Hilchos Dunkin on Erev Pesach

 

One may eat as early as alos, but only crullers

One should time his eating so that he reaches the creme in the Boston Creme donut at netz because it is the ikar. The Bostoner held the icing was the ikar because, as he wrote, "nu? Here we just call it creme." 

One must order something was has not had in at least 6 months so that he can be yotzei saying "now I remember why I don't get this." 

If one does not have to refill his Dunkin app he has not fulfilled his obligation. 

The minimum shiur is one. The Talmud ask "one what" and opinions range from R.Yosi who holds "one munchkin" to R. Meir who says "one of everything." the S"A holds like R. Yehudah who says  "one food and one drink" though tosfos there brings down a long discussion of whether water counts as a drink. We are meikil. The Ramo says two foods would count but not two drinks. 

If one sees a table, Snag it. 

Small children should brought into the store and not rushed when placing their orders. This reminds us of the limited choices we had in the midbar as we left Mitzrayim. We are now free to choose, so take your time! 

In each 20 minute period, one person must do something that at least one other person reacts to by mumbling "something sometimes chiilul hashem..." 

It is praiseworthy to sing benching out loud at 7 AM

One must have intent to eat Dunkin and to be eating Chameitz. If one had only a banana or a cup of coffee he is not yotzei. There are differing opinions about fruit smoothies so it is advisable to get a piece of banana bread or an order of hash browns to be sure. 

A person must look at his watch at least three times. A parent or responsible adult must recite the ceremonial "remember, nothing goes home so finish it here or it goes in the garbage" before leaving. 

Sefardim have the custom to walk around the car three times brushing off any possible crumbs while saying "let's try to keep the car clean all year!" In ancient times servants would keep water ready in the parking lot so each person could rinse and spit out any residue. This practice had fallen out of favor.

In temple days there was an appointed messenger who told everyone the length of the line at regular intervals via social media. This is an important tradition of our forefathers in our hands and we should guard it zealously.

Don't just ask someone for a bite of a donut or one Munchkin because you don't want to order your own. No one like that guy.

A woman can buy for a man and a man for a woman even though one might think her obligation is less as this a positive time bound commandment. But she, too, will miss breakfast wraps.

Outside of Israel one must include in conversation  mention of Jerusalem and how "this whole second seder thing is so bogus and don't get me started on kitniyos. Next year I'm definitely eating them." 

People who are eating quickly so they can get to the airport to head to Florida can not cut the line.

DOPU's

 Hi guys -

I know I haven't spoken to you (formally) in a while so I'm just dropping a line. I was sent a picture of the two of you recently, one I had never seen, but it was you in your heyday, attending some event or another. That's how I remember you both. In my mind, you were never young, even when you were young. You were always sage and refined even when you were little. You never had a specific age because you were always just "the age that my parents are" whatever that number ended up being. Generally, I estimated your age as halfway between "older" and "old."

Mom, always engaging and working on something. With your angular features and widow's peak (or cowlick or whatever), you were clear eyed and always in the moment. Dad, at an event because he is supposed to be there, or somewhere so he did his job and was somewhere. No doubt it was an unwelcome social engagement for him, like buying a suit, a necessary part of his work to fix the world.

He was never young and she was never old. He was OK with whatever temperature she wanted and she was OK with his choice because she would never be warm enough, anyway. I have no doubt that there was some passive agressive martyrdom bandied back and forth because that's the way things develop in many cases.

I miss that. I miss you both. Please know that you are missed.

Love,

Dan

The O's Own Park

 I caught another Orioles' game last night. Just a few notes and reflections:

They have this second baseman (I think...maybe shortstop?) names Jackson Holliday. Jackson Holliday looks to be about 9 years old. His bio says he is 20 and was the top pick in the 2022 draft. I say, 9 years old

Next, and I have mentioned this to people already after watching another game -- that Gunnar Henderson is really good. With his 1880's rugged good looks and the name Gunnar, he could certainly be the next big thing.

The game was on MASN which is the sports network of I'm not sure what, but they carry Baltimore games so I assume that MA stands for "Baltimore." Their two guys in the booth give off an odd couple vibe, both very weird. Maybe this is a function of a smaller market or maybe these two guys have just crafted a niche of "weirdos" and that works for them.

