Last week when I was heading out from the house, I drove past a rather thought-provoking sign in front of a church (I know “thought-provoking” along with “clever but wholesome” pretty much encompasses all of what most church signs try and pull off, but go with me here) that said “New Year, Same God.”

That really got me thinking. Sure, it wasn’t in the manner that this establishment of the divine long-distance relationship wanted, but I was thinking nonetheless. What if the accepted model for churches was to pick a new deity each year?

I just imagine the church newsletters towards the end of the year:

Greetings parishioners!
Once again it’s getting to be that time of year we all celebrate: the grand selection!

Unlike previous years, Pastor Bob will be taking nominations via email. Additionally, while last year’s “cow pie bingo” made for a fun afternoon, the ultimate selection of Prithvi, in retrospect, should have been an foregone conclusion from the effort. In order to level the playing field a tad this year, and to raise some funds for the new altar, we will be having a bake sale and pie-eating contest. Come join us the second Sunday of December when our new deity is chosen in a swirl of banana bread and blueberry pies.

Honestly, I think is a model that could really work for the typical American. Protestants are inherently afraid of deific pluralities (aside from that whole Daddy, Junior, Spook thing that really just seems to be three sides of one thing), so this is a great way to expand cultural diversity and education while not having to tackle the entire gang-bang of a given Pantheon.

Sure, you may be shaking your head at this point thinking that I’ve finally gone way off the deep end, but I did not originate this idea. Way back in the 16th century, the Hopi did just about the same thing for practical matters their cosmology could not address or weren’t working out for them so well.

I think the main thing holding most Christians back is that whole fear thing. Those of us raised with Christian backgrounds have had the whole “I, the Lord your God, am a jealous God” thing pounded into us from an early age. Sure, given the old guy’s track record for smiting and pestilence-ing places into nothingness, I can see He’s got some separation anxiety.

But, seeing as we having had a good smiting or literal fire and brimstone falling from the sky (sorry televangelists), I think it’s time to put another Baal into play.

With deference to Saint Eddie of Izzard, I believe I am going to lobby for Jeff, god of biscuits or Simon, god of hairdos for 2012. Both of those chaps seem to really be speaking my spiritual language these days.

My name is Justin. Sure, it’s not the most common name (though I have, for some reason, been friends with many a Justin over my years), but it’s what my folks deemed to label me with.

It’s not even a particularly hard name to pronounce. It’s spelled relatively normal with a good ratio of consonants to vowels and it doesn’t even have any pesky silent letters.

Why, then, have people insisted on calling me “Jason” for years and years?

For a long while I just ignored the “mispronunciation.” After that I made corrections; often leading with the ever-popular “I’ll answer to any ‘J’ name.” (My father’s name is Jeff, so I’ve been called “Jeff” a lot as well.)

Now, however, I’m just going to roll with it. I’m going to respond to Jason and be Jason.

Here’s the big “problem,” though, Jason is a complete jerk.

Someone asks Jason to pass the mashed potatoes? He might just throw them on the floor. Need Jason to forward that important email to your Brother-in-Law? Whoops, Jason signed you and him up for a whole passel of listservs on growing beets in Kentucky. Need Jason to defuse that bomb that’s in the room we are locked in? Well, Jason is going to go ahead and defuse that bomb because he’s not a suicidal idiot, but he’ll pelt you with nasty jeers while he does it.

I’ve thought this through a lot and it’s the perfect consequence-less crime. If the person I am snubbing gets bent out of shape, they are going to expend a whole bunch of energy bitching and moaning about the wrong person. If confronted, I can always resort to, “Yeah, Jason did that. Isn’t he a complete prick?”

In the most perfect of worlds, the “perpetrator” will apologize to me for getting my name wrong and tell me it won’t happen again (yeah, like I haven’t heard that before.) Worst case scenario, I get in a bit of trouble and play the martyr card: “It’s like I’m not even a human being to you people.”

Oh, and by the way, it will always be Jason who took the last beer and/or slice of pizza. I’m also pretty sure it was him who farted in the elevator last week.

Boy, it seems like I was just doing this not too long ago for big-H. Today, almost six months to the day after his big brother and ultimate hero passed:  Monte, my little Berger, moved on to be with his brothers Higgins and Augie.

I can just about remember the day back in 1998 when we went to pick him up. It was one of his litter-mates we had designs on rather than Monte, but when this little white fur-ball launched himself with wild abandon out of the kitty carrier he was in at our shoulders and heads, it was pretty much cinched that the high-spirited little bastard was coming home with us rather than his brother.

