Harriet: "I got a laugh at the table read when I asked for the butter in the dinner sketch. I didn't get it at the dress. What did I do wrong?"

Matt: "It's one laugh out of thirty you're going to get tonight."

Harriet: "What did I do wrong?"

Matt: "You asked for the laugh."

Harriet: "What did I do at the table read?"

Matt: "You asked for the butter."

--Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip, 1x02, The Cold Open

In fact, here's link that will give you a handy MSDN search provider.

(Yes, I know postings have been sparse. Deal with it.)

That’s not entirely fair, but it is fair to say that compared to family vacations past, my few days in NYC were spent in pursuit of the anti-vacation. I slept in, I usually skipped breakfast, I had a list of things I might want to do but no set schedule or itinerary or anything like that. It was bliss. My trip to New York had several purposes: to explore a city, to catch up with old friends, and to meet some new ones. On all fronts, mission accomplished.

I don’t have a lot of stories to tell or a lot of pictures to share, but there’s not a lot about NYC that I could say or photograph that hasn’t been said or photographed before, better, by someone else. Case in point:

One morning, I sat in the sun in Central Park and ate a giant chocolate chip cookie, watching the horse-drawn carriages, the joggers, the inline skaters, the kids in strollers, the walkers, the hawkers of food and trinkets, as all manner of people swarmed by one their way from point A to point B. And I sat, at some point I didn’t even feel like giving a label, and just watched. People are fascinating.

I made it to the Magnolia Bakery and had a delicious cupcake, and visited several different and interesting bars and restaurants. I visited the MoMA, and whistfully longed to also visit the MET, the Guggenheim, and the American Museum of Natural History. Spending time with friends took precedence, though, and those museums must wait for my return. But I was never bored; I figure in a city of 12 million or so people, if you’re bored your doing something very wrong. I spent afternoons in two different, beautiful parks, and I spent a lot of time just walking around, taking it all in. It was almost a perfect vacation.

Also, a word to the would-be smokers at La Lu (see, I’m hip too!): you’re all being incredibly stupid. The teachers all know where you folks go to smoke. They probably know places to smoke that you don’t know about because they have been there for years and you are young and stupid. Also, when there is snow on the ground, you leave these things called footprints. And Sherlock Holmes could be blasted out of his mind on opium and still follow your trail from the cigarette butts to your clique’s table in the lunchroom. So don’t act surprised when you get caught. Oh yeah, and when you smoke outside at night, people can see the glowing embers for miles.

La Lumiere, which means approximately “The Light” in French (either that or “The Ham Sandwich,” , my French is rusty) wasn’t bestowed some pretentious Francophilic name in order to engender thoughts of ivy-covered halls—they don’t have any—or hundreds of years of tradition—they only have 43—or anything like that. It was named after the family who owned the house and the land before they decided to turn it into a school. This was just one of many interesting facts I learned on a walking tour conducted by my sister’s most excellent friend (and coworker) Beth. I also learned that if I donate enough money I can get the island in their lake named after me for a year. And also that, much to my surprise, the students don’t refer to the Student Activity Center as the “Sack”. (I did learn where the funky odor in the SAC probably comes from, and you don’t really want to know.)

It’s a lovely school, really. It’s just that, as a public school student who graduated along with approximately 300 other people I don’t care about anymore, I can’t imagine only having 40 people in my entire graduating class, or having fewer than 200 students in the entire school. That’s far too few other kids around for me to disappear anonymously into the crowds, as was so often my modus operandi. I took comfort in being one of the dorks; I can’t imagine what it would have been like to be The Dork. (Although it would have been easier to contend with just The Jock, I suppose.) I went to a suburban high school, which certainly isn’t high school writ large, but I can’t imagine what it would have been like in high school writ small.

But I can understand the allure of one aspect of it, I suppose. With a school that size, it’s really more of an extended family than it is just another school. I get the appeal of that, of knowing all the other students, and all the teachers and staff, well enough to be friendly with all of them and friends with many of them. That would have made high school a lot more tolerable, I think.

1. Read some good books
2. Visited my sister's school in the Middle of Nowhere, Indiana
3. Spent a few days in New York City
4. Met some cool people
5. Started playing Dragon Quest VIII
6. Been sleep-deprived
7. Hung out with my cousin

I'll get you all caught up, at least with #1, #2, and #3. We'll go from there.

• Upload
• Copy
• Backup
• Delete
• Buy
• Talk to
• Print out
• Send
• Catch, clean, fillet, broil, and serve*
• Download**

* Note 1: I may, in fact, have dreamt my father asking me to "download the fish."

