Thank you cards-

Remember when I updated this thing? Yeah, that was cool. I'm not sure what my problem is- despite being busy at work, in the process of getting a Big Ol' (tm) loan for the new house and being woken up every morning by the Murdercat, I still have a decent amount of time on my hands. It may simply be the ebb and flow of my interest, which is my bane.

A couple notes- first, I added the word verification on comments. At first I thought I could do something funny with the spammers, but they're just kind of annoying. So, fuck em. Second, I'm going to try and do the november novel writing thingee- NaNoWriMo, as it is called. I'm going to be off in Hawaii for half the month working 12-18 hour days, so we'll just see how well that works. If I try and fail, then as Homer Simpson says, the lesson is to never try.

On to the matter at hand.

When the wife and I celebrated our anniversary, there were actually a few people who went out and got us an anniversary card. That's a nice gesture- much more so than saying, "Happy anniversary, dude" when you remind someone that it's been a year. As a whole, I don't expect people to remember my anniversary. For me, it's the celebration of the beginning of a new life with a person who I'm in love with. For them, it was that party where they got really drunk. So hey, no biggie. Remember my birthday and I'll remember yours and we're fine.

However, once we received those cards, then the onus was upon us to return a gracious and well-worded reply. This, I have no problem with- unfortunately, it's expected that this response is delivered on a colorful card. Now, maybe this was the norm back in the 18th century, but both language and technology have outpaced the antiquated process. If I were to attempt to write a letter in the style of the time, it might be something like the following (You can add the British accent if you feel like it- I know I do):

"My Dearest Grandmother,

It is with a glad heart that I am writing you this day. I am presently most pleased with the lovely and thoughtful gift which you presented to me not a fortnight past, on my birthday. I must say, at first I approached the gold-and-lace package with some trepadition, for I was greatly aggrieved that you were not aware of my birthday wishes. However, as the wrapping fell away my heart was gladdened as I discovered the iPod Nano within.

P.S. Sister died of dysentery yesterday.

Yours,
Mahd"

Now it may seem like a lovely letter, but keep in mind that with any good celebration, there may be a larger number of these. Our wedding nearly killed me. There's only so many times you can thank people with the same platitudes, not to mention the time investment. It may have been great fun to write them back in the days before flush toilets and refrigeration, but I have the Internet and other things that are more important time-wasters.

So what is the alternative? An e-mail or, heaven forfend, an IM? No, even my bitter and blackened heart is not so cold as to be that impersonal. There is, however, a nice invention that one Alexander Graham Bell made called the phone. In fact, I'm fairly certain that when he invented it he was looking for a solution to writing interminable Thank-You cards. I can see him now, sitting in his parlor, thinking of a synonym for "generous" and suddenly stumbling onto an idea that would allow a person to get the same message across in seconds.

Think of it- you're always getting bothered to call your friends and relatives anyways, so why not kill two birds with one stone? As a bonus, if the call gets too awkward, you can just end it whereas you can't end a card halfway through. "Hi mom, thanks for the card. Anyways, I've got to be going. Later." I'm telling you- he phone is the answer.

I better end before this before the thank you card consortium comes after me.

Drag it out

It's a little time out for a book reviewish thingee:

About 10 years ago, my mom brought me home a book. Knowing that I mostly read fantasy and sci-fi (a sad fact that I have thankfully remedied since), she took a recommendation from the twentysomething employee and picked me up The Eye of the World by Robert Jordan. You may have read it; you may not have. All I can say is that I rue the day she brought it home, because for the past 10 years, off and on, I've been reading through the series. The latest book, number 11, just came out, and I'm debating whether or not to go get it.

Robert Jordan is not a great writer. His characters aren't always three-dimensional and he repeats himself incessantly. Some of the 400-plus page books I've read have done little to move the plot of the series forward at all. There is a cast of dozens in the books by now, and far too much effort is expended flailing about with nonessential characters.

However, what Jordan has done with the series is nothing less than create an entire world, and one that is relatively unique from so many other traditional fantasy staples of elves and dwarves and other things that people probably dress up as when they go to conventions. It's the world itself that is interesting, drawing from mythology and history with a good dose of imagination. The world is the most interesting character of all, multilayered and descriptive.

So I'm here deciding- do I get the book? Do I continue reading this story which has many characters who I have forgotten, whose personalities somehwat disinterest me, now that I have succored on more substantial authors? Do I forego the three or four thousand pages that I've already read?

I don't know. On one side, I've committed myself this far. It would be like running half a race and then quitting. There can't possibly be that much left. The series has taken the standard fantasy epic storyboard: Boy learns he is the "Chosen One"; Boy has adventures proving his status as the "Chosen One"; Boy gains power/prestige because of his status; Boy wails on Big Bad Guy; Boy returns as King of the World.

I'm indecisive, and that probably means I'm getting the book. Only a little longer...just a little longer

The Return

I'm back from Vegas a little poorer, a little more tired but happy. It's a four hour drive for us- not terrible by any stretch, but ye gods is it monotonous. The high desert consists of a few specific features:

1. Dirt. The world is full of it, but in no other place is it on display than the desert. It can actually vary in color, from a dark brown to a golden yellow. However, it all looks the same when you've been driving for 2 hours.

2. Dead/dying plants. The reason it's a desert is because nothing living needs to be there. Anything that does live there does so just to spite the desert, and usually has some kind of deadly poison to boot.

3. Mounds of dirt. Just like dirt, except in a big pile.

So we made it home, and there's always that wistful moment when you pull off the highway exit that leads to your home. You think about the good time you had, and possibly think about turning the car back around and heading back past the various forms of dirt. There's work the next day, which is a drag, and especially considering that you've been going to sleep in a drunken stupor at 4:30am and waking up at 2:30 in the afternoon, only to gorge yourself on rich desserts and meats. It's an adjustment that needs to be made, sadly.

