question time 8: the curse of question time

What the hell does “hacky” mean?

Hey, watch the potty mouth, honey! Families read this blog! Ha ha, just kidding, nobody reads this blog. Swear all you want! Why not drop an F-bomb or two? Who’ll notice? Frankly, given that I routinely infuriate every last human being I come into contact with, I’m a little disappointed no one has yet seen fit to unleash a frustration-fueled torrent of vulgarity upon my person. Lord knows I deserve it, and it would be 38 percent more interesting than anything I have ever posted here.

Also ha ha, just kidding, I probably should not have called you “honey.” You are honey in neither the literal nor figurative sense. That is classic demeaning sexual harassment-type language and I deeply regret contributing to a hostile reading environment for you broads. Wait, I mean skirts. Okay, I probably should not have said those things either. (At least I did not deploy the c-word, so give me a little credit.) If I were ever to ask a question at a televised presidential town hall event, a la Ken Bone, I suspect that this paragraph would come back to haunt me, possibly limiting me to 11 minutes of Internet fame. 12 minutes, max.

Anyway, Shannon is asking this because my original social media request for questions alluded to my “hacky” answers. The dictionary defines “hacky” as “lacking originality; hackneyed,” and there’s nothing more unoriginal and hackneyed than deploying a dictionary definition. I promised you hacky, and I like to think I’ve more than delivered.

You’re welcome.

Are we there yet?

Question for you, Robert: where is there? If by “there,” you mean Grandma’s house, then no, we are not there yet. If, however, by “there,” you mean “right on the precipice of societal collapse into a hellish, anarchic murderscape,” then yes, we are most definitely there.

I know you were probably making a reference to the typical refrain you hear from the kids in the backseat on long road trips. This is not something I have had to deal with all that much, because I refuse to make long car trips with my children unless they agree to remain unconscious for the entire drive. We accomplish this by leaving at like 10:00 pm and driving through the middle of the night to our destination. The advantages are clear: the highways are near-empty, the car is quiet, and I can listen to podcasts and whatnot in peace. Disadvantage: I am driving a large motor vehicle, carrying children, in the middle of the night, without sleep. About 3:00 or 4:00 am, this is basically me:

Last year, on a hideous overnight drive from Kansas City to Florida, somewhere south of Nashville I had to pull over and relinquish the wheel to The Wife because–in a combination of highway hypnosis and sheer physical exhaustion–I was hallucinating giant soup ladles on the horizon. I am not making this up.

I assume they were a hallucination, anyway. We were approaching the Alabama border. Alabama. I would not put it past those people to erect a giant psychedelic disappearing airborne ladle mountain to welcome weary travelers to their state. Wouldn’t be the craziest thing that ever happened in Alabama.

Price, we know that you are a discerning beer aficionado. Riddle me this, if you were forced to choose between drinking Natural Ice and the fermented sweat from a feral goat strained through a dirty gym sock, which would you choose? Would its temperature have any bearing on the decision?

Was the goat sweat barrel-aged? Served in proper glassware (snifter, obviously, or a tulip glass if a snifter is unavailable)? At the proper temperature (precisely 283.5 degrees Kelvin)? Was the gym sock made of sustainably grown cotton, sourced from local farms run by guys with giant beards and ladies with tattoos and copious underarm hair?

Assuming you answered “yes” to all of those questions, then would I gleefully consume goat sweat over mass-produced skunky American lager-style pisswater? SWEET LORD NO. Pass me that Natty Ice, bro! Sure, I am one of those unbearable Craft Beer Guys, but I’m not crazy. I mean, here’s the thing: all things being equal, I’ll choose something lovingly crafted in small batches over any given AnmillerCoorsch swill, but even I am not so blindly loyal to the Craft Beer Movement that I assume that the trappings of that movement automatically make a beer good.