** Note 2: Deprecated, apparently.

I now present you with my newest word: pragmantic. It is used to describe romantics who approach romanticism with a dose of pragmatism. For example, using a USB drive and some MP3s in place of a mix CD. (Note that this does not include sending email Flash animated valentines, which is just tacky.)

Go forth and spread your love pragmantically. (Look, I didn't say it was a good word, okay?)

"We do on stage things that are supposed to happen off. Which is a kind of integrity, if you look on every exit as being an entrance somewhere else."

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead, by Tom Stoppard

I find this comforting.

What a load of bullshit.

The craft of software testing is nothing more than an endless battle against the poor bastards who cram more power and memory into those accursed devices and the sons of bitches who decide to use that power and memory to create great shiny, spinney things that go PLING! and erase your hard drive. There is a circle of hell reserved for those people, and it is called Ring 0.

I really hate computers.

I used to tell people, when I was especially angry and frustrated, that I was going to quit my job and become a farmer. That was a fine plan, until some great, smiling bastard decided that computers could make our already overly-productive farms even more productive. I bet he raised corn. I hope he's sick of corn by now. He's probably got quite a lot of it. But there's no escaping the computer-controlled irrigation algorithms, the GPS-monitored crop rotation and fertilizer allotments, the laser-guided harvesters and the self-milking cows. So farming is right out.

What I've settled on as my new new career came to me in a flash of inspiration on the way home from a housewarming party. I'm going into a growth industry--full of anger, disappointment, and revenge. That's right: I'm going to be a florist.

I won't be part of the FTD network or anything like that, because those bastards use the internet. No computers here. No credit cards. You're angry? You're disappointed? You're vengeful? Fine. You're paying in cash. But it will be worth it.

Doddering old Auntie Bernice made you wax her upper lip and rub her bunions, and left you jack squat in her will? Send flowers! Dead flowers. A whole mess of them. For a little more, we'll include fresh (yes, fresh!) Poison Ivy. Sure to be a hit at her closed-casket funeral (and we both know why they won't open it, don't we? But Revenge Florists LLC won't tell.)

Your pretty friend Janet was supposed to be your designated driver, right? But she hooked up with that guy you'd been talking up all evening, the little harlot. His name was Carlos, too, and he had beautiful eyes and a bulging... wallet. You had to cab it across town at 4 AM? No problem! Send her our Lil' Hussy Gift Basket: Dead roses (with extra-sharp thorns), moldy cake, and an extra sprig of that Dogwood she's so terribly allergic to. That's the standard size; spring for the super size, and we'll throw in some poisonous mushrooms and a paper bag with dog poop (flaming poop is extra).

We don't even have to grow our own flowers! We can buy the crap other florists throw out, and pass the savings on to you!

Groom (or bride!) left you at the altar? Pawn that fake diamond ring (or cash in those discount honeymoon plane tickets) and send your unloved one 16, 24, or 48 ounces of the concentrated pulp of Indonesia's titan arum--aka, the Corpse Flower. Out-of-tune singing telegram included! Guaranteed to sound like cats drowning! Free flaming bags of poop (for his or her parents) with every order of 24 ounces or more!

Come one, come all! Get your vengeance florally! Place your order with Revenge Florists LLC. (Patent pending.) Just remember: we only take cash.

Of course, the device made it easy to pick and play the top 40 crap, and we were listening to Kid Rock or some such when we arrived. Fortunately the friends I was with have an almost encyclopedic knowledge of excellent music that is not often heard in bars. So we decided to mix it up a bit. Fortunately, the jukebox has an enormous library of available songs.

First up was Mack the Knife by Bobby Darin. I think we knew we were on to something big when about six people got up and left immediately. Since we were on a Darin kick, we followed up with Splish Splash. Then we started drinking in earnest.

Having all grown up in the 80s. we were seized by a sudden, PBR-induced wave of cinematic nostalgia. After Bobby was done crooning, we decided to load up the jukebox with some tunes from our favorite movies. It was about this time that I discovered that, for an extra 25 cents, the device would bump your selections to the top of the play list. Oh, the deliciousness. Since I can't recall all of the brilliant selections we chose, here are some highlights:

• Ghostbusters theme, Ray Parker Jr.
• Goonies 'R' Good Enough, Cyndi Lauper
• Soul Finger, the Bar-Kays (from the movie Spies Like Us)
• Oh Yeah, Yello (from the movie Ferris Bueller's Day Off)
• Twist and Shout, The Beatles (also Bueller)
• Everybody Wants to Rule the World, Tears for Fears (from the movie Real Genius)

Obviously, we were a big hit. At least, we were a bit hit amongst ourselves, singing along and reciting movie quotes at the bartender who was much less annoyed than she probably would have been if we hadn't been tipping so well.