On the other hand, you're not going to bed in a drunken stupor, which is probably a good thing in the long run. Your liver probably has a little party when you're back on your work schedule from vacation. There might be streamers. And it's good to be home, with all the smells and comfort of home. Also, Internet Porn isn't $10 a day. My wife is mentioning the cat, but considering she managed to knock her food over in the first hour of us being home, I'll take that under advisement.

Perhaps the best part of getting home is Catching Up. You bring in all the mail, and there's lots of good stuff and flyers for churches and shit. You get to your answering machine and hear recorded comments about how much money you could save if you refinanced. And you go to all your Internet bookmarks and check them out for updates. Even if you're gone for a day, it seems like there's a ton to catch up on. Did I mention the Internet Porn? That probably was updated too.

So it's good to be home. Tomorrow, it's back to work, and, as usual, starting to plan for the next vacation...

Las Vegas- City of Wonders, of Despair

In a few days the wife and I and a number of friends are going to pack into some cars and tread across a barren and lifeless desert towards the shining oasis of Las Vegas. Located in the state of Nevada, it might as well be on Venus for it's remoteness from any other place on Earth.

I take it back. 90% of Las Vegas is like most of America; poor sections, wealthy sections and a grocery store every couple of blocks. It's the side of Las Vegas that isn't featured in movies, and really who can blame them? Mrs. Johnson taking the bus to the shopping mall lacks a certain panache.

The remaining part of Vegas is the part that grew where Willy Wonka's brain leaked out when he was bludgeoned to death by gang members (Note to Kids: Stay away from the Willy Wonka sequel). It's the celebration of excess, in any form you can imagine, from public drinking to games of chance; the promise of lust is everywhere, even on the streets where poorly-paid immigrants pass out booklets full of different escorts. On the occassions that I went where I was young enough to not be able to gamble but old enough to wander away for a while, I took great delight in taking those sinful ads with their barely-obscured girls advertised.

And yet, if there is a Hell, it probably resembled Las Vegas. Until the city was built, Hell probably had some interesting tortures like being crushed under rocks and being pitchforked in the ass while waiting in a long line. Then Las Vegas was built, and Satan took some pointers.

For all of it's promise of cheap food and alcohol, sex, glamour and, of course, riches, Vegas is a sham. Yes, gluttony is possible at the all-you-can-eat buffets, but they are either expensive or terrible, and generally both. There's only so much quality that something heated in a steam tray can have. Similarly, alcohol is free-flowing: The fact that one can carry around a 64oz margarita in a collectable Urkel head cup while carousing down the gridlocked strip lends itself to that truth. And yet you still wind up paying for it, either directly or by pretending to play the nickel slot in front of you until some absurdly-clad waitress named "Midge" deigns to come by with her disinterested "Drinks?" call.

You can pay for sex in Nevada. That fact is not a terrible idea- in fact, my own belief is that if we got more lonely guys laid, we would have far fewer serial killers. I'm sure there are all kinds of studies supporting the idea. Outside of town there's actual whorehouses: for some reason I feel like I would have to pack my Stetson and six-shooter going to one of those places- possibly only to blast off the venerial disease. You can also get incall service, if you're too lazy to leave the room. In a way, we can consider ourselves an advanced society when you can get women by delivery; on the other hand, get your ass off of the bed and go meet a real woman. Of course, if your tastes don't run that way, you can probably find men, transsexuals, midgets, carnival workers, amputees or some combination thereof. Once, when I was there, a nightclub had "service industry" night- that's right, cheap booze for hookers.

Of course, everyone goes to Vegas to gamble. In a way, it's the stupidest thing you could possibly do; you know that their entire economy is based off of your moronic ass putting your loose change into their flashing machines. So that's why we invariably do it. Of course, you could win. But the reality is that you'll drop $150 in 15 minutes. They're very good at taking your money. It's not your fault, they've had decades of practice. You can even walk up to a nickel machine and think, "I will be able to play this all night". Then you learn that you can bet up to 5 nickels at a time, and in order to get all of the possible payout vectors (horizontal, diagonal and some that exist in an alternate universe), you need to pay an additional 9 nickels. So with every push of the button, you're dropping $2, and your plan is shot to hell. Well done, they win again, and are probably watching you pull out your hair in a security camera while twirling their moustaches and adjusting their black capes and top hats.

My favorite aspect of Vegas is that some of the places try so very hard to distinguish themselves as classy establishments. Others build casinos that resemble medieval castles. The former is worse, because no matter how nice you think things are in your casino, you still have hundreds of clinking loud whirring machines with flashing displays. At least the castle guys appreciate the inherent cheesiness of the situation, and even celebrate it. Bobby Joe from Iowa probably can appreciate the fact that your fancy hotel has a botanical garden, but he's still heading to go play "Slots-o-fun" in his Big Dog t-shirt and shorts. It's a tacky town covered in too much brass and ugly faux-oriental carpeting. And it's wonderful, if it appreciates that, or if it doesn't.

So why go to this town, where dreams are broken every day? Where those who can afford to gamble are given perks while the rest of us are ignored? Where you can lose a full paycheck in moments through a hand of cards or toss of die?

Because it is unique; and even if the casinos themselves don't appreciate it, it's a place that inhabits the side of our personalities that relinquishes all grip of reality. People do things here that would make them pariahs at home, and with such gusto that it's infectious. It's a place that celebrates humanity as the animal- full of vice, disdainful of responsibility, always seeking the next thrill without regard for the future.

And I have the best strategy for blackjack that I got off the Internet...