On a trip out of town a couple weeks ago I tried some beers at a small craft brewery that I had been wanting to try for a while, and it was all I could do to keep from gagging. They were horrible! If I thought watery disinfectant was worth drinking, I’d purchase some spring water and Mr. Clean and make my own at home. At that moment, I would have gladly taken a Natural Ice, if only to wash the taste of that nasty craft beer out of my mouth. Look, I’m all about supporting the little guy, but geez, little guy… you gotta meet me halfway.

All that said, don’t even try to tell me some craft brewery isn’t RIGHT NOW thinking about brewing and marketing a Feral Goat Sweat Double IPA. (Of course it would be an IPA. Of course it would.)

What does 42 smell like?

Late in 2012, at the end of a long season training to run a marathon, I injured my knee and got knocked out of the running game for like a year-and-a-half. (I’ve mentioned this before.) 2013 was a very long year. Every time I tried to get back into running, I hit a wall. Not a literal wall, though I might as well have, because the results were the same: I was in pain, I was angry, and I couldn’t run. If you think I’m hard to live with now, you should have been around in 2013. How my family put up with my passive-aggressive snippiness all year is a mystery to me. I imagine that every time they saw a pillow, there was an intense internal debate on whether or not they should push me to the ground and press that pillow tight to my scowling face.

I was 42 in 2013. 42 stank for me, Dan. It stank on ice. 42 smelled like failure. It smelled like an overflowing camp toilet thrown into the dumpster behind the Red Lobster. Sure, I would have preferred a pleasant melding of leather, sandalwood, and french fries, but we can’t always get what we want.

For everyone else, though? 42 smells like fermented sweat from a feral goat strained through a dirty gym sock.

Are snipes real?

They're real, and they're spectacular.

How many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Roll pop?
-A different Shannon

Don’t ask me! Just watch this classic 1970s ad that OH MY GOD SHUT UP, did you know there’s an extended version of that old commercial? The one with the crudely animated turtle and owl? The one that looks like it was drawn by a drunken cartoonist with his non-dominant hand, with backgrounds painted by a concussed three-year-old? Turns out BIG LOLLIPOP was not telling us the whole story.

I had no idea this existed. My whole life, I’ve only seen the truncated version that starts with the elderly turtle and lops off the sick owl burn at the end. How has this version been hidden from me for the better part of a half-century? Of course that naked Charlie Brown-sounding kid would have sought the wisdom of a manic cow and a creepy blind fox! Why wouldn’t he? It seems so wrong on its face, yet it makes a bizarre kind of sense, like finding a lost season of Knight Rider in which he drove a Pacer with the voice of Carol Channing.

Actually, that… that idea is gold. GOLD. I will vote for any presidential candidate, regardless of party, who will make the timely production of this show a plank in his or her platform.

Hasselhoff/Channing 2016: NOW MORE THAN EVER

question time 7: the seventh one

How old were you when you decided to use your middle name as your first name and why?

Decided? Decided?! I’m sorry, were you somehow under the impression that I chose to be called “Price Horn”? A name that, when Googled, produces this as literally the first search result:

And you think I made a conscious decision to make that my moniker. That I chose it. I have news for you, madam: No one chooses to be called “Price.” “Price” is not a name you are given; it is a name you are saddled with. It is a name that will forever be taken for my last name, or mispronounced “Bryce,” or “Pierce.” Or, as with the case of the substitute teacher in 7th grade who brutally mangled my full name, “Prince Ham.” Because surely no one would ever, ever name a child “Price”! Or if they did, they would perhaps make it the unfortunate child’s middle name, discreetly tucking it between two normal names so the tyke can pass for the kind of person who has a name instead of a noun.

So when did I move away from the S and lean into the Price? Here’s the thing: I’ve always been called Price. From the second I emerged from my mama’s icky area, I was called by my middle name and not my first. As for the why of it, that’s a question only my parents can answer, but it’s a little late in the evening to dredge up dark family secrets from decades past. I’ll just assume it was a clerical error, or possibly an attempt to hide me from my real father, an evil sorceror-warlord who needs my cursed blood to forever cement his rule over all of humanity.

But no, I didn’t choose to be called Price. Baby, I was born this way.

