To whom it may concern, cheer, disappoint, or vindicate:

Sorry for the late notice (after a week of silence), but I'm afraid Dial 'M' for Moron will be going on hiatus for a bit.

Or has already gone on hiatus. Except for this post, which doesn't count as breaking the hiatus. Unless it does count, in which case, a new hiatus will be starting just as soon as I've dug myself out of the hiatus hole I seem to be digging here.

(And if you tell anyone I'm 'digging in his hiatus hole', I'll flatly deny it. My mother might read this someday, you know.)

At any rate, the updates here will be on 'Pause' for a bit, but we'll hopefully be back to 'Play', or 'Fast Forward', or 'Sleep' or whatever speed we were careening at before. In the meantime, please feel free to browse through the archives -- the 200+ posts over the past year and a half or so should keep you busy for a while.

And if that doesn't slake your burning thirst for nonsense, you can drop by my other online effort, Where the Hell Was I? [LINK]

(Also on hiatus, I'm afraid. But chock full of drivel, and even more impressive. In volume only, of course. The words themselves are just as ridiculous, and often made up. Just the way I likes 'em.)

I hope to be back soon, and wish you a fond au revoir in my absence. For now, it's back to my 'hiatus cave' -- lord, that doesn't sound any less alarming at all -- to sort my life back into order. Thanks for reading; I'll see you in a bit. Cheers.

I was reminded today of my two favorite benefits of performing standup comedy -- it keeps you on your toes, and provides lots of practice for saying ridiculous things to strangers while keeping a straight face.

(Given that I vanishingly rarely performed for cash, and that I'm still on my self-imposed hiatus, those also happen to be the only benefits I've received from performing standup comedy.

Unless you count a scarred psyche and a swollen liver. To me, those are more 'byproducts' than 'benefits'. When you take money out of the equation, it's all semantics, right?)

"To suggest that my basket was 'full' would be like saying Courtney Love is 'a little high-strung'."

I remembered the lessons that standup has taught me while in the liquor store today, loading up on alcohol for our barbecue tomorrow. When my grabby booze frenzy had finally ended, I was left pushing a shopping cart with four full cases of beer, an oversized bottle of tequila, and various mixers. I could barely fit it all in the cart, frankly. To suggest that my basket was 'full' would be like saying Courtney Love is 'a little high-strung'. Dig it.

As I muscled my cart toward the register, a demure older lady -- in her fifties, maybe -- walked past me toward the aisles of red wines. She glanced at my cart and gave me a knowing but wary look. In an instant, she'd clearly sized me up and didn't much approve, but decided that 'boys will be boys' and 'at least he looks like he's not from our neighborhood'. As she passed, she suppressed a cluck and said:

'Hrm. Having a party, I suppose?'

To which I immediately responded:

'Nope. Boy Scout Jamboree.'

And kept right on walking to the register. Standup taught me that -- always be ready, and never look back. But she was clearly scandalized. Her footsteps stopped, and I could imagine the gape creeping over her face. Why, the nerve of me! I'm surprised she didn't huff out to the parking lot, just to tell me, 'I never!'

Anyway, it was a bit of pre-party fun. Tomorrow's the big day; at this very moment, there are beer brats soaking and bits of dead chickens marinating in my refrigerator. I won't tell you which parts of the chicken, exactly, or precisely what they're marinating in, but I can assure you -- they'll be delicious.

If I don't see you, you have yourselves a spiffy weekend, would you? Come to our BBQ, or find another one, or get outside and do something else. Maybe a Scout Jamboree -- I hear they make the best margaritas.

At least, that's how this Jamboree's going down. Happy July, folks.

Scene: A local marginally fancy Italian restaurant. I'm sitting alone at the bar, drinking a glass of red wine and waiting for my wife. A woman in her thirties is standing near the door, alone. Three sips into my shiraz, she walks over to me.

All of that really happened. The rest, below -- only in my head. Welcome to my delusions.

