Your Permanent Record

Your past can KILL...  or at least make a decent B-movie.

A little cautionary tale/Monday splash of freezing cold water. One of Da-da's old friends recently got DEEP within the hiring cycle for a big job with a big firm... when they suddenly nixed the deal at the 23rd hour. They spelunked his personal history all the way back to when he was a zygote, and discovered that he'd never dealt with an out-of-state DUI charge he'd received in his teens before going into the army. Ouch. He'd totally forgotten about it (he's 42), but considering what he's been through, Da-da can't blame him. Anyway, a hard lesson, and one for all of the young people and parents of young people who, unlike Da-da, still have their entire life ahead of them. Basically, when The Man says, "This will go on your PERMANENT RECORD," he means it. Know it learn it live it. Atone once, atone often.

On the obverse side of that coin, exactly how much information should an employer be entitled to when considering you for a position? (For the record, Da-da's friend's job had nothing to do with driving.) Nowadays, with Big Brother bigger and less brotherish than ever, you can ostensibly never make a mistake and not atone, which is rather inhuman, in Da-da's humble opinion. Everyone deserves a second chance. And a third chance. A fourth chance... yes, Da-da guesses even flaky au pairs deserve a second chance, he said begrudgingly.

Your LP permanent record plays and plays and plays and plays and plays...

Games People Play

This sad exchange from a recent school drop-off/pick-up ritual...

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Chipper housewife: "Good morning! How are YOU?!"

Da-da (deadpan): "Livin' the dream."

Chipper housewife (never listening): "Super! Have a great day!"

[later that day]

Chipper housewife: "How's it going?!"

Da-da: "Dog sex! Howbout you?"

Chipper housewife (dead stop): "Uh... what?"

Da-da: "I said, 'Great, howbout you?'"

Chipper housewife: "Um. Fine."

Da-da: "Super! Have a great day!"
====================================

Note: don't ask Da-da how he is if you don't wanna know. Note2: Da-da might need a vacation.

Da-da gets children ready for bed.

It's Monday, Take the Coda

"They cat take that away from me, noo..."

Escape From Which Mountain?

Da-da ran into an insouciant, childless friend today. "Hey, how's parenthood?" he chuckled.

Da-da fixed him with a jaundiced eye. "Ever see, "Escape from Alcatraz?"" Da-da asked.

"Sure," he laughed, a little nervous. "They got out."

Da-da stared him down: "Did they? Did they really?" Does anyone ever get out?

Da-da might need some Tinkerbell mouth-to-mouth. And scotch.

Another Public Service Announcement: DWT

Before.

Picture 3YO Da-da riding his tricycle down the sidewalk from his suburban house oh soo long ago, sometime around 2:00 in the afternoon. As usual, he was left alone to, "play outside," as everyone in Da-da's generation was -- which Da-da still finds totally inexplicable.

Just then, a neighbor materializes, a 50-ish woman with white hair, reading the newspaper. She absently gets into her beige 1967 Chevy Impala and, still reading the paper, starts and backs her car out of the driveway right into Young Master Da-da, turning his trike over and skidding it backwards toward the street, grinding its left rear wheel post into the driveway cement -- SCRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPE -- Jeez lady, can't you hear that? -- pinning Young Da-da within the tangle of metal, the huge chrome bumper reflecting Young Da-da's frozen horror back to him: Is this really happening? He finally finds his voice and SCREAMS for the car to STOP... which it did, finally, just as the wheel post found a joint in the concrete and was thinking of buckling: a good ten feet. (Let's hear it for good-ole vintage steel construction.) STILL READING THE PAPER, the lady gets out of her car and looks more annoyed than horrified. She frowned. Aren't you dead, yet? she seemed to say, failing to ask if Young Master Da-da was alright, instead inspecting her car for damage. Meanwhile, Da-da rights his tricycle and goes off on his not-so-merry way, shaking, the bent wheels of his tryke squeaking and never the same. Same to you, lady.