What did we do to deserve 2016?

Eh, 2016 ain’t so bad. Sure, we’re headed toward a presidential election that guarantees an out-of-touch, sociopathic narcissist in the Oval Office. And yes, small- and large-scale terrorist attacks have become so common that they barely make headlines anymore. And yeah, mass extinctions and global ecological collapse are ramping up, rapidly transforming our planet into an apocalyptic hellscape. And I won’t disagree when you insist that this year has taken more than its fair share of beloved celebrities, to the point that whenever I see a BREAKING NEWS crawl at the bottom of the TV screen my involuntary response is “PLEASE NOT SHATNER PLEASE NOT SHATNER PLEASE NOT SHATNER.”

But look at the bright side! All this rampant misery is just going to make the afterlife seem so much cooler. And if 2016 so far is any indication, it’s coming sooner rather than later. For all of us. The motto for this entire year should be “2016: Let’s Just Get This Over With.”

Why does it take so long?

Asked my wife, never.

Favorite Golden Girl?

Shirley Eaton.

Still more natural-looking than Trump’s complexion.

Why don’t you bring me flowers anymore?
-The Wife

I knew this day would eventually arrive. Sooner or later, no matter how closely I played my cards to my vest, no matter how quietly I would type and giggle to myself, The Wife would discover this blog. That day is upon us. And once she realizes that I have been airing our dirty laundry to literally tens of readers for the past year… well, it’ll all hit the fan. The Star Trek fan, that is. Me. I assume “it” will be either her knee or her balled-up fists, depending on which area of the fan she’s aiming for. In any case, something will hit something.

Also, something tells me I am going to have to answer for that Shirley Eaton photo.

You understand, The Wife, that you’ve put me in a real bind here. Now that you’ve publicly shamed me for my lax floral acquisition habits, I pretty much have to bring you flowers. And soon! However, any bouquets I bring you will be forever tainted with the knowledge that you had to ask me for them. It’s like giving your kids $40 so they can buy you a Christmas present. No, for this suggestion to be really effective, you can’t even be part of the equation! It has to at least look like I came up with the idea on my own. The advice can’t come from you. It has to come from someone else who is in no way connected to our family, and we all know that’s not going to happen!

Why don’t you bring your wife flowers anymore?

Oh, Billy. Did she get to you, too?

How are you still so sexy now that you are near 40,what’s your secret? (This question is from a happily married and monogamous woman.)

I am near 40 in the same way that Honolulu is near Los Angeles. I mean, yeah, on a global scale they’re still relatively close, but if you hit Hawaii you’ve overshot California by a wide margin. Still, though I assume your compliments were intended for someone else, I appreciate them, and offer this tip: Never underestimate the rejuvenating powers of abject despair.

  • Tears are a natural emollient.
  • Constant worry-fueled furrowing of the brow keeps the forehead muscles taut.
  • Sitting alone in the dark for hours at a time is guaranteed to shield the skin from the aging effects of the sun’s ultraviolet rays.
  • No friends means less exposure to life-threatening pathogens.

Depression: because you’re worth it.

IPA, porter, or stout?

Porter. Always go with the porter. PRO TIP: If you find yourself at a craft brewery and you’re not sure what to try? Try the porter, because the roasted malts cover up a lot of minor imperfections, and odds are it’ll be perfectly drinkable. The first craft beer I ever tried was a porter, and it transformed me from a teetotaler to what I am today: an insufferable beer snob. Wait, you should probably ignore that last part. Anyway, even the crappiest brewery in Kansas City (one not listed here) brews a decent porter.

But I love stouts, too, which gives me another reason to recommend the porter: a stout is technically just a porter dialed up to 11. It’s a stout porter. That’s where it got its name. See? I found a loophole that allows me to completely circumvent the intent of your question. It’s rude, I know, but that’s what alcohol does to a guy.

Oh, and hey… I won’t say no to a good IPA. I’ll let you know if I ever find one. ZING!