Monte was never not purring. In fact, he often threw a little extra on top of his purr that made it sound like he was constantly beeping. At the same time, Monte perfected the silent meow. His little face would make the meowing motion, but nary a sound would come out. Pretty standard behavior for the kitty with the question-mark tail.

Basically put, Monte was very much the attention-loving little kitty whore. While he was afraid of his own shadow (the first time Monte hissed, he had no idea that the noise had issued from within himself and, thusly, fell right over in fright), Monte would go out of his way to bound over to people who had not had the privilege to pet him yet and attempt to perch on their shoulders. He would also usually take this opportunity to stick his nose in his “victim’s” ear and beep a couple of times.

Monte was a damn good cat. He always managed to find that elusive crumb of some bit of food that you had dropped and he was more than happy to remind you that you hadn’t quite pet him enough. His tiny frame contained a mighty yowl of a meow that just about bordered on high-pitched annoyance and he knew it.

When it came down to it, Monte just really couldn’t live without his constant companion. It really didn’t surprise me, but I’m a selfish bastard and wanted it otherwise. Our fuzzy little thin white duke has left the building and will be sorely missed by all he impacted.

See ya, buddy, we sure love you.

My brain is a rich nest of useless trivia and random thoughts. In any given day, random fluff bubbles to the surface and cracks me up for no apparent reason. There is no rhyme nor reason to most of the idiocy that streams through my skull and I very rarely share the true oddities with anyone.

For that reason alone, you are in for some serious treats today as I bring you what I like to call: character versus character.

In my gourd I find if rather amusing to imagine what a given actor/actress’ characters would do if they faced each other in a fight to the finish. Sure, it’s pretty cool when you have two combat-ready “action hero” type characters, but entirely way more amusing when they aren’t.

Let’s start with an easy one.

Han Solo vs. Indiana Jones

This is practically a no-brainer. University of Chicago trained archeologist verus the scruffy nerf herder. Before he could even clear his whip, Indy would be on the ground because everyone knows that Han shoots first. That’s an end that even Indy wouldn’t complain about. Hell, while we are at it, let’s have Han put a few holes in Mutt Williams as well. I’m not a fan.

Yeah, now you see how it works. On to more.

Doogie Howser vs. Dr. Horrible

This could be a tough one. Sure, Doogie’s exceedingly annoying medical knowledge gives him an upper hand in having all the right anatomy knowledge to kill off Dr. Horrible quickly, but, at the same time, Dr. Horrible has his freeze ray. When it all comes down to it, though, Doogie learns an important life lesson in preparing for the battle and Dr. Horrible dies of boredom while Doogie is typing into his diary. Dr. Howser wins.

Verbal Kint vs. John Doe

Ooooh, creepy. Both of these guys would just stand across the room from each other smiling scarily. Hell, they’d probably have a pretty intense conversation about polyester trousers or something equally inane yet intriguing. Then, quite suddenly, Verbal would fall to the floor in about Se7en pieces (see what I did there?). With a slight nod of his head, John Doe would exit the room.

Legolas vs. Will Turner

Yeah, Legolas is an elf. Will would be so full of holes so fast that Will wouldn’t even be aware that there was a fight on. To add insult to injury, Legolas would probably “surf” Will’s body down some stairs or something. It seems to be his thing.

Sweeny Todd vs. Edward Scissorhands
Once Sweeny Todd got done singing about how old Eddie was about to become a pile of meat for pies, he’d probably dramatically storm out of the arena. Edward, being the simple guy he is, would stand there looking comically confused and wait for the good Mr. Todd to return for the fray. Both would eventually die of either old age or at someone else’s hand because they were confused by the intial instructions. Well played, sirs.

Professor Xavier vs. Captain Picard
Oooooh, the passive-aggressive fight of the century! Picard has some serious Starfleet hand-to-hand training, but the Prof. has the ability to read and control minds. Professor X opens the conflict with his signature move of putting his fingers to his temples and Picard launches into issuing orders. As the wavy lines start emanating from Xavier’s chrome dome, Picard begins gathering up his team of officers in the “ready room.” When that doesn’t work and Picard heads out to visit Guinan at Ten Forward, Professor Xavier lobotomizes himself out of the sheer frustration of the existence of a leader who can’t make a damn decision on his own. Picard is later assimilated by the Borg and left to a lifetime trying to boot OS/2.

I never said my brain made sense.