So, why does Da-da tell this story? Because he sees so many of you, of all ages -- even cops -- WATCHING LITTLE SCREENS WHILE YOU DRIVE. You must stop this and keep your eyes on the road. There is no info on earth that can't wait until you stop your car. Sure, you think you're okay, because you drive more slowly and closer to the curb, like a blind great white shark in the shallows waiting for some small being to lumber in front of you, for all it's gonna take is for some ebullient little kid to run out in front of you and you won't be looking at the road and those high-tech ABS brakes won't save either of you because you'll never have a chance to use them  BECAUSE YOU'RE NOT PAYING ATTENTION. A life will be lost and yours will be ruined. So, please put the phone done and pay attention.

Don't read email and drive.
Don't watch TV and drive.
Don't text and drive.
Don't YouTube and drive.

All this is called DWT, Driving While Texting, and is actually worse than driving after six drinks. Yup. It's illegal. And it's dangerous. Look at the graphic, Copernicus:

A useful DMV graphic. Know it, learn it, live it.

Note that it's veeeeery dangerous for you, too.

Why?

Because Da-da and those like him will not be nice to you when he/they get(s) to you. Ever see the Boogieman when he's mad?

Extradimensional Psycho Clown Da-da just wants to talk.

That Morning Look of Parenthood

The Bankie Code

Da-da's youngest, Bronco, has been rather fragile of late, waxing tantrum at the drop of a moon pie. This isn't that interesting, to you or Da-da. What is interesting is Bronco's Coping Technique 2.0, where he not only wraps himself in his blankie (which he calls his, "BANKIE"), but also his adherance to a kind of logical bankie protocol. For example, during these events, Bronco couches every word and phrase with the word, "BANKIE," basically creating the equivalent of BANKIE HTML. Observe:

"Bronco, would you like some juice?"

"Bankie, DON'T TALK TO ME, BANKIE!"

Or, you could write it like this:

[BANKIE] DON'T TALK TO ME, [/BANKIE]!

Note that Da-da had to use brackets and not less-than/greater-than symbols, as it wouldn't show up, otherwise. Da-da isn't sure what this is good for, but the beginning stages of a whole new BANKIE coding scheme is always exciting.

3/8/11 to Live in Infamy? (or, ALL YOUR BASE ARE STILL BELONG TO US)

Alan Shepard wonders, Why do I suddenly feel like a Moon Pie?

That's right, citizens: tomorrow's the day -- AGAIN. Some other closet Nostradamus has hatched another alien-apppearance deadline, claiming tomorrow will see wall-to-wall motherships over major metros, yay. And won't your metro's real estate agents still WEEP like little girls when your skies aren't packed with flying mile-long Vogon fleets, like Da-da's? Wish they'd hurry up.

Hey! You can't park that there!

Absinthe, Parenthood, or Vampire?

EXPECT the Spanish Inquisition

That's right, kids: these days, EXPECT the Spanish Inquisition. At all times. Cardinal Fang, prepare the soft cushions...

Breaking News From Da-da's Head

Is that "Outer Limits," or "Bowling for Dollars"?

Crap. Must be Tuesday. Either that or Bronko and Nagurski have been playing with the remote to Da-da's head and tuned him to a dead channel again. Huh. It's kinda like real life, but more compelling. Wait, is that a chicken up there? No. It's just the way she's holding the grapefruit.

TAKING HER OVER THE EDGE: A Valentine's Day Warning

Da-da was recently forced to stand in line at the grocery while the checkers did something checker-like for a long time. LIKE FIVE MINUTES. Jeez, don't they know how BUSY Da-da is?? Anyway, Da-da stood there, blasted by not only some jaunty Ramones Muzak, but also by terrible phalanges of salacious, trashy magazines that lined all the exits. Do people even read magazines anymore? Nine out of ten cheesed-out covers had the same theme, as we're pre-Valentine's Day and there's money to be made:

"HOTTEST TOP TEN TIPS TO TAKING HER OVER THE EDGE."