One of the guys said that by winning a game, Baltimore continues its streak of not being swept in a series. That's a rather esoteric statistic but it brought me to wonder "what counts as a series?" Some serieseseses are 3 games long and some 4. But there are also 2 game serieseses -- do those count? What about if a game is rescheduled for September to make up for a rain-out. That becomes (though linguistically illogical) a one-game series. So as statistics go, I wish this one would.

A true Mets fan

 Here's a scary truth, but a truth none-the-less:

In lieu of the usual slate of twisted reality shows with their dashed hopes and dreams of the rich and famous, or the sitcoms of my childhood but now in rerun form, or even the movies I never wanted to see anyway, last night, I chose to watch a Mets game. This was momentous for many reasons, including my sense that when I watch, they lose (sure, the lose also at other times, but when I watch, it becomes my fault), and my lacking any TV package which allows me access to the game. So how did I turn my intent into reality? I turned on the MLB app and chosen to watch the condensed game because I had already listened and knew that the Mets had won, 16-4. I figured I would be able to appreciate an easy win, safely. They beat Atlanta which made the prospect of watching a laugher all that much more sweet. When else in my life would I be able to have such pure enjoyment? The Mets win easily, beating a serious rival and no commercials, just action. Sign me up, right?

The condensed replay, for those of you living under the influence of Arak, is the game in order, but only pitches that result in something important are shown. So no marathon at bats, no meaningless pop ups in foul territory. Only the really great plays, the important put outs and the base hits/errors. Zoom, zoom, zoom -- let's watch some runs! It is the whole game with just the good parts.

[side note -- if you have just the good parts and not the context of less good parts, you run the risk of not appreciating the good parts as they stop being special. I guss that's why professional whiskey tasters cleanse their palates with Brillo pads and when they aren't working, they prefer mulled midget blood. When it comes to a Mets win, I can watch just the good parts because they have a 50+ year context of suckage. I'm not missing out on a positive baseball experience -- how often will I get to see the Mets trounce the Braves in record time? Maybe never-often, that's how often. What do you think of that? Would you be happy then? Huh? Would you?]

So on with the rout, right? During this abridged retelling, I got to the part where the bad guys, down 7-0 start rallying and scoring runs. One man crossed the plate and then two and three. And I, a full and fuller grown man who knew completely well who won and by what score, still felt butterflies of worry in my stomache as I watched. Now it wasn't that there was some sort of compelling narrator who made me care about the characters and watch the plot unfold as I grow closer, emotionally to the players and set them up as my heroic idols. It was that I know that the universe is so cruel and uncaring, that the Braves' pact with Satan to maintain dominance over the Mets is so absolute and that the Mets are so magically and supernaturally bad that they could find a way to lose during the replay.

The Beekeeper, A review

I watched The Beekeeper last night. Jason Statham gets angry and people get dead. it's what I paid for so, yay.

I really did like the movie. At points, I would say I really liked it and there was a scene or two that shone and the whole movie, even with its unevenness was riding strong score until the last 10 minutes when the story telling, already muddy and confused at times, went off the rails and the plot holes became too big to ignore. A movie that felt so very satisfying the whole way through sold its soul too many times and suddenly it was just a mess. The dialogue remained crisp and often entertaining and the acting was surprisingly mature for a movie of this genre, but there was too much unexplained and too many gaps of logic. It became confused at the end even though its watchword all along had been clarity of purpose and message. The plot became almost too stripped down and efficient so that everything wraps up with no denoument.

I give it an 81 but with a bit of revision, an A grade is still within reach for an improved draft.

This Topia

I am trying to create a conception of a universe that is so dystopian that I need to find new imagery to describe it. So here's my work in progress of a list:

1. It is marketed as "The Dystopia's Dystopia"

2. This is the universe that the English teacher in Dystopia Universe High School uses to explain dystopia to his students

3. That universe's dystopian system is that dystopia that no one ever picks for kickball so he becomes the official right fielder, or even the "foul ball getter"

4. The dystopia that time forgot!

5. Chuck Norris refuses to live there

6. If Baba Yaga and Beetlejuice got married and had a baby universe, it would be this dystopia

7. In Soviet Russia, topia disses you!

Small Ball

I watched some of 2 different baseball games (a Yankees/Marlins game and a Red Sox/Orioles game). One was on Prime and one was the free game on MLB network. What follows are thoughts inspired by watching the games:

I experienced a weird emotion. I watched a player who used to be on "my" team and is now playing for another. Which is the proper feeling?