Now, that wasn’t so bad. I answered a few more questions than I’m used to, but nothing’s too good for my adoring fans. And we finally got through a question time without someone trying to pass off song lyrics as a legitimate question!

How many roads must a man walk down before you call him a man?


question time 6: leftover time

There comes a time in a man’s life, a time when he will move heaven and earth to accomplish the goal set before him. He will do what it takes, regardless of consequences, to triumph. To achieve. To win. He will punish his body. He will deny himself. He will push himself to the bleeding edge. Blinded, hungry, he will undergo trials and undertake labors. He will face his fears and he will tear down continents one spoonful at a time if that is what is required to reach the glorious end of the race, the top of the mountain, the far side of the sea.

And then there comes a time when a man is just straight-up out of any original ideas and is thus reduced to digging up old questions he never got around to answering for whatever reason.


I really would like to know. How different would the world and our society be if we were strictly nocturnal?

A few brief glimpses into this grim nightmare world that Rick has summoned forth with the power of his imagination:

  • Sociopathic little children can still use magnifying glasses to incinerate ants, it just takes a really long time
  • Ray-Ban? Out of business, since no one wears sunglasses at night, NO ONE … why, the very notion is madness
  • Unencumbered by a pop music career, Prime Minister Corey Hart ushers in a period of unprecedented worldwide peace and prosperity (the so-called “Pax Canadiana”)
  • Neil Armstrong is the first man on the sun, uttering the historic line “That’s one smaAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGHHHHHHH”
  • Bears can talk for some reason, don’t ask me, I’m not a scientist
  • Overweight, unemployable gamers spend all night eating Cheetos, drinking Mountain Dew, and hurling racial epithets into headset mics, then sleep all day … so I guess some things would be the same
  • American GDP hits historic lows without the rising tide created by the economically critical parasol industry
  • The Beatles’ hit song from 1969: “There Goes the Sun”

What was the mystical origination of the title, “Precio del Baño”?

Come with me, won’t you, to the acid-washed and neon-saturated days of the late 1980s. If you think I’m tiresome and immature now, just thank your lucky stars you didn’t know me in high school. And while the scoundrels that I associated myself with were intelligent, award-winning honor students… Look, you know the old joke about pizza and sex? About how even when they’re bad, they’re still pretty good? Well, when it comes to 16-year-old boys, even when they’re smart, they’re still pretty dumb. The only thing dumber would be putting us all together in a Spanish class, because doofuses (doofi?) like us would ruin the educational experience for everyone else by finding humor–or creating it!–in the most ridiculous places. For example, for whatever reason we latched onto baño (the Spanish word for “bathroom”) as the absolute most hilarious word ever to emerge from the Iberian peninsula. (Who knows why? I have a teenaged son, and despite having actually been one of those things for up to nine years of my life, I understand—generously–maybe a third of what comes out of his mouth.)

Anyway, baño. Hilarious. We’d somehow shoehorn baño into every answer on our worksheets. We sang songs with baño smashed into the lyrics (to the tune of Morris Albert’s “Feelings,” which could not be more 70s if it were clad in velour and drenched in Hai Karate). And most importantly, we appended that jocular toilet term to the one member of the group too weak of mind and body to effectively protest. That’s right, me. They called me “Precio del Baño.”

“Price of the Bathroom.”

Literally, “how much the restroom costs.” They called me “Precio” because it’s the actual word for “price,” AKA the monetary amount you have to pay if you want to purchase a thing.

Here’s the thing: no one in any Spanish-speaking country is named “Precio,” because “Price” is not a name in Spanish. It’s not really a name in English! It is a noun, though, so I guess I got that going for me, which is nice. So is “Horn,” now that I think of it. “S” … well, not so much. Though on the Periodic Table of the Elements, S is the symbol for sulfur, which, given my predilection for beef, onions, and cabbage… hey, you do the stink math.