Picture this: a random, well-mannered person is walking along, going about their business. Suddenly, as if snatched by a hidden hand from the depths of the Earth itself, said person trips. Rather than gracefully fall or recover, this individual instead expands the spectacle and turns the trip into what appears to be an intentional spontaneous bout of running: a gentle jog, if you will. As if this person suddenly decided they needed a wee tiny bit of cardio workout, and I mean right freakin’ now, their feet leap to equine-like strides; propelling their not-quite-stationary body forward in the quite ungraceful stumble of someone recovering from just about falling flat on their damn face.

After seeing someone do this the other day, I was struck by how damnably funny it looks. I’ve done it. You, gentle reader, have probably done it as well. The big question, however, is why the hell do we feel the need to do this?

I’ve devoted just a tiny bit of brain time to this (I don’t have much to spare in the first place) and have come up with a couple of possible solutions.

Solution one: self-preservation.
Newton’s law states that force equals mass times acceleration. Depending on your mass, and how fast you were walking, that’s a lot of potential force. Everyone knows that kinetic energy is mostly not our friend. If it was, the Three Stooges and most Warner Bros. cartoons wouldn’t be nearly as dangerous/hilarious as they are. Humans (like most animals) are wired with fight or flight instincts. When faced with certain dangers (such as the pavement rudely grabbing our foot), most people will automatically try and flee the situation: hence the “little run.” I’m sure I’m not the only person who has seen someone launch into a “fight” response when tripping (as a society, we tend to want to look away from such unpleasantness), but those are about a rare as baby pigeons.

Solution two: saving face.
Human beings are a notoriously vainglorious species. We, as a general whole, like to put up a front of stalwartitude (yeah, I totally just made that word up) and stability while spending oodles of time and money on therapists/pills/seminars/books/life-coaches that actually convince us of said “self-togetherness.” The thought of showing frailty by not successfully being able to put one foot in front of the other (a quite repetitive action) is abhorrent. What weakness it must show to our fellow man if we lose control over the most base of the natural laws: gravity. By leaping into a jaunty jog, we are showing our aloofness at the whole situation.

Solution three: ghosts.
When in doubt, blame the supernatural. Why a rueful spirit would get its jollies (do ghosts even have jollies?) reaching up from the fiery depths to take a swipe at your ankles is beyond me, but I see no issue in running the hell away from them. Scooby Doo taught me that tidbit of wisdom. If I literally stumbled upon a weak spot in the veil and was given the option of either running the hell away or sticking around to be groped by shades unknown, I’ll gladly take the former option. That’s practically a no-brainer. Eff you, ghosts.

So, yeah, this is NWTF number 100. I look back on the year and a half of my life that is documented in these posts and think: “Boy, I sure like to ramble.”

It’s true. I’ll be the last person to deny it.

What putting this blog together has proven to me is that it really is feasible for me to organize my thoughts and produce a knot of words that might even be mistaken for sentences if taken in the right context. Looking back at the general content of what I’ve written shows that I jump around a lot and have a few “impassioned” things to say about all manner of topics that I probably have no business spouting off about.

I’ve been sitting on writing this 100th posting for a couple of weeks. I definitely wanted to mark the occasion, but honestly had no clue what to address or write about other than, “Hey I write a bunch of stupid shit. Congratulate me for making it publicly consumable.”

That’s utter crap, so I’m going to experiment with some stream of consciousness drivel.

The index finger on my right hand hurts a lot in the joints today. This got me thinking about how many mouse-clicks I’ve made over the past twenty years and then how inconvenient it would be to not have index fingers.

The Fox and the Hound is thirty years old. Unawares to me, this film represents the transition from Disney’s original “nine old men” to a younger generation of animators. It was this movie that caused Don Bluth to quit Disney and go off and form his own studio that put out such gems as “The Secret of NIMH,” “Space Ace,” and the animated chunks of “Xanadu.”

Bamboo Paper for the iPad has been a serious lifesaver. Scraps of paper with random notes scribbled on them have been my method of thought/process organization for the past fifteen years. Being able to “write” notes out on the iPad in a simple way is the second reason I wanted an iPad (the first being an easier way to read comic books).

I recently read that the mere act of recalling a memory alters it. For some reason, this scares the ever-loving crap out of me.

While I have really enjoyed his writing in the past, Chuck Klosterman writing for Grantland makes me want to pluck my eyes out. It’s enough to make me read Douglas Coupland. As a good friend of min succinctly put it, “I don’t have the energy or patience to read a 4000 word essay on why Klosterman’s favorite sports experience was some junior college basketball game 25 years ago.” I would have to agree.

