Sorry. I have no excuse. Hopefully, at least two of you subscribed to the RSS feed.

Using the power of thought, semi-transparent women can infect you.

On the subject of me, I’m recovering from the fabled H1N1 flu virus, which makes me feel incredibly lame.

I mean, I know I’m getting “up there” in years, but getting the disease of the year so many months after the scare just adds further validation to my waning coolness. It’s like a tack on a map, showing that I am precisely behind the curve I used to be ahead of.

Maybe I’ll do better next year.

Maybe I’ll make you proud of me.

Love me again for the very first time, Internet.

Total stream of consciousness here… my “A” key has decided to take a shit on me, forcing me to hammer the fucking thing, as though I’m writing something very important, like an addendum to a health care bill.

I’m not getting in to that whole debacle. At least, not tonight.

I have a feeling that I’d post more, if I got off my lazy ass (in the metaphorical sense of the term) and installed a decent front-end on my BlackBerry.

It's like telling the outside world to fuck off.

That’s right. My BlackBerry. I’ve been trying to avoid it for years.

I proudly recalled the story (a true story, mind you) in which I, the hero, received a free BlackBerry from Research In Motion at Comdex 2001, and subsequently sent it back with a polite note detailing everything that was wrong with it, and why I couldn’t possibly find a use for it.

Admittedly, back then (Jesus… that’s a legitimate “back then”), the BlackBerry was a glorified pager that couldn’t make or receive phone calls, and I couldn’t get a signal to save my life in South Lyon. But the point was, I was not one of those people.

Now, I suppose I am. Either I’m delusional about work, or I’m getting more e-mail that can’t-slash-shouldn’t wait until the next morning to be responded to or read. Not “I AM VERY IMPORTANT” so much as “I’d like to not be surprised tomorrow.”

And while I’ve been able to send and receive mail on my phone for longer than you have, there’s something about the BlackBerry that causes it to link with your brain and demand to be paid attention to.

The most fucked up thing, is that I got it knowing that the OS has needed overhauling for far too long. Knowing that all the new whiz-bang shit is iPhone-only. Knowing that my flagship 9700 is hardly much different from any other 8000 series or even the 9000, for that matter. It was another Old Man “I just want it to do blah, blah, blah” purchase.

Where have the years gone?

Sounds very serious and almost scary, huh? I mean, that’s a resounding preface and answer for damn near everything lately.

Why can’t you give me extra Sweet & Sour sauce for my McNuggets? Oh, the economy you say? Dear me, I had better adjust my monocle so I can see the plight of my fellow man.

Seriously? You think he's figured out government secrets to free money?

Whether you’re looking for a reasonable price on a new television, or need to find yourself a job, people will tell you where to stick it, and if you ask why, they’ll say “The economy!”

That last run-on sentence? Periods are expensive, commas aren’t. It’s the economy, y’know…

Because I am a master of this internet, and will someday be as internet famous as some of the people on YouTube have been, I’ve seen a lot of ads targeting people who are impacted by the harsh and unforgiving mistress we call “The Economy.” And I’d like to share with you one very simple truth. This information is valuable. This information will save you money. Hard earned money, which, according to people who talk about being employed, is the only kind of money there is. Here it is:

Nobody wants to give you free money. Nobody.

I’ll blow my wad on periods here, to drive this point home: Nobody. Wants. To. Give. You. Money. For. Nothing. (insert lame “chicks for free” reference here)

This man's money is clearly hard-earned. Harder than anyone. Don't believe me? Check out the fucking hat.

So there’s the part of me that’s all “How in the name of all that is holy are people still falling for the Nigerian scam e-mails?” I’d think with the ever-watchful eye of Channel 7, even the oldest senior citizen with e-mail would be well aware that Uge Watumbe does not know a long lost millionaire relative you’ve never met. Yet, the scams still flow, because people still fall for them.

What’s more disturbing though, is the ridiculous online marketing I’m seeing now, which is really what prompted me to tug the old soapbox from the closet and bitch.