Who ooo ooo… notes (Pop) notes2 Who wrote the book of looooove? notes2

The Book of Love is a 2010 novel by Kathleen McGowan. It’s one of those books about how Jesus married Mary Magdalene and had Messiah Babies and the how The Church is totally covering it up, man. You can find similar subject matter in Dan Brown’s The DaVinci Code, in Michael Baigent’s Holy Blood Holy Grail, and in that pile of urine-stained notebooks they found in that serial killer’s crawl space.

But most importantly, I have to figure out how you put those little music notes in your question, which you posted on Facebook. HOW DO YOU EVEN MAKE THOSE THINGS. What keys do you push? Is it <Ctrl>+<Alt>+<F8>+<~>+<that weird key on the right side of the keyboard that looks like a vertical dotted line or maybe a tall colon but when you type it on the screen it just looks like a line>? This is how I know I am old: it’s not the crows’ feet around the eyes, it’s not the grey hair at my temples, it’s not the aching joints or the overwhelming drive to eat dinner at 4:15 and be asleep in bed before sundown. It’s that I just do not understand how to make all those weird little emoticon symbols that the young people are always posting to Twitter and whatnot. I’m just going to assume it’s something you have to buy from Facebook. That’s how they get you! They suck you in with the promise of vacation photos from people you hated in high school, and then once you’re hooked, they make you pay for the ability to post tiny renditions of mailboxes and scissors and floppy disks and other things I kind of remember from that clip art CD I bought in 1995. That’s the Facebook business model in a nutshell, people!

I’m onto you, Zuckerberg.

Oh, and one last thing: You people have got to stop sending me song lyrics masquerading as questions.

Have you ever had to make up your mind?

Please kill me.

question time 5: question harder

Why is the growing and delivery of a human infant the sole responsibility of the female gender?

Because making it the man’s responsibility would be reproductive malpractice. First of all, where would we even put the kid? At least the ladies have a built-in expandable storage compartment; we gents only have room in our guts for beer, assorted cured meats, and the post-digestion/pre-evacuation processed remains of those items. Second, how would the kid even get out? Ain’t no way it’s leaving the way its wee sperm-daddy left. And third, did you see Junior? That movie was stupid.

Look, I get it. It really isn’t fair. You ladies have to contend with grossly distended bellies and what I can only assume is the profoundly disturbing sensation of a tiny, moving person taking up residence amongst your innards, nailing your bladder with violent roundhouse kicks and wetting their beaks, mafioso-style, by skimming a not-insignificant percentage of your precious food and oxygen. Hey, what gives? You need those things to live! You give up 40 months of your life, and then hours and hours of painful bearing down, and all it cost us was 45 seconds of sweaty grunting. Minute-and-a-half, max.

So yeah, it sucks. I am not unsympathetic to the predicament of the ladies and also the dude seahorses. But what am I supposed to do about it? All I can promise is to never again impregnate a woman. Then again, that’s not a difficult promise to make, because if you’ve seen this mug, you know that it’s not like I’m going to have that many opportunities.

Why do people have to be ignorant?

People don’t have to be ignorant; they choose to be. Which means that when you read someone’s incoherent, typo-ridden, all-caps screed in a Facebook comment thread about Trump or Hillary or guns or your mother’s BMI, you can’t just dismiss it with a “aw, heck, they don’t know any better” or a “that’s just how they were raised.” Keep this in mind:

  • Modern browsers have spell-check built-in.
  • CAPS LOCK is easy to disable.
  • There are innumerable reputable sources, easily Google-able, that can factually and objectively refute every point the commenter is making.

That ignorant fella (and let’s be honest: while both sexes are guilty of online jerkwaddery, whenever you see a ranty, spittle-flecked anger-comment, it’s almost always a guy) who typed that balderdash chose to ignore those things in favor of a bunch of clichés that someone else said first and said better but that are still stupid and wrong.

On the other hand, there’s a reason ignorance is so often prefaced with “blissful.” I, for one, would give a pretty penny to completely erase the current presidential election from my brain. And before you ask: yes, that penny is still worth only one cent, but it is very pretty.

Who put the bop in the bop-de-bop-de-bop? Who put the ram in the ram-a-lama-ding-dong?