As if that line wasn't loaded enough. But Da-da wondered what this edge might be, it having been quite some time since Da-da was near any kind of edge; indeed, small children remove one's edge and cut you into countless pieces with so many others. However, being a college graduate (Ed's Mechanics' College in Winnepeg, summa c*m cloude), Da-da interpolated this 'edge' to mean $EX. (And Da-da's guessing that he cleverly bypassed spam filters everywhere... or, more likely, has been trebucheted along with this entire blog into some cybernetic Pottersville Dimension.)

Ah. So, back to what the hell we were talkin' about. Check it, proto-Da-da wannabes. Read this carefully, especially if you're below the age of 30. Da-da knows you've all had advanced $ex education since the third grade, but let's review: if you take her over the edge in an unoprotected fashion (you know what Da-da's talkin' 'bout), like Stephen King says, therein lay monsters. Little ones. Tiny cute monster cherubs that smile and giggle and barf and poop and YELL and keep you awake for the rest of your unnatural life BECAUSE THEY NEED THEIR BLANKIE RIGHT FREAKING NOW AND WHY CAN'T YOU FIND IT YOU MECHANICS' SCHOOL GRADUATE? Worse, they make you love them. Krikey.

Point in fact, "taking her over the edge" is the perfect way of putting it. Over the edge of real adulthood and parental responsibility (Da-da can hear you packing the Prius and heading for the hills, they go over hills, right?). Over the edge of intimacy. Over the edge of biological imperative. Over the ontological edge -- which features the biggest drop: having children means it ain't about YOU anymore, Myron. But above all, over the edge of SANITY.

Da-da used to be sane. (Lies.) He used to play golf, have a job, go on vacation, go to Rotary meetings, drink SANKA, listen to The New Christy Minstrels. He used to only capitalize the first letter of a sentence and people's names. Now... well. If you read this blog, you know. If you don't, then Da-da suggests you aim for the pocket and TAKE HER OVER THE EDGE, MISTER GIRTH. Good luck. We're all counting on you. And Happy V-day, brother.

V-Day Note: Ever notice how people, with unerring frequency, often seem to fall in love with and/or marry people WHO LOOK EXACTLY LIKE THEM? It's narcissism in action, makes mirrors redundant, and gives Freudians something to mull over for days and days.

If you stare at this too long, you'll go insane.

The Sandworm Vote, Part 2: Righty Tighty, Lefty Loosey

Da-da gives Sandy some political pointers.

Some wag sent Da-da a message asking if he was LEFT or RIGHT. For the record, Da-da is a DA-DA, a beleagured, highly trained, no-neck lawn gorilla (read KID) wrangler-ninja -- IN 3D -- who cares little for controlling anything save for his tiny patch of real estate, and only then to make small beings eat, sleep, do their homework, and not turn out like most politicians. That said, when it comes to political direction, Da-da's riding a giant sandworm that's about to eat both Right and Left. Why? 'Cause Da-da's the founding member of The Sandworm Party, Mr. Bond.

Sandworms have an extensive laundry list of winning attributes. They consume everything (esp. if it has cheese on it). They poop an addictive, mind-altering substance (nicknamed, "the spice") that's kinda like peyote and ayahuasca and LSD and carne asada and cinnamon rolls... served with that yummy civet coffee, mmm. They make great rumbling sounds when they approach, making everyone yell, "RUN!" They're not annoying (though they are deadly). They don't make speeches. They don't encourage people to kill or subjugate other people. They unify ("RUN!"). And best-of-all: they're fictional. Which is why Da-da's all over them like CHILI on a DOG.