Woman: Um... hi. Are you Charlie?
Me: Uh, yeah. I'm Charlie.
Woman: Oh, hi! I'm Denise! It's good to finally meet you!
Me: Well... um, yeah. Hi there.
Woman: So -- wow, this is awkward, huh?
Me: Er, yeah. Actually, it is, sort of. I think you might be --
Woman: You know, I didn't expect you to be so tall. That's nice. I like tall men.
Me: Yes, but -- really? Tall guys, eh? Well... thanks. But I don't think --
Woman: You know, you've still got a lot of hair for a forty-eight year old. Not in great shape, though. And really, you wore that shirt? Please.
Me: Now, look -- first of all, I'm not forty-eight. And -- wait, what's wrong with this shirt? I like this shirt.
Woman: Well, there's no accounting for taste. It's okay, it's okay -- I don't mind taking on a 'project guy'. You'd better be packing heat in those jeans, though. Now lemme taste that wine.
Me: What the -- 'project guy'? Hold on, there -- I am a catch, dammit. Honey, you are lucky to be here with me, And if you want to see what's in these pants, then you'd better --
Woman: Wait. What is that on your finger? A wedding ring? Oh, you bastard. The dating service is supposed to screen you people out. And all those emails we sent? The cybersex -- the cybersex?! You were typing with that hand the whole time? Or... or worse! Ew! Dammit! I am out of here. Asshole!
Me: Wait, you don't understand -- I'm not Charlie. I mean, I am Charlie, but not that Charlie, whoever he is. It's all a mistake -- come back. We've never even had cybersex, and... oh. Hi, honey. Boy, you got here quick. Light traffic tonight, eh? Heh. Super.
Wife: Yeah, hi. You're an idiot. Now buy me dinner.
Me: Yes, dear. Say, by the way -- what do you think of this shirt?

So, yeah -- that never happened. Actually, the girl came over and asked if I was 'Frank'. But I wonder what would've happened if her blind date had been with a 'Charlie'. Or if I'd been thinking quickly enough to pretend I was 'Frank'. I think I'd be a lot happier if I could just let shit like this go. Super.

A few weeks ago, I began my sad, sorry quest for a pretty, shiny fast laptop. A new toy. A friend. One CPU to rule them all.

That was mid-May. It's now July. I still don't have a laptop.

I have, however, escaped from the crushing grip of 'paralysis by analysis' -- where our motto is, 'But they all look the same, and none of them are perfect!', also endorsed by used car buyers and picky Jewish mother-in-laws-to-be the world over.

From there, I've moved on to the next circle of computer-buying hell, which involves seeing the machines in person. I've seen all the specs, I've compared and contrasted, and I've pored over spec sheets until my eyes are red and weepy. And in the end, they do all look the same, and not one of them is ideal for me. The next logical step is to spend some quality time running my fingers over their cases and dabbling in their configurations a bit.

(This is why the majority of arranged marriages and mail-order brides don't work out so well. How can you possibly choose a compatible life partner without mucking with their drivers or fiddling with their trackball first? Personally, I wouldn't even consider dating a girl, if she wouldn't let me get elbow-deep in her .ini files. I guess I'm just old-fashioned that way.)

Of course, seeing the machines is not the problem. The rub here is that the computers are, for the most part, displayed in computer stores. Which means that they're chaperoned, rather aggressively, by that most unpleasant of creatures, the computer salesperson. Now, I'm sure that genuinely friendly, well-groomed, polite, and knowledgeable computer salespeople exist, somewhere in the world. Somewhere out there, leprechauns and unicorns and happy little elves are getting wonderful service from these salespeople. They answer the most obscure and technical questions with ease, they never pressure customers into expensive warranty plans, and they all smell faintly of cinnamon and lilac and grandma's famous peach crumble.

Yeah, right. And I get Bluetooth reception with my ass.

Meanwhile, here in the real world, the goal is to get rid of these sweat-stained mongoloid trolls as quickly as possible, in order to get a look at the machines on display. It's their job, of course, to glom onto customers like leisure-suited leeches, sucking and slurping their way over to the most overwrought, ill-conceived, and uber-expensive models available.

'What's that, granny? You need a laptop to send emails? Well, you'll be wanting our TechMaster 9000, then! It's seven times faster than anything on the market, with nine video cards, a thirty-three inch LCD screen, an internal phone/fax/printer/espresso machine, and dongles for technology we don't wven know about yet! Yep, that's the only machine in the whole store that'll handle this 'e-mail' you speak of.'

Chumps. In the past, I'd simply growl at the staff who'd come bouncing over to 'help' me in the computer aisles. That would scare most of them off, but there were unfortunate side effects to the strategy. A few of them would stick around, and snark back. If I growled too menacingly, I might be escorted from the store before I'd seen what I needed to see. One older salesman was apparently turned on by the growling. And I'd often frighten small children in the adjoining video games section. So that's three 'bad' side effects, and one 'good' one. Not a great trade-off.

More recently, I've decided to have a bit of fun. They're there to answer questions, right? And they're slinking over, presumably to offer assistance and technical know-how. So why not put them to the test? Nowadays, I cheerfully greet the lonely, empty souls coming over to sell me hardware I don't need, and immediately lay into them with technical questions and jargon. I've been reading up on this stuff for just a few weeks; you'd presume they'd know more about their own merchandise than me, right? Wrong. More than your average adult orangutan? No. More than a breadbox? Sorry. More than an amoeba? *bzzzzzzt!!*

Of course, asking tough questions will get rid of the first salesmonkey. But soon enough, he'll be back, chittering away and flinging poo with another, more senior store simian. Stump that one, and they'll pass you right up the chain, until finally, if the manager can't comprehend the laptop lingo you're laying down, they'll leave you in peace to evaluate your options. They'll hide behind hard drive boxes and stare at you while you browse, cowering and scampering away if you move in their direction. One intelligent question about 64-bit architecture or FireWire compatibility, and you become their god.