When you see a banner ad offering you something ridiculous — let’s say free money for your opinion, or a mortgage with $0 down at 2.5% interest, or $2,000 televisions for $199, it is almost certainly bullshit. Nobody gives a shit about your opinion, and they’re sure as fuck not going to pay you for it. This thing here? I pay for it. Sure, I should write it off on my taxes as a public service, but never the less, nobody is paying me for my opinion. Incidentally, my opinion is better than, and worth exponentially more money than yours.

Change you're a fucking retard to believe in.

Similarly incredible is the sheer number of ads online that profess that Obama has shooed in some magical law that is guaranteed to reduce your mortgage payment. But it’s a big secret, and the only way you’ll learn about it is by clicking on the seizure inducing flash ad on underground sites like CNN and The Weather Channel. Tip: If you’re 10 years in to your 30 year mortgage and you reamortize it, you’re going to pay less, unless you’re actually one of the dumbest people alive.

Similarly, there are ads professing “debt relief” (often of the guise that Dear Leader has bestowed this to his loyal subjects as well). The mysterious program? Fucking Bankruptcy. That’s the magic program.

Yes, it’s a federal program. Yes, it reduces your debts. It’s goddamn bankruptcy, for fuck’s sake! The only secret you’re unlocking is that you’re kind of a fuckup when it comes to your money, since declaring bankruptcy makes it public record. So when you see or hear about the program that lets you manage your debts if they’re over $5,000, think about the stupid fuckstick who is declaring bankruptcy over that kind of money.

Nobody is giving free money. Not wealthy marketers. Not people in charge of the estates of dead relatives in Africa (unless you actually have a dead relative in Africa who left you some money). Not Obama. Not the rest of the government. Stop clicking on the damn ads. Stop calling for more information when you hear them on the radio. As the wise philosopher Susan Powter once said: “Stop the insanity!”

This is what I saw after I checked out:

Nice…

I’ve had a few ideas that I meant to write about, but just never got around to it.

I’m sorry, baby. I’ll do better. Baby? Baby, come back.

Now in fairness, that’s not to say that there aren’t any Ikea items in the house. But I did not personally buy them, and am therefore not responsible.

Anyway, I’ve spent the greater portion of the week taking my office that had been turned in to a portable basement, and returning it to its former glory. With Stephanie and Corinne visiting everyone in Denver, I’ve had the opportunity to move things in and out without hurting anyone but myself, and without subjecting anyone to a stream of cursing.

As I’m nearing the end of this week-long project, piles of jewel cases started to take over the desks. And I found myself with a small collection of things that I didn’t want to pack in boxes, but I also didn’t want to make too much room for. What I needed was something to hold all of the jewel cases, and maybe a couple of shelves.

Instinctively, I went to Lowe’s thinking I’d build them myself. I soon realized that I had little to no inclination to be a man about this, and their prices were kind of shit anyway. I also remembered how much I liked the CD / DVD holders Stephanie bought from Ikea in our family room, so the choice seemed clear. I would go to Ikea.

This is what people from Canton believe a museum looks like.

I set off for Canton, and found myself at the blue and yellow Mecca for so many, not realizing what I was truly setting myself up for.

Having finished the second grade, I was able to quickly identify the large yellow doors that said “Entrance”, and passed by the baffled customers who were entering the blue “Returns / Exchanges” door.

If you haven’t been to Ikea, there are arrows on the floor, which are supposed to elicit some sort of meaning or function. If you haven’t been to Michigan, a good 50% of the people there stood agog at the signs, knowing they probably meant something, but whatever it was, it most certainly did not apply to them.

Being new to Ikea, and of the belief that following directions in a new situation can be helpful, I dutifully followed the arrow telling me that everything my heart desired could be found upstairs.

Upon my ascension, I found myself at the beginning of what would be a horrific and annoying maze, designed to stun women and men alike. Only the children and I were safe. I didn’t know beforehand that there is no semblance of order or logic in any Ikea store until you get to the shitty area downstairs where you can actually buy things, which is what I fucking came to do in the first place. GOD DAMN YOU IKEA!