As if that weren't enough, sandworms also create huge amounts of oxygen (due to the friction from zooming through sand and trailer parks at high speed), thus solving all global warming woes. Take a deep breath! And sure, they eat and pretty much destroy everything in sight, but then again, so does the U.S. Government. At least the sandworms won't lie to you while they do it. AND the press conferences wind up with all the media being devoured, dropped screaming into an alchemical maw! ("Hey, Rupert! Hold this thumper!") But...  best of all: NO SANDWORM TAXES. Nope. Not one. Save for the fact that they eat pretty much everything on the surface of the planet that moves or vibrates. Could be worse. They could incorporate. And at least sandworms don't dance and wave flags when an "enemy" dies. No bloodlust. No "justice." They just eat you and, "move forward."

To get you all used to the idea, Da-da's gone so far as to create a SANDWORM CAT to act as your personal (un)disposable political saviour. Isn't he cute? (HINT: don't pet him.)

(Factually, someone sent that image to Da-da, so it belongs to someone else, BUT Da-da doesn't know who. If this is yours, let Da-da know and he'll give you ample credit.)

[Read "The Sandworm Vote, Part 1."]

Here Comes the BRI--IIIEIAAEIEEE!!!

A topical, cautionary tale for those moving inexorably toward WEDDING SEASON. You know who you are. Good luck. We're all counting on you. (What's this got to do with the Aflockalypse? Shhh, wait for it.)

Backstory

Da-da used to be a classical and jazz musician, and like many quasi-respectable musicians trying to survive in this big ugly unmusical world, Da-da was forced to play theme parks, malls (ug), bank openings (double ug), funerals... and of course, WEDDINGS. No one likes to play weddings. Da-da bursts into flame if he hears, "GREENSLEEVES" (what Da-da used to call, "GREENSNEEZE"), "JESU, JOY OF MAN'S PERSPIRING" -- or the worst: PACHELBEL'S, "CANON IN D MAJOR." Kill Da-da now. (Many is the time Da-da has gone back in time to hit Pachelbel in the head with a shoe.) Sure, these are beautiful pieces of music IF YOU HEAR THEM ONCE; hear them a thousand times and you start donning the musical jackboots.

Having played too many weddings (more than one is too many), Da-da knows that weddings are NOT about the bride and groom. They're about everyone else, a celebration of your blessed union. So, get married and shut up. Just try telling the bride that.

Given hideous amounts of power over others by tacit agreement, brides are forces of nature to be feared. Say, "bride," to Da-da and he heads for the hills. There's no more spoiled and monstrous entity anywhere. Even Bronko and Nagurski run from brides. Except for those rare, cool, "Snow White" erratics, most Brides want it all, they want it their way -- THE WAY THEY'VE BEEN IMAGINING IT SINCE THEY WERE LITTLE PRINCESSES -- and they want it now, you bastard. Where's the bride's chainsaw? That's not to say that all bridal requests are unreasonable. Some are more high maintenance than others, depending on budget; budget goes up, high maintenance-ness goes up.

Now, before Da-da gets to The Event, you need to know something about musicians. They are experts at laughing silently. Any musician who can't is quickly weeded out and sent to Nordstrom to sell women's shoes (and a quick humorectomy). Musicians need to be able to do this so they don't interrupt a performance, and because funny things happen all the time that the audience can't see. So.

The Event

Picture a rare winter wedding, already in progress. A huge church is flowing in flowers and wedding guests. The ceremony is almost over, and Da-da and a handful of musicians -- perched in an apse -- are awaiting the bride and groom's kiss, so they can begin the little recessional piece of music that's played as the bride and groom head off to recess. Da-da can't remember what it's called; he's blocked it out. Anyway, at the ultimate moment, when the freshly married bride and groom are turned by the guy in the collar toward the audience for the first time, "wedding helpers" were supposed to release scores of doves INTO THE CHURCH. Not sure how they afforded managed to talk the pastornator into that one. Doves were to be released and fly about while the band played on and little fuzzy bunnies fell from the heavens. But it didn't turn out quite that way.

You see, some genius failed to poke holes in the bird boxes. You know, so the birds could breathe. Just like toddlers and ninjas and camels, birds need AIR. So, at the ultimate moment, poised to wield a righteous downbeat onto the assembled assemblage, the band watched as two burly guys dumped dead doves all over the bride.

