Author: The Centaur

It was easily one of the greatest windfalls I’d ever experienced. Because of some duplicate wedding gifts, my wife and I found ourselves with an $80 store credit at Costco. We could parlay this bonanza into anything in the store. Visions of CD boxed sets and bulk quantities of cereal were dancing through my head. Seriously, we had an opportunity to be literally swimming in Champion Duffle Bags. I was giddy just thinking about it.

And so, with my wife at the store, I began to clean out the pantry and make room in the bomb shelter for the bounty of items she’d be returning with. You can imagine my outrage when she arrived home with only a double pack of Sonicares. You read that correctly. My wife exchanged our entire store credit for a pair of electric toothbrushes. Straight up. Our entire windfall was gone, and she didn’t even get some magic beans in the deal.

Obviously, I would have never opted for a pair of Sonicares, as unlike jars of mayonnaise, electric toothbrushes just don’t seem like the kind of item you need to buy in bulk. But I had other reasons for resisting the urge to upgrade the technology of my toothbrush into the next millennium…

For starters, I’ve always been apprehensive about letting machines take over the menial tasks associated with human hygiene. As I see it, allowing a machine to brush my teeth simply pushes us one day closer to the day when machines completely take over everything. Think of all the doomsday scenarios explored in the movies about machines taking over the earth and enslaving mankind. Look at the “Terminator” trilogy. Look at the “Matrix” trilogy. They’re even trilogies people! The outcome is so horrendous it takes three movies to properly illustrate the horrible consequences! Granted, someday I hope to have a butler or trained monkey responsible for brushing my teeth, but I would never rely on a machine. There’s just too much at stake.

Second, my dentist has been recommending for years that I buy a Sonicare. Yeah, this guy’s not biased in any way. The more he tried to advocate them, the more I was convinced he would somehow profit greatly from me buying one. I saw right through whatever Sonicare pyramid scheme he was hooked up with, and I wasn’t about to bite…

Me: “Sonicare, huh… you’d like that wouldn’t you? I’ve read about this scam…”
Dentist: “I just think you’ll find that it does a better job of cleaning your teeth…”
Me: “What else ya got? Do you want to sell me an extended warranty on the dental work you just finished?”
Dentist: “Ok, well… I guess I’ll see you again in six months.”
Me: “Sounds good.”

Of course ultimately, I surrendered. This occurred when my wife opened the packaging of the Sonicares, rendering them un-returnable. My repeated warnings about Judgment Day, and the nuclear apocalypse that SkyNet would unleash on mankind fell on deaf ears. Tuning out my protests, she focused her attention on charging our new toothbrushes, disregarding the imminent threat of humans being harvested by machines in an alternate reality. Typical.

To be fair, while ownership of a Sonicare may well hasten the end of the human race, it may also hasten the end of plaque in my mouth. And for that reason, I’m pleased to proudly endorse the Sonicare as an item no Zillionaire should be without.

I knew it when I first held one in my hand. The contour of the handle, the low buzzing sound it emitted during operation… I soon realized that this was the closest thing to handling a lightsaber that I’ll ever experience. I found myself imagining the plaque on my teeth as an army of Stormtroopers that only a Sonicare and my knowledge of the Force could defeat. Armed with a Sonicare, I now feel that the battle against the Death Star of Gingivitis in my mouth is ultimately winnable…

Star Wars fantasies aside, the Sonicare does a pretty amazing job at pressure washing my teeth. At each brushing, my teeth receive a dentist-quality cleaning without the awkwardness of having to lie about how often I floss or making small talk about the Mariners.

And finally, my apologies to Dave, who has owned a Sonicare for a few years now. You can only imagine the juvenile comments Dave had to endure whenever he’d stick this elongated, vibrating device into his mouth. And believe me, this never got old, mainly because DA was incapable of defending himself with the Sonicare in his mouth. He’d have to wait for the two-minute brushing cycle to end before he could offer a clever retort, and by then, everyone had fully enjoyed a laugh at his expense and moved onto something new. This went on for years… Good times.

One side note… I’m hoping to see Episode III this weekend, provided my Wookie costume is back from the cleaners. If not, I’ll be the guy dressed up like Obi-Wan, wielding my Sonicare as a lightsaber. I’ll try and post a few thoughts next week…

As you might expect, pouring your heart and soul into incoherent rantings about remote controls can really take a lot out of you. It’s emotionally draining. That’s why I’m looking to unwind this weekend with a mini vacation to Seattle.

