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.

You know, I always knew my life would turn into a glamorous TV show. I just never thought it'd be some shit from the Home and Garden network.

See, the wife and I are having some work done on the old plumbing.

(No, that's not an uncomfortably personal euphemism. We're really having work done. On our plumbing. In our house. Our old house. See? Old plumbing. It ain't kinky. Keep yer pants on, dammit.)

Anyway, just like one of those real-life home improvement shows, we signed up to have some work done on the bathroom. New toilet, new sink... we're even having some pipe laid downstairs.

(Look, I told you -- it's not a euphemism. It's actual pipe. Really being laid.

Not, uh, in the euphemistic way, though.

Oh, don't give me that look. Perv.)

So. We find a contractor, and he's got himself a plumber, and some carpenters, and some electrical dude or other, and a plasterer, and... oh, it's like the frigging SuperFriends. One of 'em talks to the animals, and another one can shoot fire from the six inches of asscrack hanging out of his pants. But my very favorite is the one who apparently has the power to turn invisible when I want to know when the whole stinking lot of 'em is gonna be the hell back out of my house. Our 'two-week' job is now entering week six, and there's a whole laundry list of shit left to do -- staining, painting, fixtures to be installed... I think I might even have a drippy faucet.

(Look, for the last time, it's really the faucet. Not the 'faucet'.

At least, I hope that's what I mean -- my wife said she's gonna have one of the contractors take a wrench to the thing. Eep.)

Plus, just like in every damned one of those home design shows on TV, we're over budget. All we're missing is a smarmy host, with fake hair and bleached teeth, to wander through our bathroom with a camera crew, pointing at joists and chuckling over the sconces. Assuming we have sconces. I don't even know what the hell 'sconces' are. I tried to ask one of the contractor guys, but he said it'd cost me fifty bucks. Bastards.

As far as I can tell, though, things are starting to wind down. It looks like the heavy lifting has been done -- that would be whoever picked up the cash hoisting it into his wallet, of course. But I think they've put the saws and tools away, and are down to the 'soft' stuff. The easy stuff. Yea -- dare I say it? -- the quick stuff. We might just have the house back to ourselves by autumn, after all. Call it our 'fall sweeps'. *sigh*

I like to think I'm a pretty 'upbeat' sort of guy at work. Certainly, there are annoyances at my office -- not to mention complications, technical difficulties, seemingly endless meetings, sudden emergencies, unexpected problems, and a urinal handle that won't flush unless you jiggle it just right -- but I try not to let it get to me. I try to be positive. Cheerful. And mostly, in denial of the shit-tsunami that's usually surging it's way down the hall towards me.

Listening to music in the car on the way to work helps. If I'm in a determined sort of mood, I might play some driving techno stuff -- Chemical Brothers, maybe, or the Propellerheads. If I need a pick-me-up, then maybe it's edgy rock, like Smashing Pumpkins or Foo Fighters. And if I'm feeling a little down or tired, I'll pop in something jangly I can sing along with -- Blind Melon is good for that; so is Dave Matthews. And, as I was crooning along with today, so are the Refreshments.

(Yes, I was singing in my car. Yes, often at the top of my lungs. And yes, I'm a sappy damned douchebag. But that's not the point this time. Today, we're laughing at me for another dumbass thing. Do try and keep up.)

So, I made it to work. The last song I was howling along to was 'Mexico', off the Fizzy Fuzzy Big & Buzzy CD. Cool tunes, catchy hooks, nearly-naked cartoon chick on the cover. Good times.

So the lyrics were still running through my head when I made it into the building, and to my first meeting of the day.

At this point, I should probably mention that I'm one of those people who'll suddenly -- though in my case fairly quietly, due to my off-key warble -- break into song, with no obvious provocation. I'm pretty sure I picked it up from my dad -- he's got this weird, and apparently contagious, habit of singing about what he's doing, or what someone just said to him. I don't know where the hell he got it from, but he's passed the insanity down to me, and now I'm stuck with it. So I sometimes have 'conversations' like this:

Wife: 'Honey, can you take out the trash?'

Me: 'Takin' out the trrrrrash.... Ooh, I'm a-takin' out the trash... Yes, it's -- Gar-bage Day! Ooh, baby, Gar-bage Day! Hey hey!'

Wife: 'You're an idiot, you know that?'

And then, while I'm carrying the garbage out, she locks me out of the house. Yes, the lady's quite the kidder. Ha mo-fucking ha.

Anyway, there's that. There's also the whole 'humming a song in my head and then realizing that I'm actually singing it, out loud, with other humans within hearing distance' thing, which -- believe it or not -- can be even worse.

Which gets us back to this morning. Let's recap -- Mexico running through my head. Me in a good mood. And an hour-long meeting with bosses and co-workers and such just about to get under way. I've just skipped into the conference room and found a seat, while people pile in around me. I'm singing to myself, in my head, until I get to the bit just before the chorus, when I absentmindedly let a couple of bars slip out. In case you're not familiar with the song in question (and here are the lyrics [link], in case you want to play along at home), here's what the folks in my immediate vicinity heard:

'*hum* *hum* *hum-a-hum-a-hum*...

Got off in the wrong direction --
Found a hooker and lost my erection,
So I had to lie, in the letter...'