A. Pride at the player's success because I knew him way back when.

A sub 1. Secret happiness when the player fails

B. A sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach when I think about another great player who got away and I consider what might have been.

C. Righteous anger aimed at the player because no matter the truth of the situation, in my mind, this guy's sub par performance sank my team, or his super performance before a trade deadline showed a lack of loyalty, or his attitude wasn't appreciative enough and we wasted good money on him and I hopt god strikes him down with a lightning bolt full of chlamydia. Amen.

--------------

So I watched the game and the camera, before every pitch, switches to an angle from center field, aiming at the batter from behind the pitcher. Pretty standard. And also to be expected is the technologically superimposed (or otherwise inserted) rectangular box representing the strike zone so we can all feel superior when we second guess the umpire because a computer informs us that the human is human. Now, as far as i recall, the strike zone is variable -- as it relies on the physical dimensions of the batter, it should appear distinct and in proportion with each sized person who comes to the plate. Additionally, even within an at bat, as a player stand more upright or bends, the zone should change to accomodate that new physical reality. Bottom line is, the zone representation should not be static on the screen, but dynamic. But what did I see?As the batter moved around, up and does and such, the strike zone remained exactly the same. This seems wrong to me.

--------------

I'd like to tell you a little story about a baseball player from a bunch of years ago. He was a cocky kid for sure but with the skills to back up the swagger. He wore his hate off to the side, thumbing his nose at convention as he blazed a trail through high school and college. The next step was the MLB draft and with the right agent and the words of praise from all his coaches, he was snapped up early and sent through the minor league system. So far, his life was batting a thousand.

And he continued his rise, stopping for only a cup of coffee in single-A and not much more than a pastry in AA. Upward through triple AAA and then the call to the Show. The Bigs. How big? SHOW BIG!

July 2nd was a glorious and clear day. His first start on an 83 degree sun-fest. He was steady as a rock as he went through his pre-game ritual, with the same confidence as ever. No false bluster, but the well earned bluster from a lifetime of success. He walked to the mound, hat askew and chains swinging, his own man.

Quickly, he loaded the bases. He was wild and overcompensated by forcing very hittable strikes. So now one out and the bases jammed. Finally, the manager walked slowly to the mound. The pitcher figured that he had burned this bridge and he was on his way out so he prepared to argue his case even though he knew that ultimately he would surrender the ball. The manager just stood there staring. The pitcher sighed and held the ball out, seeing that no words were going to change anything.

"Whatchoo doing?" the manager asked quietly.

"I thought that after that last walk --"

The manager cut him off. "Nope. This is the majors. Clean up your own goddam mess. You're only screwing up your own rookie stats at this point."

Now the pitcher was confused. "So why'd you come out, skip?"

"Well, it looks like we're going to be here for a while so I wanted to recommend that you fix your hat before you end up with a stupid looking tan line." And he turned around and walked away. Slowly.

The pitcher was left hand outstretched, mouth open enough to catch well hit line drives with mustard on them. He took a beat, fixed his hat and proceeded to strike out the next 3 batters and have an historic year.

And that player was me.

I'd like to tell you that story but I won't, because it isn't true. I wasn't that player and none of that ever happened because I just made it up. Life doesn't work like that. Grow up.

-------------------

I just misheard the commentator -- I thought he described the call strike three as "he struck out yelling."

-----------

Rules question:

In the case of a dropped 3rd strike, is the batter still safe until the catcher does something actively to make him out (so the play is live) or is he assumed to be out if he doesn't run, or returns to the dugout, making the play dead from that moment?

Here's the case -- bases loaded and a dropped third strike. If the batter is live until actively put out even if he doesn't run then the catcher simply has to pick up the ball and touch home because the batter's live status means the player on 3rd must advance a base and is therefore a force out at home. In fact, a catcher can then choose to drop a third strike and force an out at home if the runner on third is particularly fast. If the catcher intentionally doesn't throw to first, he can then touch home and THEN throw to any base for a second force out on the same play. In fact, if he throws to second or third, and then the ball is relayed to first, he can effect three force outs on one play after an unhit ball.