This marks my first weekend back in Seattle since the infamous bachelor party. As you can imagine, our merry band of Zillionaires didn’t leave Seattle on the best of terms. Frankly, there were more than a few hotel employees, cab drivers and exotic dancers that were glad to see us go. That’s why we’ve waited almost a year to come back. We figured it best to let Seattle cool down a little. That, and of course, we wanted to give Seattle plenty of time to clean up all the puke from our last visit.

This is a first for me: I’ll be spending more than 24 hours in a city without having a vacation spreadsheet dictating my every move. For those that mock the spreadsheet method, and there are many of you, I have this to say: I found it ironic that I had an inbox full of emails all week asking for details about “the plan” for this weekend, each coming just short of begging me to create another spreadsheet to get everyone on the same page. Oh, you all like to joke about the spreadsheets, but deep down… you need them.

So here’s the compromise… Instead of a spreadsheet, I’ve prepared a rough outline for how this weekend could progress, along with some potential storylines we’ll hopefully see develop:

• I fly in Friday night. Dave will be picking me up. Ideally he will show up at not only the right gate, and time, but also on the correct day as well. Can Dave complete this trifecta? My fingers are crossed.
• We then head to Julie’s pad downtown, where DA and I will crash on Friday night. Don’t worry, she’s aware of this. At first she tried to give us directions to a local shelter, but she later relented when we promised to be on our best behavior. Thankfully, the words “best behavior” are pretty ambiguous.
• Krusty also flies in on Friday night. For anyone looking to meet up with us, we’ll all be at The Attic, sometime after 8 pm. We should be easy to find, as we’ll be the ones wearing monocles and attempting to order “Musty Balzacs” at the bar.

Saturday morning: Checkout at Julie’s place is 11 am, sharp. We figured we’d need to find a place to stay after the aftermath of the first night, so we went ahead and booked a hotel room downtown in advance. We tried Priceline again (despite a few recent letdowns), and it looks like it came through nicely.

Why the hotel? For a weekend such as this, it’s crucial to have a central command post downtown. From our hotel room, we will be able to strategize and coordinate the operations for the next 24 hours. Here’s what you can expect regarding the hotel:

• The sewing kit: The most prized item meant to be taken home by guests of a hotel room. I can’t sew whatsoever, but I cherish the sewing kit. Now as you know, I am a sporting chap. I’ve decided I won’t “call” the sewing kit in advance. I’m willing to give Dave a fair shot at it. However, when we enter the room, if Dave is foolish enough to wander over to the window to check out the view, that sewing kit is all mine, baby.
• Not all of my Hotel Moves involve ruthless attempts to hoard sewing kits. In fact, I’ve patented the “Bring in a bottle of whiskey, utilize the ice and vending machines and construct a fully functioning bar within 90 seconds of check-in” move. It’s actually become my hotel calling card, and I look forward to demonstrating it this weekend. Anyone meeting up at our hotel room can be assured that the bar will be open and fully stocked at all times.

For anyone that can resist the instinctual urge to spend Saturday on the couch, feel free to meet at our hotel for a walking tour of downtown around noonish on Saturday… Again, here are some potential storylines pertaining to Saturday afternoon:

• The Monorail: Every bit as cool today as it was in ’89. I’ll warn you right now, I am totally unimpressed with Monorails; the slowest “high speed” method of transportation known to man.
• “C’mon, how difficult can it be to pose as Gameworks employees?”
• Dave’s textbook move in any big city is to search for a really tall building with minimal security. The goal here is to sneak up to the top floor to admire the view from the top. Sometimes we get to the top and find a restaurant. Sometimes it’s office space. But we always find a hardass employee unwilling to let us simply look out their damn window. Of course, we don’t merely slink away. One of us has to counter with, “Do you know who I am? I own this building!”
• If we happen to be in the Westlake Shopping Center, and I happen to be a little hungry… well, my money is on Sbarro to answer the call.
• How much time will I spend at the shop in Pike’s Place with all the vintage toys from the ’80’s? Will I shame myself into asking the guy behind the counter if I can play with Skeletor for a few minutes?
• If we feel really ambitious, we might walk over to the Space Needle and decide it’s not worth the eight bucks to take the elevator to the top.
• Krusty and I will both be without our wives, which translates to one thing: Whatever we end up doing, we will make excellent time.