(That's not a particularly useful group to be deified by, but they can sometimes be trained. The brighter ones can fetch you coffee, or act as a handy doorstop. You can dump the rest in a sack with some packing peanuts, next time you need a beanbag chair.)

I used my strategy on a recent trip to a local computer 'superstore', with predictable results:

Sales Weenie #1: Hi there! You look like you're shopping for a notebook!
Me: Well... sure. Why not?
Sales Weenie #1: Great! You need our TechMaster 9000! It's got all the latest technology, with lots of-
Me: Say, I've got a question.
Sales Weenie #1: Great! How can I help you choose our TechMaster 9000?
Me: Does it come configured with a Core Duo T2500?
Sales Weenie #1: Well, sure it does!
Me: It does, what?
Sales Weenie #1: Come... um, configured.
Me: With a what?
Sales Weenie #1: An, ah, the thing you said. That one.
Me: And what was it I said?
Sales Weenie #1: < blank stare >
Me: Hmmmm?
Sales Weenie #1: < blink blink >
Me: I can wait all night, you know.
Sales Weenie #1: I'd better get my supervisor. Wait right here.

Sales Weenie #2: Hello, sir. I apologize for Lance; he's training with us. Just started last week. Now how may I help you today?
Me: I was asking whether your TechMaster comes with a T2500.
Sales Weenie #2: I see. A tee...?
Me: Tee. Twenty-five hundred.
Sales Weenie #2: Tee. Twen...? Is that, like, a mousepad?
Me: Um, no. It's a CPU model.
Sales Weenie #2: Cee...?
Me: Cee. Pee. You. The processor?
Sales Weenie #2: < empty gape >
Me: In the computer. The central processor?
Sales Weenie #2: < brow furrowing >
Me: The little metal thing that makes magic electric box go vroom?
Sales Weenie #2: Uh-huh. Maybe you should talk to the manager. I'll be right back.

Sales Weenie #3: Hi, I'm the manager on duty. What can I do for you, sir?
Me: Well, I just wanted to know whether this machine comes with a T2500.
Sales Weenie #3: Well, yes sir. I do believe I read once that it does. Now I'm sure Marty here can answer all of your other--
Me: What's the L2 cache like on that processor?
Sales Weenie #3: Uh-wha?
Me: The L2 cache. I heard it might be larger on the 2500 model. What's the size, again?
Sales Weenie #3: Well... um, it couldn't be any bigger than, I don't know, a thumbnail, I guess. The machine's not that big, really.
Me: Riiiiiiight. Except that the cache is usually measured in megabytes.
Sales Weenie #3: Mega-who, now?
Me: Mega. Bytes.
Sales Weenie #3: Um...
Me: The size in megabytes. Of the L2 cache, please.
Sales Weenie #3: Errrk...
Me: For the T2500 Core Duo processor.
Sales Weenie #3: Nggghhhh...
Me: With the 667MHz bus speed and 2.0 GHz core speed, and-
Sales Weenie #3: GAAAAAHHH!!! He's a witch! A witch!! Run away! Everybody run awayyyy!!

That's all it takes. I spent the next twenty minutes fiddling in peace with the other computers, until I had the info I wanted. And for the record, the TechMaster 9000 does not come with a T2500. Or any other processor, as far as I can tell. It's just a cardboard box with a keyboard painted on the bottom and aluminum foil for a screen. Don't get sucked in by those bastards. They're out to take your grandma's money, and she'll never get that email sent. But at least her 'laptop' will run nice and cool. And quiet, too. Just don't forget that twelve-year extended warranty. Can't do without that, eh?

I've been thinking lately about names. Namely, my name.

Overall, I've had fairly good luck with my name. 'Charlie' is just the right balance between 'too common' and 'off the wall'. Any old Tom, Dick and Harry can be a... well, a 'Tom', 'Dick', or 'Harry'.

(Although honestly, you don't really see too many 'Dicks' or 'Harrys' any more. And certainly no 'Harry Dicks'. Parents these days have some shred of concern for their children. Until they start siphoning tuition money out of mom and pop's retirement fund, anyway.)