Hit song lyrics are reflections of their times. For example, historians will long remember the first decade of the 21st century as a time when people hid in closets, enjoyed kissing girls, and put rings on things they liked. Given that indisputable fact, you have got to wonder just what madness was afoot in the 1950s. I can only assume that the water supply was laced with powerful hallucinogens that erased language and driving skills on a massive scale, because songs in the 50s covered exactly two subjects:

  • Nonsensical gibberish
  • Teenagers dying in horrific traffic accidents

I imagine malt shops were involved somehow? In any case, I too am curious about the man who placed those small units of gobbledygook within those longer phrases of gobbledygook. I’d shake his hand, I would! But I’m sure he is long since dead, probably a victim of ill-advised late ’60s American adventurism in southeast Asia. Yep, I took your playful query and turned it into a downer about Vietnam. S. Price Horn: turning whimsy to grim-sy since 1971.


I actually get this question six or seven times a week from one of my kids. They’ll typically be wandering about the house, eyes on phones instead of on the path in front of them, they hear adult noises (long sighs, soft sobbing, sorrows being drowned in ethanol, etc.), and they ask “Mom? Can I…” or “Mom? What is…” or “Mom? Why did…” And then they look up, and they see it’s me, and they mutter a half-hearted “never mind” and go off in search of their mother, generally to ask a question that I could easily answer. They’d sooner ask their mom what’s for dinner than ask the guy who is standing at the stove cooking it. But that would require talking to Dad. Interacting with Dad. Relying on the expertise of Dad. And when that father figure is me, I’m not going to second-guess their decision to lean on Mom for answers. And now that I think of it, whenever they do inadvertently ask me something, I usually end up telling them to go ask their mother. I get to pass the buck, I get left alone, and for once, the kids do what I ask. That’s not poor parenting, friends: that’s victory.

question time 4: son of question time

What does that have to do with the price of milk?
– Anne

The Tenant Housing Association of Toronto (THAT) concerns itself with the rights of renters under the Landlord and Tenant Act and the Residential Tenancies Act both in Toronto and throughout the Canadian province of Ontario. It has little to no control over the price of milk, and if you don’t mind me saying, it is frankly a little odd that you would connect the two. Get help.

Why is the sky blue?
– Carmen

Something about molecules scattering light? What am I, Captain Science? Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t mind being called “Captain Science.” As far as nicknames go, that one is a winner. Much better than the nicknames I usually get called nowadays:

  • Señor Poopyshorts
  • Ol’ Hairless Shins
  • The [expletive deleted] [even worse expletive deleted]
  • Beer-hack Obummer
  • Skip

And those are just the ones my parents use.

When is New Calendar Page Day again?
– Mandy

This… this needs a little background. First of all, you should know that I am into calendars. No, seriously, I am way into calendars. Picture that one thing you love more than anything else in your life: God, family, country, sleep, gravy, porn… I love calendars more than you love all those things put together. Every year during the week between Christmas and New Year, I descend upon calendar stores and bookstores to buy up as many calendars as possible while they’re 50 percent off and there are still good ones to be found. I plaster those calendars all over my cubicle at work, covering every available square inch of that dreary space (and in the process rendering my whiteboard unusable, which has the upside of never having to suffer through anyone at my desk trying to explain something using a scribbled flowchart). Don’t ask why. I mean, I could say that it’s like a “Mini-Poster of the Month Club” or something lame like that, but really, there’s no logical explanation that would make a lick of sense. This is S. Price Horn we’re talking about here. When have I ever made sense? Just accept that I really like calendars, and leave it at that.

The upshot of it is, on the first day of every month I have to spend half the morning turning calendar pages, and I am, no joke, genuinely really excited about it. And on the first day of every month–every single month–if you follow me on Twitter or are friends with me on Facebook, you will see something like this:

Like clockwork, if the clock was built by a clockmaker with profound mental disabilities.
Like clockwork, if the clockmaker had profound mental disabilities.