Or not -- experts please let me know.

One night in Indonesia

I decided to take an evening to myself and just relax. I present an accounting of that evening.

Early on, I watched Adam-12 (season seven, episode 10, I think) and Willie Aames was on as a kid named Billy Ray. This is gonna be a good evening!

I have found some Indonesian cinema. A movie called "Foxtrot Six." It looks like a good old shoot-em-up kind of movie. I'm psyched. This evening is getting even better.

30 minutes into the movie. I don't think I understand what's going on in this movie. I mean, I might understand, but I don't know. That's only because I don't know what's going on.

I thought I was pretty expert at watching movies and following a story line. All my skills are proving useless for this movie.

Thirty-five minutes in and I'm now convinced that I officially don't understand what's going on in this movie.

Regardless of my understanding, there is a VERY FUNNY scene at about 36 minutes or so. There is a very violent combat scene in which 10 men, all covered in oil compete to see who can climb a greased pole and ring a bell first. So they spend their time beating the hell out of each other and squirming around in their oily mess until one of them can somehow shimmy up the pole. After our hero wins, he is approached by others who get him into a conversation. As he speaks, he flicks open his lighter to light his cigarette. The man with whom he is speaking stops and says, "isn't that all oil?" The hero says, "yeah, why?" There's a pause and the other guy says, "no reason."

And at about 39 minutes there is another great moment. Look, I'm getting on in years and I should be a mature adult at this point but I just can't stop laughing at a good (for lack of a better term and apologize for the crudeness) "nut shot." The one at 39 minutes is pretty damned good. I laughed for a while.

At a little over an hour in, I got to a part where I thought it would be the kind of place that make sense to some one if not multiple ones, but it ended up being the wrong kind of place and it only made the non kind of sense.

My new hit single inspired by the movie, "I don't want to get flash fried."

I can't keep track of who the characters are or what the story line is and this traditionally counts against a movie. I feel like they used more than a single actor for each role within the movie which explains why i can't keep anyone straight. I can imagine an interesting version of Hamlet, made from spliced performances, assembled from pits of other performances but it doesn't work in this piece of Indonesian cinema.

I feel like there was a more cohesive and compelling backstory begging to be told while this movie was being made but the decision was "no."

Actual line from the movie, "Let's show this clown what pain really feels like." I have many, many questions.

It is a very bloody movie and I am very squeamish. I am how I am and that's it. It seems to be an instinctual response -- I flinch when I see certain things and hide my eyes to prevent and more messy response. Some would say that my response must be learned and not innate (though aren't some instincts inborn? The blink-response or a scare-flinch, or other things that reflect the "flight" response) but this would beg some unremembered trauma which taught me to not like bloody things. I'll stick with reacting by instinct and just put my head back under the covers.

I have no idea what's going on in this movie. Of that I am now totally sure.

There was a post credit scene which was amazing because I can't imaging anyone wanting to take any credit for this movie.

Thus endeth Foxtrot Six.

Next up, reflections while watching a baseball game in a mirror.

No man, You Eff Ell

Recently I happened upon a broadcast of a football game. This is unusual because my television has 3 channels on it so the odds of finding a game, especially out of football season is rather slim. But with as new league come new possibilities.

So here are my notes. Fist off, the announcers kept touting that the attendance of 42,000 was a new record for "modern spring football." That's a lot of qualifications and I'm still not sure what each word is coming to include or exclude.

Then I hit the "info" button on my remote so I could see what I was watching. The game was said to be covered live but was also scheduled from 8-11. The final play was at 10:59. Was it really live (this was not advertising itself as an editted replay)? Weird.

A big element of the UFL seems to be its embracing of sports betting. The over/under, the winner, the individual stats -- everything was up for discussion and display on screen. Except it makes no sense. For there to be predictions that have any value, there has to be a past upon which to rely. The history of a team helps establish the tendencies and possibilities. Computer models need data - a league with no past can't have reasonable predictions for the future. How can you figure an over/under if the players have no track record? How can there be odds, or a spread if the bettors have no previous games to use as a basis for a guess?