I recently decided that french fries, by and large, are a waste of time. That’s probably a pretty un-American thing for me to say, but there are a hell of a lot more potato delivery systems that I prefer. Don’t get me wrong, there are a couple of places that I think do the fry up pretty damn well, but I would love to have a “salty starch sticks” stamp to “correct” most of the places I’ve had “fries” in over the past couple of years.

OK, that’s probably enough of that. I often have random disjointed thoughts that don’t warrant a full blog post, so now I have to decide if I should just “micro blog” (a term I utterly despise) and have a couple of lines of consumable text, or just save them all up for another post like this one. I’ll probably end up going with the former since my memory (or lack thereof) will keep me from compiling things easily.

Onward and upward!

Well, the Rapture is upon us (again). Harold Camping of Family Radio has freakin’ “guaranteed” that the Bible says we’ve got until around 5PM EDT on Saturday, May 21, 2011 and then that’s it for all the “chosen.”

Part of me really hopes Mr. Camping is right. Aside from his predictions about massive earthquakes and the world splitting and all sorts of unpleasantness, I really can’t wait for a little more elbow room. I, being the terrible heathen I am, will be right here like I always am. If I were a smarter man, I would have gone door to door offering to take care of people’s pets for a nominal fee (paid up front, of course).

As is, I’ll just have to make do with some of the post-Rapture looting. According to the event on Facebook, I’ll be among the almost 500,000 folks who clicked the “attending” button on this Facebook event. Come on along, it’ll be fun!

Here’s the thing, though. Harold Camping made the same prediction in 1994. Hell, lots of people have predicted the end of the world over the past bunch of years. When the time for all Hell to break loose comes and goes, we typically get the “We calculated wrong.” or “God, in his infinite mercy, has chosen to spare us” answer. I am very curious to see what Harold Camping will have to say around 9PM EDT when we are all still sitting here twiddling our thumbs.

This is, however, a great time to screw with people. Here’s an easy one: lay out a full set of clothes (including shoes) on the sidewalk outside your house. Another good one is to write your kids a note to the effect of “Been raptured, food is in the fridge,” hide somewhere in the house, and watch the hilarity ensue when they find the note.

Needless to say, I have a strong feeling that Mr. Camping is going to have to eat a whole lot of crow tomorrow afternoon. In the way way way off-hand chance he is correct, however, you will be pleased to know that this blog will continue (sporadically) as it always has. That’s just my dedication to you, the reader.

Jesus is coming. Look busy.

“Woke up, fell out of bed
Dragged a comb across my head
Found my way downstairs and drank a cup
And looking up I noticed I was late”
–The Beatles (A Day in the Life)

A routine, I haz it.

As much as I would like to believe that I have spontinatiy coursing through my entire existence, I have recently realized that much of my “get up and go” time is incredibly regimented. Unfortunately I think it has to be so I don’t end up “eaten by a grue” every morning (read: snoring loudly while the sun tracks across the sky).

It’s pretty simple (to me, at least). At 6AM (really it’s 5:51AM because I keep my clock nine minutes ahead) the alarm goes off. I don’t mess around with playing “snooze-tag” because that’s a likely way to be eaten by a grue. I pop up, turn on the shower and brush my teeth. Shower, shower, shower until the clock across the room (also wrong as can be) is around the 5:20 or 6:20 range (depending on Daylight Savings: I don’t believe in changing that clock), and then get slapped together so I’m decent for public consumption.

From there I plop myself down in front of my computer for a quick glance at email and weather. The weather check became necessary after I realized that I don’t actually see the great outdoors until I’m pulling out of the garage. This way I can grab the appropriate outer covering for the current climate.

Then it’s out the door and off to the office. Because I love me some god-awful earliness, I’m typically the first person in the office. I turn off the alarm, pull out the laptop and fire it up. While the gods of Windows go through their stretching routine known as “booting up,” I unlock the two back doors. I then come back to the laptop, log in and go to the kitchen to make the first pot of office coffee. Then the day can officially begin.

Deviation from this routine always throws me for a loop. I’ve gotten very used to the 45 to 50 minutes it takes me to get from slumberland to fully functional developer. On very rare occasions I run into snags such as fashion crises, falling asleep in the shower (more common than I’d like to admit) or dreaded Windows Updates that put small kinks in my kickoff, but, because those are few and far between, I can generally just roll with them.