The band immediately lost it. Da-da is laughing right now. However, we didn't make a sound. Everyone else was petrified, rooted to their respective spots, while we awaited bridezilla's meltdown.

It never came. The bride looked at the band losing it and burst out laughing.

All the air leaked out of hundreds of pairs of lungs that had been holding breath for something like a minute, and the laughter wheezed out. Yes, it was a miracle. We were beholding that rarest of creatures, THE BRIDE WITH A SENSE OF HUMOR. She and the wedding party proceeded to take all their wedding photos while toting dead birds for the camera, putting them on their shoulders, their heads, wearing them for earrings... Da-da even used one as a trumpet mute to great effect.

So. In terms of weddings -- esp. as we're on the cusp of wedding season planning -- a little advice. Less is more. The above music sucks. A sense of humor is more important than anything else in existence. And PLEASE, poke holes in the boxes.

The Sandworm Vote, Part 1

People ALWAYS ask Da-da: what's your favorite monster? That's easy.

Sandworm.

The one from Frank Herbert's, DUNE, which still exhibits better writing than most books today.

Then they ask Da-da who he's voting for. For 2012. (Why they're asking Da-da this so far from the damn elections tells you a lot about how silly politics have become in this country.) Who is Da-da going to vote for? That's easy.

Sandworm.

Like Sarah Palin, a sandworm is not only insensate, it also: eats everything; poops an addictive mind altering substance; is impervious to nearly everything (except water); makes this great rumbling sound when it approaches making everyone yell, "RUN!"; is worshipped by religious whackos in robes and snuggies and suits, etc. UNLIKE Sarah Palin, the sandworm is not annoying, it doesn't encourage people to kill other people, it unifies ("RUN!"), and best of all, it's fictional, which is why Da-da's voting for it. As for all initiatives... FYI, Da-da votes YES on NO, and NO on YES. We clear now, pollster?

Gotta go. Da-da's 9:00 sandworm is inbound. Grab your hooks, Stilgar, we just created The Sandworm Party.

Sandworms just need more love.

[Read "The Sandworm Vote Part 2: Righty Tighty, Lefty Loosey."]

The Aurora Has Been Drinking

For those with clear skies, you might wanna step outside your teepee tonight. The aurora borealis may make a rare appearance at lower latitudes given the sun's continuing dip into southern polarity. Science boy says, "HUH?" Follow me, Timmy.

The Sitter II: A Retrospective Freudian Analysis w/Burned Baloney

Nothing prepares you for what you're going to be like as a parent. People drone on and on about how you'll probably be like your parents, but that's too simplistic and takes into account NONE of the vast, profligate heaps of Freudian baggage you've been amassing across the eons. Case in point: what Da-da calls, "babysitter fear." Few things peg Da-da's Sphinct-O-meter like leaving his children with total strangers. (This fear used to be worse before Da-da completed Bronko and Nagurski's extensive ninja training.)

This anxiety goes wa-ay back to the time Young Master Da-da was babysat one late spring night by Archetypal Teen Babysitter, LINDA, a 16YO neighborhood girl, when Da-da was six. Linda, you know who you are. Da-da should note before we begin that he has what's called an eidetic memory: that is, HE REMEMBERS EVERYTHING... well, until he had kids. Now, HE REMEMBERS NOTHING. Except dumb things that occurred when he was six. Great.