As for the game, itself, it is similar to "modern fall football" but it seems to be a minor league version with rule changes to make for excitement. Everything is reviewable (except reviews...) the clock runs differently, there is no kicking a PAT and a whole bunch of people are mic'ed up for the sake of transparency. It was certainly a nice diversion but I didn't see much that inspred my interest in some less-than-small market team and a third rate player who doesn't even have the good sense to be famous already.

Basbeball has been very good to me

Last night I found myself watching a baseball game. This makes sense because this is just where I left me. Anyway, the MLB app on my television takes the local feeds from each market's "sports channel" and bundles them for subscribers. For those of us freeloaders, the app offers one free game each day. Yesterday, it was the St. Louis Cardinals against the Miami Marlins so I sat myself down for that game. I get to see and hear stadiums that I would otherwise not pay attention to, and I can observe the styles of coverage and listen to the play-by-play and color commentary of other broadcasts and cities.

I just heard the guy in the booth say "even though they out hit us." Us. He explicitly aligned and even affiliated himself (and, I would think) the entire broadcast team with the Cardinals. In looser parlance, he would be called a "homer", but I have always envisioned a "homer" as someone whose energy and excitement (henceforth, "rooting") is in favor of the home team and while there might be some slight slant in discussion, with a bias towards one team and its player and efforts, that would be the limit.  There would be nothing so gauche and obvious as speaking of the self and the team is a partnership or an identical association. That casts a huge pall over the entirety of the coverage and sullies the reputation and tradition of honest booth observers, that 4th estate of sports who explain the game in objective terms.

He continued to do this, using three or four more first person pronouns to include himself and the team in the same category. How can I trust the commentary on the game if I know so explicitly that his emotional agenda is blatantly biased?

I did get to see an amazing moment, though. I was watching as a batter hit a sharp line drive over the shortstop's head and into left center. A single. Then there was the replay and slo-mo. Wonderful. Now a different angle, close up and slo. This shot was from the camera on the first base side, showing the batter's front as he swung. The angle, though, also included the fans over the batter's shoulder: a father an what seems to be his son. The father is turned to his son and is clearly hectoring him about some aspect of baseball. His hands are raised as he explains the physics of something or other. The child is smiling widely, his eyes glued to the game. He sees the hit and ignores his father and the father turns too late from his lecture and misses the entire play, in fact, missing everything that is really important about going to a game with your son.

Later, I ended up in the kitchen as I had to make sure that I ate some dessert and thus balance out the main course I had just crimed against huge-Dan-ity. I had the exhaust fan on in order to appease the local, overly sensitive drama queen of a smoke detector. She makes such a scene over, like, no smoke! She is SO annoying like that. Gawd!

The TV was still on, insisting louder from the other room that I should really be abandoning dessert and staring at the rich men play a game. From that distance and with the intervening noise, I lost many of the subtleties of intonation and meaning coming from the guys in the booth. I heard that a new pitcher was being announced in, "Sixto Sanchez." Except that I heard it through a wind tunnel and it came through as "Six-Toe Sanchez." "Oh, cool!" I thought to myself, "A real old school nickname which makes me emotionally connect with the mass market nostalgia machine we call the MLB." Then I realized my mistake and that I was a horrible "ist" of some sort and I was denying the player free agency by assuming pretty much anything about him other than some near-Cartesian acceptance that he exists therefore he exists.

And later, I found out that the guy in the booth, the horrible homer, is Al Hrabosky!

I TAKE IT ALL BACK. I'm sorry! I take everything back. Please don't kill me Mr. The Hungarian!

I was also thinking about the various labels and hierarchies in sports. Baseball teams are managed while other sports are coached. Baseball has a manager, helped by coaches. Other sports have Coaches who run things (basketball, hockey) assisted by assistant coaches. Football has a Head Coach and other coaches -- the manager isn't on the field at all.

Then my dessert was ready.

With the Beatles

 What does it mean to be "significant"? (and you can scale this to your particular level of existence and/or need)

I was watching a baseball game, as I am wont to do. It was the Angels and Orioles. The camera zoomed in on the batter who was placed in his shot so that the pitch clock was visible, ticking down beyond him. It was at 13 seconds and I realized -- this guy, this kid, knows that within the next 13 seconds, he will do something that others will record, review, write down and analyze, opine about and reconsider well into the future, whether he succeeds or fails. He is guaranteed immortality as a part of the quantified history of the MLB. That is to be significant, knowing that whatever you do, it will be seen, thought about, considered and remembered. I'm an English teacher. While a small group of people is supposed to be hanging on my every word, even they will forget me and what I do today, probably before the bell rings and while my words are still warm in the air.