It’s become my thing. When I die, no one will remember what kind of father I was, or that I ran a bunch of races, or that I had a hand in a number of high-profile political assassinations in Latin America. But as long as there are calendars you can tack up on the wall… on the first day of the month, when they have to turn over a new page on their pitifully small number of calendars, they will remember New Calendar Page Day. And they will remember me. Sure, it’s one of the dumbest possible things to be remembered for, but hey! Given the alternative–being completely forgotten as though I never existed–I’ll take it.

In The Dark Knight Rises, how did Bruce Wayne get from the prison to Gotham?
– Joe

Bruce Wayne keeps a secret stash of Batplanes in strategic locations on every continent, in the event he finds himself stranded nearby. Batman is a planner, Joe. He thinks ahead. The old cliché in the DC Comics universe is that given enough time to prepare, Batman could defeat anyone. Anyone. They’re all playing checkers and he’s not only playing that weird 3-D Star Trek chess, he’s already figured out how to checkmate Spock in less than one move (hint: like everything Batman does, it involves punching).

Then again, you could just as easily say that he jumped back to Gotham in a single bound. Why not? Anyone who can heal a broken back with a combination of pushups and the sheer force of will can do just about anything.

What is that song in the background of NCIS, season 1, episode 15, you know, the one with Terry O’Quinn?
– Stacey

If it wasn’t a synthesizer-inflected instrumental theme by Mike Post and/or Pete Carpenter, then it was garbage and I can’t be bothered to care.

NCIS is one of those shows that is apparently wildly popular–it has literally hundreds of episodes and even a couple of spin-offs, it’s on pretty much 24 hours a day on some channel somewhere–and yet I know next to nothing about it. I’ve never watched a full episode, though I’ve seen enough snippets here and there (my in-laws watch the show religiously) to learn a few things about it, chiefly that it is a crime procedural on CBS featuring a bunch of bland, forgettable actors. (Yeah, I know… doesn’t exactly narrow it down.) I also know this:

  • There is a lady on there who is like a 75-year-old shut-in’s fuzzy notion of what a “goth” is
  • It is very well lit
  • They are all in the Navy or something, I guess, but bizarrely no one wears jaunty sailor caps
  • I think this is the one with the guy from Dharma and Greg?
  • Wait, I think that is a different crime procedural on CBS featuring a bunch of bland, forgettable actors

So yeah… NCIS. It is a show that people watch. A lot of people, I guess. I’m just not one of them.

Which came first, the chicken or the egg?
– Andrew

Some people will give you a bunch of noise about proto-chickens and proto-eggs that through the process of evolutionary mutation created the first real egg with the first real chicken. But all I think about when someone poses this old chestnut is a blurry bit of musical pointlessness from 70s-era Sesame Street. (It really gets jumpin’ about 26 seconds in.)

Admittedly, it’s no physics-defying, psychedelic pinball game that teaches you to count to 12, but it’s stupid and catchy and good luck getting it out of your head anytime anyone ever mentions chickens. Or eggs.

What Pokémon have you caught?

DO NOT EVEN GET ME STARTED ON THIS. I have never caught a Pokémon and I have never quite understood how the whole thing is supposed to work. But my son. Oh, mercy. My son has obsessively played some form of Pokémon card game or videogame since he was like five years old. I assumed he would grow out of it at some point, but he is about to head to college in less than a month and for God’s sake he is still way into this thing. And so this new augmented reality Pokémon Go game is just feeding his obsession. It is not helping. (And now he’s getting my daughter hooked on it. SO MUCH FOR GRANDKIDS.) Of course, in a world where the news is top-to-bottom terrorism and racial unrest and hate and unchecked greed and ecological ruin and the whole freaking world on fire, I guess there are worse things than millions of socially maladjusted gaming obsessives wandering around museums and public parks looking for pretend Wikkywok cocoons or whatever.

Then again, we have the most advanced computers in history at our fingertips, and we’re using them to stage fights between imaginary Japanese cartoon gremlins.

The future sucks.