What I find utterly facinating is that I am far from the only person locked into my morning track. I can always tell those individuals on my drive down the highway to work who have fouled their routine in some manner. You know the type: 85 miles per hour, weaving in and out of lanes while either stuffing their face with what passes for breakfast or gesticulating wildly at fellow drivers who don’t have the “courtesy” to accommodate their fellow commuter who is obviously late for something or the other. These people stick out like a sore thumb.

As for me, tomorrow my alarm will go off at 6AM (5:51) and I’ll start it all over again. Like the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace or the noon lunch whistle, it happens just because it does.

So, basically all day today I’ve been trying to pithily pontificate the joys and wonders of Star Wars: this being the unofficial holiday of one of the greatest Sci-Fi properties in the history of Man.

For all that Star Wars means to me, it is a downright crime that I haven’t done much writing about the subject.

Basically stated, I’m a huge Star Wars nerd. I couldn’t tell you how many different copies of the original trilogy I have on VHS and DVD, and the amount of Star Wars ephemera that occupies my house borders on ridiculous.

I’ve read all of the novels of the Expanded Universe (and actually like those characters and scenarios better than what I’ve seen on the screen so far), collected trinkets from the four corners of the Earth with “Lucasfilm, LTD.” stamped on them and I’m a tad embarrassed at the amount of money I’ve spent on individual action figures.

All that and I find it incredibly hard to write about. It seems that only when I get hot under the collar (reference my “heated” Why, George, Why? blog from last year) do I delve into my Lucas-inspired nerdery.

To be honest, I often only talk about Star Wars to address the things I’m not happy with. I guess that’s all part of being a “critical” fan. Why can’t I just be happy with Wookies, Mandalorians, Jedi, Sith, etc. and ignore the horrible gaffs like Episodes I-III, the Marvel Comics and Rokur Gepta? To that end, why must I justify my love of the Expanded Universe to “purist” fans who find it anathema to look beyond the six movies (does the Christmas Special count?)?

Oh wait. I know. Star Wars fans just LOVE to complain. We bitch about “special editions,” proposed “ultimate editions,” lack of Blu-Rays, lack of the “Yub Yub” song, being a little short for a Stormtrooper and a bajillion other little things that just bug the ever-loving shit out of us. In general we will sit in awed silence for ninety minutes at a time, and many of us will still tear up at the “I know” line on Bespin during Empire Strikes Back, but when that is all over, it’s right back to the bitching.

Honestly, I should really focus my attentions on mocking continuity-lacking Trekkies or those freaks who stuck through Battlestar Galactica (and I don’t mean the one with Lorne Greene).

When I first met Higgins he was a spry little kitten who managed to get himself into all manners of trouble due to the pure nature of his obstinate will and curiousness. Being a Cornish Rex, Higgins had a built-in nature to climb and explore and generally cause all sorts of mayhem.

I’ve gotta say, Higgins and I have not had the best relationship over his fifteen years on this planet.

During a particular period in my life between school and career, Higgins and I were left to our own devices during work hours and it was more of a circus than a manageable coexistence. Often, he would make the extreme effort to hustle his furry black butt across the room just to bite me on the shin and chase would ensue. I can honestly say that I didn’t appreciate that mirth for a very long time. In talking about him, more often than not I’d bring the word “spite” into the conversation. Hell, I even did it this week.

Today, after a wonderful life of fifteen years and loving experiences with three other wonderful brothers, one of whom was taken far too soon, Higgins had to move on to his next adventure.

It’s never easy to lose a pet: especially one who has been there for all the pivotal points in one’s adult life, but with the good things in life must also come the bad.

I’m sad for the fact that I’m not going to hear Higgins’ “complaining” yowl every day, and I’m sad for his two brothers who love him very much and took wonderful care of him during the period in his life where his health started to fail. At the same time, I’m happy for all the things he helped me get through and the companionship he provided when he knew better than I that I needed him.

Higgins was always very proper and very accommodating. When his mom and I thought it would be a hoot to dress him up in a little devil costume and humiliate him with pictures, he tolerated our giggles and calmly waited for the “horrible” experience to be over. When we brought home other cats to join our little family, Higgins stepped up and acted in just the way an older brother should. When family life turned upside down, Higgins stayed his stoic self. If that’s not a fucking rock, I’m not sure what is.

For some ungodly reason, whenever I have ever heard the Bouncing Souls’ song “Undeniable,” I have always imagined that Higgins sings it. I see him stretched up a mic stand with his furry little walnut paws wrapped around the microphone crooning about his “red shoes.” It’s bizarre, but always brings a smile to my face.

Rest in peace, little furry bastard.  Know that we are thinking about you always.