The Beatles were doing something significant, most every moment fo their lives, for 7 or so years. Their music is layered like a multu-track recording but somehow, the elements on one track act like they are aware of what is and isn't on the other tracks, and they act accordingly. There is an interrelationship between sections recorded at different times. Somehow, they retain their identity as part of a whole and not a discrete aspect. The brilliance of the Beatles isn't the music, but the relationships between the elements OF the music, a relationship which constructs a frame for the music. The instruments are aware of each other, the harmonies explore impossibilities, using even discordance as a tool to communicate anguish, with the emotions in the performance coming alive. The music (to mine a cliche) then transcends. Not that it transcends anything in particular, it just does.

The choices of harmonies (and they made choices) was as a mask worn by a character in whose guise the songs were sung. The Beatles were actors in the truest method of the word. They breathed life into the songs, even if it wasn't their lives. They were authors of stories and made decided choices about how to tell those stories. Listen to something as apparently mundane as the drums on "I saw her standing there" with their "making it up as I go along" facade hiding some surprisingly difficult work.

In fact, were I to finally plunk down the cash and buy a time machine, I think a moment I would like to travel to, a moment which is pretty high on that list would be to the time when I first heard Beatles music. I want to watch myself being rolled over by the enormity of what I was hearing. Was I an infant, unable to appreciate music as anything other than soothing sounds? Did my love come from repeated hearings before I was able to know what was going on? Or was there a day on which I put an album on for the first time and just "got it"?

Truth is, they were toying with us. TOYING with us! Consumer preference is supposed to drive the cultural milieu through a series of give and take agreements and compromises until a middle position is established.  The artist moves the marker of what is part of culture and the consumer accepts it to a degree and the artist moderates to meet that demand. The sides of consumer vs. artist meet in the middle, where the artist's experimentation remains palatable to the public appetite looking for innovation but only within certain constraints of tradition, comfort and predictability. But the Beatles thumbed their noses at us and never gave in. They insisted that we meet them on their terms, not via compromise but via our complete capitualition. We ceded the power of culture creation and let them drive us wherever they went, and we followed, not demanding any sort of balance with our preferences. They dragged the culture where they wanted to go, setting trends and waiting for everyone else to catch up and on.

I daresay that one of the defining features of cultural importance exhibited by the Beatles is the percentage of their discography which appears on someone's "favorite song in the world" list. Sure, many people have the hits on their list, but so many of the Beatles "deeper" cuts are still named by people as "that song." This percentage is higher than for most other artists. So when Jet steals from a few different songs (like the lesser known "Sexy Sadie") or when you realize how much Bohemian Rhapsody owes to Abbey Road, side 2 you start to see fingerprints everywhere.

I listen and consider their impact on society, culture and music, and I also understand that this all happened for a relatively small window of time. The transition from Mop Top to hippie to fantasy character to proto-slacker reflects and is reflected in the greater culture. Imagine the social upheaval, the drive to advance and evolve -- what other era has gone so far, so fast? I think the answer is clear: anyone younger than I am sucks and get the hell off my lawn.

So, in sum, if anyone has any contacts to Sir Paul or Sir Richard, please let each (and both) know that I feel fortunate to have the chance to listen to the fruits of their efforts. It really is good stuff, so thanks.

My Ring a Ling

 My ringtone has changed few times over the years and has had its current iteration for longer than I can remember (which tops out at about 14 years). I use "The Orangutan Gang (Strikes Back)" by Shadowfax. I picked up on Shadowfax by accident on an overnight shift on the campus radio station in college. The format of my show was "just show up so we have someone at the console for when the cops show up." So I filled time with records pulled at random.

Maybe I was in a mood of relative largesse, a time when I appreciate my family, but I happened to pick through the stacks and found an album by Shadowfax with the track "Song for my Brother." As a believer in the spooky power of confluence, I snagged the record, wheeled over to the turn table and cued the disc up. The music was great and from then, I was hooked.

