This is where the witty headline would go if I had enough brainpower left to come up with one.

Man, that previous entry was funny, wasn’t? All that whoopin’ it up about my underachieving iMac? Yessiree, comical stuff. Ha ha. Ho ho. Hee hee.

Well, guess what? I’M NOT LAUGHIN’!

Turns out my iMac is far more fucked than I originally thought. Like, unusably fucked.

We’ve been home from vacation for two days, and I have spent almost every waking moment of those two days locked in a duel to the death with the iMac … and it almost won. Pinned me to the floor, battered me about the head and shoulders, poked me in the eyes and gave me a vicious wedgie.

(I’m sorry, do I seem delirious? Well, that’s only because I’VE SPENT ROUGHLY 30 OF THE PAST 48 HOURS GETTING A TECNHO WEDGIE!)

But then I heard the “Rocky” theme begin to play in my sleep-deprived brain, and that glorious flourish of trumpets inspired me to headbutt that dastardly iMac, and when it covered up, I kneed it right in the balls.

And now that it is curled up on the floor clutching its crotch and gasping for air, I have decided I’m done with it. The hard drive is fucked.

Piss on you, iMac. You lose.

“Dude, WTF? Why don’t you just take it to the Apple store and get it fixed?” Hey, great question, Internet! And I have an equally great answer: I don’t technically own it.

No, it’s nothing shady; my employer obtained my iMac via a now-defunct deal we had with Apple … emphasis on “now-defunct.” The deal died, but Apple never asked for the computer back, and we never offered it, and that was all well and good—until now.

Now, if I take the iMac to an Apple store, the likely outcome will be the nice Apple people saying, “Hey, wait a minute … this isn’t your computer … this is our computer. Thanks for bringing it back. Don’t let the door hit you in the ass.”

So my boss is now attempting to drum up a new one for me from god knows where, a process that will take god knows how long.

Meanwhile, my blog has become the digital equivalent of a brown-and-black banana, and that pains me more than any other part of this whole ordeal.

SO …

Wonder Woman has graciously allowed me to co-opt indefinitely her MacBook, and since I’m no longer wasting every precious moment of my life performing open-heart surgery on my suckMac, I plan to make things right around here.

And, jeez Louise, do I have things to tell you about … like Jayna’s birthday … and Zan’s latest sporting endeavor … and our fantastic, fantastic (did I mention it was good?) vacation, during which we racked up 1,138 miles on our bitchin’ rental van (and got pulled over by The Law not once, but twice! Go, bitchin’ rental van, go!).

Oh, there are tales galore … and rest assured that I’m going to share them with you.

Starting tomorrow.

Because right now? Right now, Jon can’t see straight.

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Posted in Geek, Life | 10 Responses

Pay no attention to the iMac that I just chucked out the window of a moving car on a busy superhighway during rush hour

Hey there! Remember me? Yeah, right: Jon, a.k.a. Daddy Scratches.

Man, things were really going well around here; traffic to the website was going up, up, UP, the audience was growing, and I was basking in the glow of your patronage and praise. Great for my self-esteem and sense of purpose. So, of course, that had to be stopped.

And thank GAWD The Universe finally stepped in and bitch-slapped me down a few notches, because I was beginning to fear I might be on to something BIG here, and what would I do with that kind of success? Pffft.

My iMac, my lovely, lovely iMac, whom I’ve loved and cared for and caressed and … oh, I’m sorry, did I say that last part out loud? Ahem. Well, anyway, I love Apple and everything they make … but suddenly, last week, my lovely, lovely iMac turned into the Technological Spawn of Satan, and its reign of destruction has continued unabated for days on end, causing this blog to become moldy and stale, and prompting my audience to dry up and blow away.

See this?

Spinning Beach Ball of Death

I see it, too … and I’ve been seeing it for roughly half of my waking hours for the past week or so.

That is the Spinning Beach Ball of Death, which is what one’s mouse cursor becomes when one’s iMac gets constipated. It is the Mac OS-equivalent of The Finger. Basically, my iMac has been flipping me off for days now.