After wandering around downtown for a few hours, we’ll grab a light dinner, as we will soon engage in battle. Dave booked Whirlyball for 7 pm on Saturday night for anyone that wants to participate in the Sport of Kings. For those that have never played, I once described Whirlyball as: “a sport that proudly synthesizes lacrosse, bumper cars and massive alcohol consumption. While it may seem simple enough, “Whirlyball” actually had a ton of rules that we all went out of our way to ignore. Since the members of our group were equally reckless and intoxicated, our style of play could best be described as “Whiplashball.”

The good news is that the Commissioner of Whirlyball can’t suspend you for being intoxicated, as the entire “sport” centers around binge drinking. Good times. One final note on Whirlyball, if we have another successful outing this weekend, I’m going to nominate it as the “Official Sport of Zillionaires.”

As you can imagine, you can work up quite a thirst getting belligerently drunk on the Whirlyball court. So naturally, we’ll head back downtown to cap off the weekend’s festivities with a night of epic drinking.

So that’s a rough outline for what we could see this weekend. The good news here is that I think we’ve evolved (or devolved?) to the point that we don’t need a regimented plan to have a fun weekend. If we can all just find our way downtown and throw in some alcohol, the good times and priceless memories should take care of themselves…

Continuing on with thoughts on remote controls…
(For previous postings on this topic, check out: Part I)

First off, I’m pleased with the commentary the first segment generated. This is promising. My biggest fear in segmenting these posts was that the eventual sequels would be a predictable rehashing of the original post (Think: “Weekend at Bernie’s 2.”) While I still have much to say on the topic of remote controls, if there comes a point where this post has to rely on the blogging equivalent of exhuming Bernie’s corpse for another weekend of implausible hijinks, well, I’m prepared to do just that. Consider yourself warned.

In the first part, I made mention of the fact that I spend most of my waking day searching my house for remote controls. At this point, I’m convinced my wife has placed them in some sort of remote control witness relocation program. For all I know, all the remotes in our house have started new lives under assumed names in different states. For instance, I’m pretty sure our VCR remote is now known as “Bob Smith,” and is working as an insurance adjuster in Fresno.

Now to be fair, I admit, I tend to exaggerate sometimes. That’s why I’m providing some proof documenting the remote control related purgatory I suffer through every day.

The following is an actual email I sent my wife a few months ago:

—–Original Message—–
From: Matt Ring
Sent: Tuesday, January 18, 2005 9:15 AM
To: Jeannette Ring
Subject: RE: Remote Controls

jnet, we need to talk about remote controls.

i looked all over the basement last night for the remote, even searching the area around your treadmill. finally, i discovered it on the poker table in the adjacent room. why would you put the remote there?

and this morning, i searched the bedroom trying to find the tv remote. never did find that one, although i didn’t go downstairs to look on the poker table.

if you’re going to watch tv, and insist on using the remote, can you please make an effort to leave the remote in a logical place?

mr
—–

Naturally, my wife thought this was the funniest thing I’d ever written. Unfortunately, I was being dead serious. As you might guess, this email was the product of unspeakable frustration endured in a futile attempt to find a lost remote. Like every other man on earth, I would rather search an entire city block for the remote than walk over to the TV and operate it manually. It’s just the principle of it all. Seriously, as far as I’m concerned, without the remote, the TV itself is useless.

And I’m sorry, I don’t want to hear from any old-timers (Ken Ring) about how, back in their day, they had to walk uphill in the snow for a mile just to change the channel. Back in those days, there were only three stations anyway, and two of them were ABC and CBS. You practically didn’t even need a remote.

Nowadays, we’ve got options. And unfortunately, most of them are horrible. The remote is the only means to sift through dozens of channels of televised crap in hopes of finding the one show that might be watchable in between countless commercial breaks. Simply put, the remote control is the sole defense I have against the Omarosas, Joe Millionaires, and Spring Break Shark Attacks (sorry CK) of the world. And yet, somehow, my wife manages to misplace this sacred device on a daily basis. Seriously, how often does the Pope lose his hat? How often does Batman misplace his utility belt? The answer is never… The reason for this? Neither man is married.