I try to set my notifications to be quiet and unobtrusive, short and to the point. A click or a pop -- a sound that I will recognize but others won't be sure that they actually heard. My ringtones also have rules: no words, nothing too jarring and nothing others would know (yes, I'm being pompous. Hell, I was self-aggrandizing from way back, when it was still just pompo-me). The Orangutan Gang (Strikes Back) worked perfectly. I had it on mp3 in my collection of songs currently housed at Youtube along with 5000 or more other songs I have collected, imported, ripped, stolen or otherwise uploaded to "my library" which has been part of "my music" on 4 different computers and countless services.

Last night I dcided to have a "music evening." On a "music evening" I log in to youtube through my television, put my entire library on shuffle and lean back and listen to the randome selection of songs. I mean, I really LISTEN and I fall into a trancelike state, neither awake nor asleep. I relax in a meditative mode, deconstructing musc -- appearing fully immersed and chill but with senses heightened, sensitive to everything I hear. Suddenly I shot up. I heard "The Orangutan Gang (Strikes Back)" and grabbed my phone. But the screen was black and I still heard the ringtone. I glanced at the TV and saw (after a few moments' adjustment) that the song was what youtube had randomly chosen to play for me. Out of the thousands of songs, it chose my ringtone source file and it freaked me out. Crazy but it could happen. I smiled and put my phone down.

And then I heard Shadowfax AGAIN.

Seventeen seconds into the TV's song and 2 seconds after I sighed and put my phone down, it rang, playing the same song and, again, freaking me out.

My daughter was calling and I appreciated the conversation but it was a crazy coincidence that I wanted to share. [later that same day, the news was covering some story and as I reached into the dryer to pull out the clothes I was to fold, the news story recounted that the violent attack it was covering happened "as the victim reached his hand into the dryer." At the same exact time as I was reaching into the dryer. God and his mysterious ways for the win, again.]

No filter

I live in a very nice apartment. I have been in this place, with its covered garage parking, in-unit laundry, double sink, walk in closet for about 7 months, on my own, an army of me. I am proving that my walk is as big as my talk and I'm making the life I kept moaning about not having and not having had a chance to have. So I moved in, solo, set it up solo and live there solo. As one of life's little tasks is laundry I make time in my weekly routine of tidy to do a wash or two. 

I enjoy doing laundry and am pretty much an expert and an exacting one. I get to the clothes in a timely fashion, not that anyone else is rushing me in order to get to the machine. I fold it and put it away and keep track of my supplies so I'm not caught short at the next wash. And I always clean the lint filter, usually even before I have emptied the clothes out of the dryer. . I put the detergent back, close the box of anti-static sheets and leave the area as clean as when I arrived.

So yesterday, I opened the dryer in order to move the recently washed pants to it and I automatically checked the filter to make sure it had been cleared. Then I thought to myself, I ALWAYS clean the filter after I use it -- why would I have to check before using it? Who else is using the machine who might have left it uncleaned? But I check, anyway.

And that is today's episode of "crazy little things called Dan"

No Charge

My phone was still charging -- the screen reads, "52% Slow Charger". I pushed a few virtual buttons and saw the explanation. According to my phone, the new fancy cable I just bought for cheap from a novelty surplus (or suplus novelty, I'm not quite sure) shop might not be the bestest or fanciest.

At fist I thought unsettled and angry thoughts to myself (about, among other things, myself). I worked myself into a healthy lather thinking of my options. First place on the list was to A-Ha myself into the catalogue and find the customer service cartoon. Then I'd Harold and the Purple Crayon the heck out of the guy.

[true side note -- I drafted this by hand and, as I wrote it, I lost my place and stared at the piece of paper, looking for a blinking cursor]

So anyway, I'd be messing with the customer service guy and holding a purple gun to his animated head when I tell him that his cable that he sold me is, well, not so dope, as the young people said like 25 years ago. Maybe I'd demand a refund or a credit (though generally, no one gives me any credit for anything).

Anyway, I decided to go the other way and turn a crsisi into an opportunity and a bug into a feature. I bought 100 cables, rebranded and relabeled them as "Special Overnight Safety Chargin Configuration" cables. I wrote copy boasting their "at least 4 times longer charging time" so you dont have to worry about overcharging the battery while you sleep. This prevents ruined batteries and ensures peace of mind every morning when you wake up. Then I set a price point at double what I paid.