brand names. (These often riff on the ethnicity of the comestibles in question — my chicken quesadillas, for example, bore the moniker “Trader Jose’s.”) Unlike a conventional supermarket, where you can buy practically anything your stomach desires, Trader Joe’s focuses on a narrow blend of gourmet and organic foods and household products. The store caters to a niche clientele including foodies, aging hippies, and bargain hunters.

Eschewing big-budget advertising, Trader Joe’s mostly draws customers in via its “Fearless Flyer,” a multipage direct-mail circular printed on cheap paper and featuring cartoons in the style of Victorian-era illustration. The store’s merchandise profile changes constantly — you learn never to get hooked on a Trader Joe’s item, because they’ll stop selling it the moment you do — but often includes unique products (especially seafood and frozen entrees) you’d never find anywhere else. Because almost all of the product line is branded in-house, TJ’s “cuts out the middleman” and frequently offers surprisingly good value for such an upscale retailer.

I strolled into the shiny new-ish TJ’s today with few expectations. I ended up needing a second handbasket to carry all of the stuff I lugged to the cash register, where a stone-faced college student in an aloha shirt (that’s part of the TJ’s vibe — all of the employees wear colorful Hawaiian shirts, and summon one another to the registers not with an intercom, but with a hand bell) totaled and bagged my purchases. I came away with frozen dinner items to feed myself for the next week, a few snacks, two cans of whole bean coffee, and a box of vanilla almond granola (quite tasty — I’m eating a bowl as I type).

The store was brightly lit and cheery, if rather spartan in decor — another Trader Joe’s trademark — and everyone, both staff and shoppers, seemed happy to be there. (Everyone, that is, except my cashier, whose personality made the prosaic bag of raw almonds I bought seem lively by comparison.) I know I was.

Thanks, Trader Joe.

The Blacker the Berry, the hotter the Torch

August 17, 2010

For an individual who spends as much time using technology as I do, I’m really something of a closet Luddite. My Luddism, however, manifests in odd, inconsistent ways. (Inconsistent to a casual observer, that is — my often oblique approach to things makes perfect sense here in Swanworld.)

I resisted owning a cellular phone for years. Part of my resistance stemmed from the fact that, as those of you who know me in meatspace are well aware, I despise talking on the phone. I rarely use the phones in the house or office, I reasoned, so why would I want to tote one around? Another part was that, being something of a lone wolf, being constantly connected to the rest of the world by a mobile device rankled me more than a little.

At long last, as my family’s needs for contact evolved, I surrendered to the inevitable and purchased an inexpensive phone that could be loaded with usage minutes as I needed them. The device didn’t do anything except make and receive the occasional call or text message — and I’d owned it for years before I sent my first text — which suited me just fine.

With the most recent alterations in my life, however, I’ve rethought a lot of long-held practices. Among these: my cell phone. More and more frequently, I find myself in situations where an Internet-enabled mobile device would come in mighty handy. Plus, with The Daughter heading back to college in a week — and with our primary means of communication over that distance being text messaging — I wanted something with which I could generate a text more quickly (and less fumble-fingeredly) than I can on the numeric keypad of my Motorola handset.

In addition, as my career has changed focus, I’ve been paying an unseemly amount every month for a business phone line that I rarely use. (Everything is e-mail and file transfer these days.) Those funds could be redirected toward upgrading my mobile communications experience.

It was time to buy a smartphone.

Yesterday afternoon, with The Daughter along as my technical adviser, I ventured out into the harsh, unfeeling world of wireless merchandising and came home with this… the BlackBerry Torch 9800.

I'm picking BlackBerrys... who's with me?

We spent the better part of an hour fiddling with the floor models of the various smartphones affiliated with AT&T. (Before you AT&T Wireless haters wax all self-righteous on me, I had significant logistical reasons for going with that provider. Don’t shoot the messenger.) The Daughter liked the Apple iPhone 4, and with good reason — it’s a beautiful device which appeared, based on my limited exposure, to function like a dream. But the iPhone posed one serious hurdle for me — its thin frame and glass faceplate looked and felt fragile in my chubby fist. It’s also a bit too lengthy to fit comfortably in a pocket.