Anyway, Young Master Da-da was not fooled by babysitter LINDA's faux doves-and-bunnies act before mom and dad. And Da-da about came unglued when she tried to put him to bed at 6:00 (interrupting, "Forbidden Planet," which fully activated Da-da's REVENGE circuitry). Prior to this insult, LINDA had made "dinner" for her charge: what she called, "Mexican hats," that is, broiled baloney (BROILED BALONEY?) covered in yellow mustard (what wine would you serve with broiled baloney covered in yellow mustard? VIOGNIER? White zinfandel?)... where was i? Oh, yeah, BROILED BALONEY, krikey, which said babysitter forgot about while yakking on the phone with her long-hair boyfriend, filling the house with acrid, BURNED BALONEY SMOKE. (Da-da can still smell it.) Later, she foolishly assumed Young Master Da-da was asleep (at 7:00?) and snuck out to meet her boyfriend down the street, LEAVING YOUNG MASTER DA-DA HOME ALONE in a house filled with poison, broken glass, dynamite, and toxic burned baloney fumes. Nice.

To make matters worse, this dim bulb failed to notice a six-year-old white ninja -- in glowing white ROY ROGERS PAJAMAS -- tracking her down the street as she schlepped to the water treatment plant around the corner. Why was she going there? Young Master Da-da wondered... Ah.

The water treatment plant had a lush, broad green lawn that the teens used as their May Pole rendezvous field of dreams. The field itself was already packed with teens humping in the moonlight; there must've been twenty couples coupling in early '70s, pre-Burning Man abandon. Linda arrived, found "STEVEN," stripped off all her clothes (seriously), took possession of a very large bong, and boarded the illicit sex train with all the other assembled hippie teens. Young Da-da watched for only a moment. Ok, maybe two moments...

He then went home, found the phone number left on the kitchen counter, and called mom and dad. Once the cavalry arrived, Young Master Da-da walked his parents to the water treatment plant's lawn, toting a police flashlight, and showcased LINDA in full glory. Needless to say, Young Master Da-da pocketed Linda's $20 that night. (And Young Master Da-da watched himself from then on; indeed, Da-da was given a key to the house and was officially a "latch key kid" after that.)

So, it doesn't take Fellini to figure out why Da-da sweats every time he leaves his children alone with little miss perfect (or does it?). Da-da can just HEAR the Freudian archetypes building in their subconsciousnesses. Or maybe that's gas. Either way, it's frightening.

EPILOGUE

It should come as no surprise that Young Master Da-da's parents were bankers and staunch Republicans (it's actually 10 million times more complicated than that, but Da-da will save that for later), and that 6YO Da-da himself was a miniature goddamn Nixon. He's since regained his sanity, going from Republican, to Independent, to Libertarian, to Democrat, to Silly Party... but it took a while.

Da-da has since performed an intensive Freudian analysis of the entire above event. It's not too tough to figure out. Basically, Young Master Da-da had a crush on LINDA -- who was HOT -- but she snubbed him for "STEVEN" (some long-haired geek who would later direct, "JAWS," what a loser). Additionally, she burned Young Da-da's "BALONEY" (do I have to spell that out for you?), turned off, "FORBIDDEN PLANET," then went and humped the hippie, "STEVEN." Oh, the salamis and handrails.

Despite the fact that it's irresponsible and dangerous to leave a child unattended, for the record, LINDA snubbed a highly accomplished and attractive 6YO who not only had his own car, BUT TWENTY OF THEM. Sure, they were only matchbox cars, but Da-da could do a lot with a little... and we're going to deep-six Freud on that one and move on with our lives, already in progress, while Da-da goes out to buy some sausages and a monster truck.

Enter... The GOOGLETRAC

Behold the latest in grooming convenience from those geniuses at AcmeVaporware, the main supply house for All Things Da-da. Da-da's beard has been shivering all morning...

=======================================================
ACMEVAPORWARE UNVEILS DREADED GOOGLE-TRAC RAZOR

Advanced Psycho-Consumertronics Section Whips Sheet Off Shocking Personal Grooming System

HIRSUTE, KENTUCKY, January 5, 2011 -- AcmeVaporware Inc. (AVW) today revealed its new GOOGLE-TRAC Razor before a horrified, yet good-natured crowd of beauty & barber science academy graduates. The first overly manic personal grooming system of its type anywhere on earth, the new GOOGLE-TRAC Razor has well over 100 razor-sharp blades that simply dont know when to quit.