It's nice, though, not being a 'John' or 'Mike' or 'Joe'. No offense to guys with those names, of course. Especially because there are roughly nine hundred million of them, and only one of me. I'm just saying -- I'm glad my parents had just a teensy bit of creativity when they were dishing out the old nomenclature. There's something to be said for standing out from the crowd a bit.

(On the other hand, they went a little overboard with my middle name, as I've explained elsewhere. Hey, I said they were 'creative'. I never said they were 'perfect'. That's why we get three names, folks. Everybody needs a do-over.)

Of course, you don't want to stand so far out from the crowd that everyone thinks your name farted or something. So I'm also happy to not have a really unusual name. Hell, in some ways, 'Charlie' is odd enough, thanks to that goddamned cartoon tuna fish. Man, I've never wanted a shark to savagely maim another sea creature so badly in my life. Except maybe Moby Dick. Or whoever put together that clamshell bikini for the Little Mermaid. Different story. We'll talk later.

But I don't have a truly weird name, like Periwinkle or Ezekiel or Juaniquicito. So that's something. I'd rather deal with the occasional -- aw, hell, who am I kidding; constant -- 'Sorry, Charlie!', instead of a lifetime of 'Hippie parents, eh?' Or 'Man, your folks were really into the Bible!' Or 'So... what, are you, Albanian? Venezuelan? Canadian, what?'

Plus, 'Charlie' is pretty neutral, as name karma goes. I've always thought that a person's name can help to push them in certain directions. There are an awful lot of hot 'Heather's, for instance. I'm guessing -- not that I've researched it -- that 'Beulah', or maybe 'Edwina', don't have quite the reputation for beauty. Likewise, I've always seemed to get along with 'Jennifer's, met several stand-up and dependable 'Ken's, and never quite known what to do with 'Bob's. I'm not saying that a name can completely predispose you to a certain look or personality. Unless your name is 'Bambi', or 'Estonia', or 'Trixxi', with smiley-face hearts over the 'i's. 'Cause then? You're a stripper. And that's hot. Parents, take note.

Last names are important, too, of course. Like mine, for instance -- the Name-That-Shall-Not-Be-Mentioned-Here. Sure, some of you know it. Others of you could find it, if you wanted. But I'm not going to mention it. And there's no need -- it's in that same sweet spot as Charlie: not too common, but not too weird. Like waffles for dinner. Or a mango-flavored jelly bean. Or sex on the dinner table. That sort of thing.

And that's good. Because any old Thomson, Dickerson, or Harrison can be a... well, you know. And if there's anything worse than being a 'Harry Dick Thomson', then it's a 'Tom Harry Dickerson'.

(And you know there are a couple out there. One day, far in the future, one of them will Google their name and see this post. And then, the day after, they'll come here with a baseball bat and nipple tweezers and beat the shit out of me. See how I suffer for my art for you people?)

Of course, the worst thing about a too-common last name is that you could end up marrying someone -- quite unrelated -- with the same name. And ladies, you never want to have this conversation at your local insurance office:

Bored Insurance Agent: Name, please.
You: Mary Johnson.
Bored Insurance Agent: Husband's name.
You: Joe Johnson.
Bored Insurance Agent: Your maiden name.
You: Um... Johnson.
Bored, Slightly Annoyed Insurance Agent: No, ma'am. Your maiden name.
You: That... that is my maiden name. I've always been a Johnson.
Suddenly Intrigued Insurance Agent: I see. Gets a little wild at the Johnson family outings, does it?
You: No -- no! We're not related. I mean, we weren't related, before we got married.
Vaguely Nauseous Insurance Agent: No... no, it's okay. If you can't keep it in your pants, keep it in the family, I suppose. We'll just sign you up for our 'kissing cousins' policy rate. Just sign here... if you know how.

So, there's a bullet dodged. And I'm already married, so as long as my wife doesn't ditch me -- and so long as that smoking hot second cousin I met at the reunion a few years ago doesn't show up -- then I'm in the clear. Lucky me.

Meanwhile, I'm not a Kryzywe... a Kryzhyw... a Shusheff... you know. That Duke basketball guy, the one who always looks a little constipated. Nobody can spell that guy's name. Same with... well, same with lots of other people whose names I can't spell. Honestly, some of those names look like somebody sat on the keyboard. What kind of name has nine consonants in a row, with a silent 'r'? Kooky.

The worst I get is an 'o' in my name that constantly gets morphed into an 'e'. But, you know -- so what? With most peoples' handwriting, who can tell, anyway? I've learned to stop worrying about such silly things. And hey -- when all the people whose names I've made fun of above come to find me, I can always pretend it's an 'e'. Maybe I'll convince Dick Dickerson he's in the wrong place, even. If I can stop snickering long enough, anyway. 'Dickerson'. Heh.