Coming soon: Part III… (aka: Let’s get Bernie on some water skis!)

My wife and I celebrated our nine-month anniversary last night. And by “celebrated,” I mean I spent all night playing Xbox with DA and Solo while my wife… hmm… actually, I have no idea what she did last night. I’m pretty sure she was upstairs watching TV during the Xboxfest. I do remember eating dinner together. I kind of lost track of her after that. She probably just cried herself to sleep. Good times.

Sadly, this was actually one of our better anniversaries. This is just a textbook example of “clueless male syndrome,” the main issue women deal with during the newlywed phase. Surprisingly, her morale is still relatively high. She has high hopes that she can fix this genetic defect with a steady regimen of nagging and browbeating. Time will tell.

Of course, there’s another side to this coin. I too face obstacles as a contestant in this newlywed game. Here’s my top three:

3. The Xbox: My wife and my Xbox have never really gotten along, but lately it’s become pretty bitter. The problem here is that they view each other as a source of competition for my love and attention. It wasn’t always this way. They coexisted happily during our engagement, but things disintegrated shortly after the marriage ceremony. My Xbox was truly hurt at being left behind while my wife and I went on our honeymoon. I didn’t want to exclude the Xbox, buy my wife insisted. To this day, my Xbox has never really forgiven her for that.

At this point, they can barely stand to be in the same room with each other. They exchange dirty looks. They backstab one another. They spread vicious rumors. The tension between them is palpable, and I’m caught in the middle. I try not to play favorites, and I generally do my best to make it clear that I love them both equally. They like to “keep score” though. Whenever I spend a quite evening alone with one, the other demands equal time the following night. While I try desperately to make them both happy, the fact is neither is ever satisfied. You can imagine the strain it puts on our marriage.

2. Pizza: You’d think my wife and I would be able to order a pizza every once in awhile without it tearing apart our marriage. You’d think. Unfortunately, our pizza preferences couldn’t be more opposite. We can’t even settle for the typical half and half compromise, as that would entail us reaching a consensus on a sauce or crust type. That’s right. We can’t even decide between hand-tossed, pan, cheese-stuffed, or thin crust without having protracted negotiations between teams of lawyers. And then there’s the sauce. My wife will vacillate between pesto and Alfredo sauce, and I’m stuck throwing my hands in the air over why we can’t just have “regular pizza sauce” on our pizza? I won’t even go into the difficulties we have in agreeing on toppings, mainly because we’ve never actually gotten to that point.

The worst part of this is that my wife only eats a few slices to begin with. Because of this, we can’t even use a pizza buffet as a means to sidestep these issues. While I view the pizza buffet as a personal challenge to bankrupt the establishment with pizza consumption, my wife continually sabotages my efforts by filling up on salad and breadsticks, and whatever other non-pizza items happen to be featured in the buffet.

The only solution is to order two pizzas, one for each of us. Of course, this too has a price. My pizza and any leftovers will be polished off in a 24-hour period. Unfortunately, my wife’s leftovers (of which there are plenty) linger in the fridge like a science experiment. I’ve even seen her toss out stale leftover pizza, which, as we all know, is in stark violation of the 11th Commandment. It’s not uncommon for me to openly weep at the sight of wasted pizza. Honestly, she could have lit my paycheck on fire in front of me and received a more subdued reaction.

The point is, we simply don’t share the same love of pizza. For instance, I’ve never heard her refer to pizza as “sweet, sweet nectar” like I do from time to time. That really sums it up right there.

1. Remote Controls: This pertains mainly to usage and etiquette. All I’m going to say here is that we’ve been married about nine months now, and roughly, if I had to ballpark it, I’d guess that I’ve spent 80% of that time searching for the remote control.

Don’t think for an instant that I’m going to leave it at that. This is merely the introduction… the first part in an ongoing series dissecting my thoughts on remote controls. By breaking this topic into segments, I’m hoping that I can continually bring this issue to the forefront with each update and discuss each aspect in appropriate length. Whereas, if I were to combine all my thoughts on remote controls into one massive post, some of these thoughts would get lost in the shuffle, and their societal and cultural impact would be lessened.

Finally, I will delineate the parts with Roman numerals, as generally, the most important aspects of our society are numbered in this fashion: Super bowls, Rocky movies, Star Wars prequels, etc.

And with that said, be on the lookout for Part II…