I think it was right around 'I had to lie' that I noticed the people staring at me. It took a couple of more words in the verse to put two and two together -- I'd just launched into song at the worst possible point in this little ditty, and got flat busted by at least two -- no, wait, that girl over there's not looking, but her face is really red, so at least three -- oops, hold on, the guy across the table is deliberately avoiding my eyes... eh, but most people in the office end up doing that, so maybe it's just coincidence -- busted by at least three people who just heard me spontaneously spout something about a 'hooker' and 'lost my erection' in the lull before the start of the weekly group meeting. Out-fucking-standing. Oh, the wonders this will do for my rep with these people. Goody to the max.

So, that was how my morning started today. I think I recovered pretty well -- I looked around, wide-eyed, like a shaved gerbil at a K-Y convention, and then muttered, 'Aw, shit!' and pretended to study the meeting agenda in front of me. Smooth, yes? Cool like the other side of the pillow. That's right.

And now, I'm just waiting for the bullshit to start. 'Hey, Charlie, picked up any hookers lately?' Or, 'Yo, Erection Boy -- how's it hanging?' And probably, 'You know, dude, it's okay -- there are pills for people like you.'

*sigh*

The worst part is, this snarky crap will only go on until I pull the next cluetarded brainfart move, and catch hell for that, instead. And the circle of life goes on.

Meanwhile, I'm gonna start listening to NPR in the damned car. Sure, it's about as exciting as giving a teamster a Brazilian backwax... but at least there are no lyrics to lodge themselves in my brain and get me in trouble later. I can pretty well guarantee you that the words 'hooker' and 'erection' have never been uttered together in the same sentence on public radio before. Hell, maybe not even separately. Those guys have no damned fun at all. Perfect for those morning meetings. I'm sold.

Earlier this week, I went to a doctor-prescribed physical therapist to get some advice on my leg. I tore a calf muscle a few weeks ago, then did it again last weekend. It's apparently not that severe, as such things go -- the therapist told me he wasn't 'impressed' with the swelling or limping. I told him I'd try to do better next time. Then I hobbled out the door and keyed his damned car. Smartass.

(Nah, I didn't really do that. I had no idea which rusted-out Honda Civic in the parking lot was his, anyway. And I didn't have time to key them all. Not until he fixes my leg and I can run around again, at least.)

Anyway, he was a nice enough guy, so it was all right. I don't have anything against him, really -- other than the fact that he is a guy. This is physical therapy, dammit! And I'm a guy -- aren't I supposed to get some young, just-out-of-school, hair-flipping, ex-cheerleader blondie type? Not that that sort of thing would particularly do much for me, either, given the wife and all, but if somebody is gonna spend twenty minutes rubbing the back of my leg, couldn't it at least be someone I don't mind imagining in a pair of thong panties?

(And just for the record, I'm pretty sure this guy does not paint a fetching picture in one of those ass-floss gadgets. I can say that with a fair degree of certainly.

Hey, what can I tell you? My mind wandered. He was the only one in the room. There was leg rubbing. Leg rubbing! Meh.)

Anyway, after Sir Knead-A-Lot was done with my calf, he listed out a few exercises I should be doing, so I don't rip the thing again. Fine. There were some simple stretches -- good leg forward, bed leg back, and stretch the back of the leg as far as it'll go. No problem.

(Well, some problem, of course, since fully stretching that leg would feel a lot like having it filleted and split open like a jumbo shrimp tail. But still, they're pretty straightforward exercises. I can deal.)

Finally, though, the guy tells me this:

'Oh, one other thing -- it's good exercise for your calf to balance on that leg. Just whenever you have a minute or two, try standing on the bad leg for thirty seconds or so. That'll help strengthen the muscles.'

So, on to the 'doofus' part.

Now, I'm a good little patient -- even if they apparently won't hook me up with a 'naughty nurse' type, the bastards. (What the hell are my HMO co-payments for, anyway? Band-Aids? Tongue depressors? Board-certified fully-licensed physical therapy professionals?

Harrumph.)

So, I've been diligently doing my best to heal -- icing down, taking it easy, and yes, even doing my exercises. Including the circus-style balancing doohickey. And that's what got me into trouble today.

I was on my way to lunch, riding down the elevator, when I thought, 'Hey -- what better time and place to get in some good medicine, right? Let's get exercising.'

Before I go any further, you should also know that our building has the slowest goddamned elevator in the world. So, I had time to stretch one way, and then another way... do some ab crunches, a couple of pull-ups... and six or eight lopsided jumping jacks... before I remembered to try the balancing thing. So I gave it a shot, just about the time the elevator slid past the third floor.

So, picture this -- when the door opened on two, unexpectedly, because a gaggle of businessmen decided they couldn't haul their fat asses down one flight of stairs to the lobby, there I was. In the elevator. Standing on one leg, making that 'balancing face' -- you know, with the eyes all wide and googly and the tongue hanging out of the corner of the mouth. I tried to save face, as it were, but it was too late -- they caught me, doing a damned flamingo impression on the elevator like some brain-damaged douchebag. It didn't help that the car gave a little shimmy as it settled, sending me falling and flailing into the middle of the suits trying to clamber aboard. Perfect. Just friggin' perfect.

I almost got off the elevator right there, so I could wait a few minutes and then limp down the stairs after all the witnesses had safely fled the scene. But I decided to gut it out, and rode the rest of the way down with them. Hell, I even made the best of it -- once the doors closed, I hopped up on one leg again and gave them a 'Heh? Heh? You know you wanna try it' look.

Nobody went for it, of course, but I had a good time. At my own expense. Again. No love, folks; no frigging love at all. Come on, now. Ain't nobody gonna feel sorry for the crippled boy with the bum leg?