After we had been drinking for quite some time, we realized it was coming up on last call. We also discovered that the jukebox had several recordings from the United States Marine Corps Band. Now, those guys know how to play--there was no way we could end the evening without some really rockin' instrumental brass. There were so many selections available, it was impossible to choose--especially since the touchscreen becomes very fiddly to use when you're drunk.

We eventually settled on two thoroughly recognizable favorites: Taps, and Anchors Aweigh.

An interesting thing occurred when Taps (yes, that Taps, the one they play on Memorial Day and at funerals) came on. People stood up. Or approximated standing up. Or at least looked very put out. And I have never seen so many people with so many beers look so incredibly relieved to hear the song Anchors Aweigh being played by the United States Marine Corps Band. Nor have I heard so many drunken people trying to sing it so earnestly. It was really a beautiful sight; it literally brought tears to my eyes. Tears of laughter, yes, but that didn't make the experience any less emotionally moving; it just made it emotionally moving in a different direction.

So the next time you hear someone play Taps in a bar about 30 minutes before last call, come up and say hello.

The Baby Event Horizon

(Cousins: if you didn't get my email announcement, please let me know.)

[Update: For the confused, link.]

Dad: "Hey Joe, can you take a look at my mobile phone? It gave me an error about not being able to charge."

Me: "Sure. When did you get the error?"

Dad: "Last night."

Me: "Okay."

(I proceed to test the charger, download manuals from Motorola, call Cingular tech support, call around to find replacement charger and batteries, etc.)

- Later That Same Evening -

Me: "I'm not sure what's wrong with it. I think you need a new charger and/or battery. There's a little corrosion on the charging contacts, so we could try cleaning them off."

Dad: "Well, they're probably corroded because I dropped the phone into the saltwater tank last night."

I think this is equivalent of filing a bunch of crashing bugs and then having my developer tell me, "oh, yeah, the code I checked in last night is total crap."

I need a vacation.

Then there's my father. He's a real meat-and-potatoes kind of movie fan, which is to say that he's an action-and-explosions movie fan. Again, nothing wrong with that, but it would shatter his world if he ever found out that Steven Sagal is actually three feet tall, and a woman.

Of course, sometimes my family surprises me: my father really liked Amelie, a movie with about as many explosions as a moist towel. And, to her credit, my sister really likes the movie Goonies. At least, I think she does. Well, she'd better like it.

So it's no surprise that I always saw my mother as the last bastion of artistic taste, even though she, too, likes her fair share of sappy, weepy flicks as well. At least she doesn't fall asleep if there is more than five lines of dialogue in a row. And so it was my mother who I so ernestly tried to introduce to my favorite TV show, and perhaps the finest show of all time: Futurama.

Drawn? Voice talent? Ay, there's the rub: Futurama is a cartoon.

My first clue came not when watching Futurama, but Harvey Birdman: Attorney at Law: "I can't imagine kids watching this show," my mom said. Ah, but it's not a cartoon for kids! Cartoons--or really, animated shows--aren't just for kids. I figured that much was obvious after movies like The Iron Giant, or The Incredibles, both of which have serious and adult stories and themes. Or Miyazaki's amazing My Neighbor Totoro? Surely those kinds of movies would help dispel the notion that cartoons are just for kids? Maybe not.

I think I understand why issues of Transmetropolitan result in eye rolling, or why my parents have never given The Simpsons a fair shake. And insight into why Japanese anime has had such a hard time finding a big audience in the United States. We've been ruined by Disney-ification of animated storytelling! (Well, anime may also be hampered by the fact that their stories are also often nonsensical, disturbing, indecipherable, or some combination of all three, but that's another thing entirely.)

After all, that's what animation is: just another way to tell a story. If we can get people to look past their "cartoons are for kids" mentality, if we can help them see the people in the characters, to see the substance in the stories, maybe we can help them to understand that they've been missing out on a wonderful gateway to that most human of endeavors: storytelling.

Mom, it is a moral imperative that we watch more Futurama together. Your very existential well-being is at stake! And when we watch The Luck of the Fryish or Jurassic Bark, you'll cry too.