I won’t bore you with all the bullshit I’ve gone through in my efforts to straighten it out, because oy-freakin’-vey already with the hours and hours (and hours) of attempting to straighten it out. Suffice to say, I’ve spent HOURS troubleshooting this clusterfuck, and I’m still stymied.

HOWEVER …

Today, boys and girls … today is a good day … because moments from now, I am going to pack up the rental van I obtained yesterday, and the Scratches Family will shortly thereafter officially be ON VACATION.

This evening, we head to my in-laws’ in Philly, where tomorrow we plan to lounge around the pool. This will be the vacation equivalent of a deep-sea diver stopping halfway down so his or her body can acclimate to the change of environment.

Then, on Saturday, we will take the full plunge as we venture further south to Bethany Beach, Delaware, location of The Beach House. This will be the third year that my in-laws have rented this huge, beachside abode, and if the previous two years are any indication, the coming week may very well restore what little sanity I had left prior to The Great iMac Fuck Up of 2009.

I commandeered Wonder Woman’s MacBook, and it is my intention to get some blogging done when I’m not swimming in the ocean, lounging in the sun or drinking more than my fair share of Corona and Patron, so I do hope you’ll stay tuned, and that you’ll forgive my transgressions as of late. (There will probably be Tweets and TwitPics aplenty, so be sure to check out the Daddy’s Briefs over there on the right, or latch on to my Twitter feed.)

I’m sorry, Internet. I still love you … and I hope you still love me.

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Posted in Geek, Life | 22 Responses

“Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull” a.k.a., “How George Lucas Took A Giant Poop On Yet Another Beloved Trilogy From Your Childhood”

Indiana Jones and The Kingdom of The Crystal SkullA refrigerator. Indy hid in a refrigerator. In order to survive a nuclear blast. A refrigerator. A refrigerator that got tossed through the air, end over end, for miles. By the blast. The blast from the atomic bomb. The atomic bomb that instantly vaporized everything in a five-mile radius. Everything, that is, except for the refrigerator—which the blast from the atomic bomb instead launched through the air, for miles and miles, until it hit the ground. Hard. Miles away from the blast site. With Indiana Jones inside of it.

And he popped open the door and got out and coughed a couple times. And was fine.

And that was in the first 15 minutes.

Which brings me to the real point here, and that is:

Someone needs to cut off George Lucas’s hands and force feed them to him in order to ensure that he never again attempts to write a movie.

My expectations for “Indiana Jones 4” (I’m not typing out all that “Crystal Skull” bullshit again) were low. Like, really, really low. And I said as much to my Dad as we sat down on the couch to watch the DVD.

“How bad could it be?” he asked.

“Trust me,” I answered. “You didn’t see what he did with that ‘Star Wars’ prequel.”

But I still held out a little hope that all might not be lost. After all, Lucas both wrote and directed the “Star Wars” prequel … and, while the story and plot for those three flicks were convoluted as all hell, it was the horrifically bad acting that really sank the ship. Maybe, just maybe, in the hands of a more capable director, Lucas’s “Indiana Jones 4” would work.

Now, here I must ask: does Steven Spielberg know that he is listed in the credits as the director of “Indiana Jones 4”? Because, clearly, that can’t be true. There is no way that Spielberg would have risked his reputation by allowing this clunker to see the light of day.

“Hi, George? It’s Steven.”

“Hey hey! Steve-o-rino! Sorry, I was busy counting all this money that Burger King just dropped off. Do you have any idea how much cash they gave me so that they could plaster Harrison’s wrinkled mug on the side of a soda cup? God, I love this business!”

“Yeah, well, actually, Harrison’s here with me, and we’re calling about the script. We were shooting the warehouse scene today? The one with the magnetic skull? And we were noticing that the script calls for every piece of metal in the known universe to suddenly be drawn to the skull—every piece of metal, that is, except for the rifles carried by the dozen or so Russian soldiers standing right next to it.”