So there I was, following the trail that Hansel and Gretel had laid out for me. “Let’s see… I need shelves. Is that ‘Living Room’ or ‘Bedroom’?” I was expecting to go to an aisle named “shelves”, see a number of shelves to pick from, and be done with it. But in Ikea’s shopping vision, you’re supposed to tour every imaginary room they have and kind of stumble over what you want. Do you like the Fügenschløng shelves, or the KräziSchit ones? Fuck you if you want to see the two side by side. And fuck you twice if you want to understand why one set of shitty metal brackets cost $7.50 each and another are only sold in pairs for $15.

It took me nearly an hour to walk the upper floor. Not because I gave a rat’s ass about anything but what I had come for. No, I learned that Ikea is like a museum to some people (read: everyone who is there, except for me, and children).

“OH MY GOD! LOOK WHAT THEY CAN FIT IN TO 375 SQUARE FEET!” Why do you care? Seriously? Why the hell do you care? You do not live in 375 square feet. You will never live somewhere so small. You will never allocate that area to your house for this Ikea house-in-a-box. SHUT THE FUCK UP AND GET OUT OF MY WAY!

“Did you know Ikea sells appliances? Honey? Look! Ikea sells appliances!”
“Oh, I didn’t know that. Do they have refrigerators?”
“I don’t know. I think so. They have stoves and toasters!”
WHY THE HELL DO YOU CARE? YOU OBVIOUSLY DID NOT COME HERE TO BUY A REFRIGERATOR IF YOU DIDN’T KNOW THEY SOLD THE FUCKING THINGS! WHY DO YOU BOTH NEED TO BLOCK THE FUCKING PATH WITH THE FUCKING ARROWS AND WHERE THE FUCK AM I IN THIS GOD DAMN STORE? I CAN NOT BELIEVE I HAVE TO LOOK AT THIS STUPID MAP!

Oh.

The map says that the shelves are downstairs in “Home Organization”. And there’s a sign telling me how to get downstairs from here. Okay.

So, downstairs. There are carts here, so that’s promising. But this whole endeavor really does have a strange ambiance to it. Like I really was at the museum upstairs, and now I’m at the gift shop, except I’m not throwing down five bucks for Astronaut Ice Cream. (side note: why the hell does Greenfield Village’s gift shop sell this?)

Of course, the carts turned a previously unpleasant experience in to abject torture. Right off the bat, I heard three different hayseeds express their shock over carts that have four opposable wheels, as if to suggest that this was a uniquely Ikea invention. “IT’S SO SLIPPERY!”

All of the awe and wonderment of “upstairs” had followed the people downstairs, except now they were wielding shopping carts they couldn’t master. Eventually, I found everything I needed and made my way to the checkout, where I learned it was mandatory to say something about the god damn meatballs.

“OH MY GAWD! THEY HAVE MEATBALLS! Honey, LOOK! MEATBALLS! AT IKEA!”
“HEY LOOK! They got frozen meatballs!”

Let me get this straight… is it that you believe their frozen meatballs are different from the ones at Kroger? Or did it just never occur to you that you can buy pre-made meatballs whenever the fuck you want to from any store that sells groceries? Or do you really believe that the workers at the magic pressboard factory do nothing but eat meatballs? Maybe that’s true, and it makes Ikea furniture easier to put together.

So I left, nearly 90 minutes after I had arrived. Which, in conjunction with the drive there an back, made this a nearly three hour ordeal.

But the CD holders do look nice.

1) I never went down the escalator at Kresge’s in Westland Mall.

2) Do the people in the stores where Kresge’s used to be know that they have a basement?

Unfortunately, the local news can’t shut the fuck up about it.

I don’t remember the last time I’ve felt like such a hayseed by association.

GOSH! DO YA’ THINK HE MIGHT TELL US WHAT CITY FOLK ARE LIKE?

One high-beam is not as good as two low-beams.