HOW IT WORKS

The first blade comes in and pulls up the whisker a fraction of a millimeter, while the second blade zooms ahead and pulls it up a little bit more; the third blade then takes up where the second blade left off, while the fourth blade assists the third, working in unison to hoist the whisker’s petard for the deadly FIFTH blade, which helps the sixth do its job, followed by the seventh, eighth, ninth, tenth, eleventh, twelfth, thirteenth, fourteenth, fifteenth, sixteenth, seventeenth, eighteenth, nineteenth, and twentieth blades that then work in harmony with the next eighty eight blades to FINALLY AND IRREVOCABLY zip-zop that pesky growth right off the face of the earth, with extreme prejudice and malice aforethought.

“We decided to stop screwing around and make a serious LEAP in razor technology profits,” said Dr. John Smallberries, president and CEO of AcmeVaporware. “Other personal grooming system profits only went so far. I mean, the American public will believe literally anything, so why not?” Dr. Smallberries then unleashed the new GOOGLE-TRAC Razor System on the hundreds of unsuspecting barber & beauty school graduates, most of whom were females in their ‘20s. Test subjects’ screams were most impressive.

“Our GOOGLE-TRAC Razor System can be used to boost bottom lines of all types, making it far costlier and more complicated than more conventional gas-powered shaving solutions,” said Dr. John Yaya, Vice President of International Vice Presidential Systems for AVW. “In contrast, other personal grooming systems are short-sighted, cheap and kinda suck. Just wait till you see the prices for our replacement blades! A-HAAHAHAHAHHAHAHA!!!”

“This product has absolutely nothing NOTHING to do with Google,” said Google CEO Barney Google. “Still. I’d still love to have one. Just stop touching me.”

About Google

Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google Google. Jeez, enough about Google already.

About AcmeVaporware

AcmeVaporware, Inc. is an awesome, intergalactic septillion dollar web-based APE monstrosity, providing truly ludicrous and uncompromising physical layer transport and grooming solutions, pseudo-lexiconographical logistics and torpovapor supply-chain fusion thingies to anyone who will stand still long enough for us to draw an X on their forehead, on a scale that makes the collective armies of all the Pharaohs look like a junior high school marching band. Yes, we're talkin' BIG. Information on AcmeVaporware, its internecine technology and personal grooming system arm, and its future profligate amounts of finest-quality miasma are mostly classified. Regardless, its all on acmevaporware.com anyway, so whatever. If you must read more, try this book, which is all about AcmeVaporware and will take your head clean off. It's even in the Library of Congress.

All content and images copyright 1996-2011 and Beyond, AcmeVaporware Inc. AcmeVaporware is a registered trademark of well, AcmeVaporware Inc. All rights reserved. Don’t mess with us. Our attorney takes air baths in malls.

AcmeVaporware scientists KNOW f = ma.

It's SURVIVOR... With a Hug

Da-da doesn't often recommend things that aren't radioactive and ingesting East Rutherford, but the Kratt brothers have a new animal show on PBS that's half live action, half animation, and delivers a lot of engaging information in a short time for kids 4-11. Anyway, here's the description:

A half-hour adventure comedy from Chris and Martin Kratt - adventurers, brothers, zoologists and creators of hit shows such as Kratt's Creatures, Zoboomafoo and Be the Creature. In their first-ever animated series, they are on a mission to save the animals of this planet from the evil Zach Varmitech, who plans to use animal "spare parts" to create a legion of biotech robots that will give him control over nature and the entire planet.

[PBS linky] 

Huh. Kinda like real life, with MONSANTO as evil Dr. Stand-in and Dick Cheney as The Beaver. Anyway, it's well done. The PBS site is pretty good, too. Da-da's been playing on it all day. Right now he's a sloth... wait, he's always a sloth. KRATT!

And NO, Da-da wasn't paid for this. He doesn't accept money -- or geese -- for reviews, sorry.

Episode I: The Phantom Da-da