“And …? C’mon, Steve-o, time is money. What’s the problem?”

“Well, George, it just doesn’t seem very plausible.”

“Plausible? It doesn’t seem plausible? I take it you haven’t shot the refrigerator scene yet?”

I’d go on, but after writing all of the above, I discovered this satirical, abridged version of the script, which really does sum it all up rather nicely.

And while we’re on the subject of George Lucas exploiting the good feelings you had about an epic childhood trilogy, be sure to also check out this abridged version of the script for “Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace.”

UPDATED 06.26.09: No, I totally wasn’t kidding about the refrigerator:

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Posted in Movies | 5 Responses

Playdate

Overheard just now:

Zan: My Dad knows more about baseball than anybody. He knows balls and strikes and everything.

Friend: Oh yeah? Well, my Dad knows Terry Francona and all the Red Sox.

Zan: Yeah, well, do you know about concerts? After concerts, my Dad gets to go backstage.

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Posted in Parenthood, Zan | 12 Responses

And now a few words from my children’s coats

Zan & Jayna's coats

Why, children? Why do you hate us so? What ever have we done to you except keep you warm and dry and protected from the elements?

Do you not understand that although it feels plenty warm enough to wear that sleeveless shirt and those shorts while you’re still inside the house with the door closed, it is not equally as warm on the other side of that door? Do you not realize that it is more than 20 degrees cooler outside right now, and that “more than 20 degrees cooler outside” means “much colder than it is indoors right now”? Of course you do; we heard your parents telling you as much. Repeatedly.

And speaking of your parents: here they go again with the counting.

“I am going to count to three, and if you don’t put your coat on, you’ll [some kind of threat about losing a treat or a show or college funding or some other such thing that, in the moment, you couldn’t give a shit less about, because all you know is that you, for some inexplicable reason, don’t want to wear a coat]. Oooooone … twwwwoooooooooo … you better put that coat on … I mean it … I’m going to say ‘three’ … OK, you asked for it: three. You just lost your [whatever].”

And now the crying and the screaming and the whining, and sweet mother, are we ever happy that we don’t have ears. (And, yes, we know we said a couple of paragraphs ago that we “heard” your parents telling you something, but the whole “we can hear” thing is no longer convenient for this gag, so we have decided that we now are deaf because it helps this particular paragraph.)

And what is that we hear, children? (Yes, we’ve regained our hearing. It’s a miracle!) Is that a cough? A sneeze? A sniffle? Goodness gracious, you’re sick again! Don’t you realize that remaining healthy is just one more reason why you should heed your parents’ instructions to put us on, lickity split? Clearly, they have your best interests at heart.

Yet, still, you refuse … fervently. Quite frankly, we can’t imagine a human being protesting this much about going to the electric chair. But there you are, hysterically objecting to wearing a coat. What on earth would make you want to do such a thing? We don’t get it.

What the … ? Did you just scream at your parents and call them stinky poopoo heads because they told you to put on a coat before you go outside, because they love you and feel obligated to look out for your well being, and want you to be warm and dry and snuggly and healthy and live to a ripe old age? Yes, we’re probably a bit biased seeing as how they bought us and all, but we must say, we think your parents are just phenomenal. I mean, seriously, the things they put up with. “Stinky poopoo heads”? Could you be more childish?

What’s that? You’re acting like children because you are children? OK, you’ve got us there. Touché.

Well, listen, if you’re not going to put us on, for god’s sake, at least put on a sweatshirt, or a longsleeve t-shirt! I mean, c’mon! You won’t even do that? Jesus, you’re stubborn. Alright, we give up.

Oh, by the way: we were talking to your beds the other day, and they were mentioning that you guys keeping getting out of them ridiculously early in the morning. What is it with you fools? You actually want to be cold and tired?

Look, maybe we can’t figure you out because we’re coats and you’re humans, but we gotta tell ya, from where we’re hanging, your decision-making skills leave a lot to be desired.

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Posted in Parenthood | 15 Responses