BlackBerry’s newest innovation, while lacking some of the dash and flash of the iPhone (though we all know how Steve Jobs really feels about Flash), had a thickness and heft that felt more solid — and less breakable — to clumsy me. Its grippy rubberized backplate clung to my palm as though tailored to fit it. I also was entranced with the Torch’s slide-out QWERTY keyboard, which elegantly alleviates my ineptitude with multitap texting. And, although the Torch’s touchscreen — a BlackBerry first — may lag somewhat in performance when compared with the zippy-slick iPhone, to my aging eyes it’s slightly less glare-inducing than the iPhone’s mirror finish, and the Torch’s plastic face simply feels more forgiving to my fingers than the iPhone’s glass.

I’m well aware that the techies are less than impressed these days with Research in Motion’s product line, including the somewhat tepidly reviewed Torch. But I’m not trying to impress anyone. I just want to be able to surf the ‘Net wherever I am at any hour of the day, swap text messages with my outbound offspring, keep up with my friends on the various social networks, check and respond to my e-mail, and maybe even call the local pizza joint with an order once in a while. Based on the last 24 hours’ exploration, my new BlackBerry torch will do all of that just fine.

Besides which, I have it on excellent authority that Facebooking from the porcelain throne is wicked cool.

I can hardly wait.

Burn this!

August 16, 2010

I’m not a huge fan of holidays. (Well, except for International Talk Like a Pirate Day. But that goes without saying.)

Burn a Confederate Flag Day, however, sounds like a celebration I could get behind.

https://i0.wp.com/lh5.ggpht.com/_Mh1TZAM-AWU/TFYvb-b7lPI/AAAAAAAAC4c/QeKt2Zku2xA/burnrebelsq.png

After all, racist whackos have been burning things — like, say, crosses — for decades. Turnabout is fair play.

I’m not suggesting that anyone should go so far as to burn racist whackos. That would be taking things a little far. Then again, if you wanted to throw a photo of your favorite racist whacko (there are so many to choose from these days — Limbaugh? Beck? Dr. Laura? Mad Mel Gibson? — you many need multiples) on the pyre as you’re toasting your rebel banner on September 12, that would be all right with me.

Just be sure to clean up the mess afterward. Don’t forget, Talk Like a Pirate Day is only a week later. You don’t want random ashes lying around on the big day.

A Swan’s view of the universe

August 11, 2010

Things in life can be divided into three basic categories.

There are things you can do something about. This is an almost infinitesimally small category.

There are things you can’t do anything about. This is an almost infinitely large category.

There are things you might be able to do something about eventually, but time will have to do its work in bringing that eventuality to you.

Do something about the things you can do something about.

Don’t worry about the things you can’t do anything about.

As for the things you’re waiting for time to resolve… while you’re waiting, you might as well enjoy a good cup of coffee. Or a cream soda.

You don’t have to look at your world this way, but that’s how I perceive mine.

Back to the future

August 10, 2010

The immortal baseball scribe Thomas Boswell once wrote, “Time begins on Opening Day.”

Someone else (I’d tell you his or her identity, but there’s no consensus on the Internet) opined, “Today is the first day of the rest of your life.”

Ian Anderson, the auteur behind the legendary rock band Jethro Tull, sang of “skating away on the thin ice of a new day.”

Or, as the great Buckaroo Banzai, MD, PhD, put it: “Remember, no matter where you go, there you are.” (That doesn’t really have anything to do with the other quotes. I just love that line.)

At any rate, the long hibernation of SSTOL has ended. A new day dawns here today. You can now expect to drop by this tiny corner of cyberspace and find fresh content a-bubbling, which hasn’t been true for some while… the reasons for which you know. (If you don’t know, you can find out here.)

We commence the rebirth of the cool with an announcement which in itself is pretty darn cool: I’m returning to the staff of DVD Verdict — the ‘Net’s premier location for entertainment product reviews — as a writer of cogent criticism.

I first joined DVD Verdict way back in 2002. During my previous tenure on staff, I penned 145 detailed product reviews, and also served an 18-month stint as an associate editor. I resigned with deep regret about three years ago, when my late wife KJ’s illness was diagnosed. In my heart of hearts, I always knew the day would come when I’d want to write for the site again.

Today, that day has come.

I extend my sincere appreciation to Chief Justice (that’s Editor-in-Chief in the non-Verdict world) Michael Stailey, Chief Counsel (read: Managing Editor) Melissa Hansen, and their crew of talented collaborators for welcoming me warmly back into the fold. I’m looking forward to contributing to the site again, especially in anticipation of some exciting initiatives that will continue Verdict’s ascent into the stratosphere of online entertainment resources.

So, come join me at DVD Verdict. You’ll be glad you did.

And hey — welcome also to the next phase of SSTOL. I’m looking forward to sharing with you here once again.

Thanks for keeping the faith.