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Tonight: major Christmas decorating at Hearndom II!

Today: Poem about Christmas decorating!!!

‘Twas 3 weeks before Christmas, and all ’round the house
Hearn and Hearnwife were working, with cursing and shouts.

And so, Merry Christmas! We wish you good cheer!
And may nobody call out the cops like last year.

There’s something wrong with my face.

(Oh, you’d noticed, had you? Smartass.)

And for once I’m not talking about my hideous acne issue. (I’ve had the pores of a 14 year-old since I was, well, 14, and the zits show no sign of clearing up after 12 years.) Folks who see me on a daily basis probably have heard me complain about this, but I am low on one of the more manly human characteristics: body hair. Except for what’s on my scalp, and a prodigious collection around my wang, I’m largely hairless. Even what hair I have is totally lame; for example, the hairs on my chest all point UP. And don’t even get me started on my nipples (the left one has all of 6 hairs of varying lengths; the right one is completely surrounded by a tuft of growth thick enough to be seen through tshirts). Also, I don’t get any moustachio hair that’s not thin and completely blond.

Some of you are probably somewhat grossed out. This pleases me.

Anyway, I bring this up to share with you a new project: sideburns. I can’t technically really grow any, because my beard stops roughly 3/8″ of an inch from my natural hairline, but I’m planning to grow my hair out anyway, so I’ll just let it grow down over the part where there’s no facial hair. I wanted to share with you my progress after approximately one week:

What do you think? I think I’m well on my way to a stylish new look. I’m contemplating the possibility of getting some Rogaine to see if I can inspire some growth in there, although I hear that steroids can have the same effect, and Lord knows I’d like the opportunity to get all buff and sexy and get the chicks.

I mean, get A chick. My wife. That’s the ticket, yeah!

I’m gonna let these things grow for a while longer yet, despite protests from Sarah, who thinks they look pathetic. Although, this rather gives me an idea; perhaps I should grow some other insane facial hair until HW promises to let her bangs grow out. Ah, blackmail and bribery: the foundations of any successful marriage.

BTW: The guys at Free Range Human appear to be alive again. Those turds.

A buddy of mine sent me an email generated by some company containing helpful tips about workplace etiquette and safety. Since I know we all could stand to be a little more safe at the office, what with me constantly getting emails reading “Matt, I accidentally stapled myself in the eye again. What am I doing wrong?” and “d00d i t0tally peed in the coffee mak0r agin lol” and “So I plugged in my laptop like I always do, and suddenly my pelvis exploded! Any thoughts?”, I thought I’d share some of the highlights with you.

• Distraction is the number one cause of accidents on stairways. Remain alert.

  I can’t count the number of times I’ve watched someone heading up the steps, and you see that glimmer in their eyes that signals they’re not thinking about the laborious process of upward-walking, and BAM a stair-squid gets them. Happens every time.

• Most employees use elevators or escalators every day.

  Not me. We don’t have any escalators at my office, and whenever I get into an elevator with someone, I become horrifically flatulent. I’ll risk the stair-squid, myself, rather than trying to explain to someone what I could possibly have eaten to produce a gas that caused their cotton-blend shirt to dissolve.

• Never attempt to hold an elevator door open with the hand or foot. Closing doors can pinch and cause injuries.

  True story: I once watched a man attempt to hold a door open with his arm, and the doors closed on it, and then the elevator moved up 2 floors, causing his hand to become severed, and now it lives on the 5th floor of the building, feasting on unwary NT engineers and it’s like 8 feet tall now and it roams the building at night looking for its owner and we call it Carl.

• Do not run. Walk.

  Luckily, we have a nice pool guard here that reminds us of this every 15 or 20 seconds by blowing his whistle and yelling. Normally we’d be somewhat irritated by this, but Steve just looks so damn dreamy in that little red Speedo.

• Use Safety mirrors where appropriate.

  I keep one with me at all times, one of those little dentist mirrors like SWAT team guys use to see if there’s a bad guy around a corner. Anytime I approach a bend in the cubicle hallway, I crouch real low on the floor and carefully stick the mirror out to see if anybody’s coming. If no one is, I carefully stand, dust myself off, and proceed around the corner. If someone IS coming, I carefully conceal myself in a corner (I wear cubicle-colored clothing for this purpose) and whimper quietly until they pass.

• If attacked, make a scene. Use your voice if you are in trouble. An attacker doesn’t like unwanted attention.

  Additionally, it’s a righteous way to avoid work; anytime a coworker or manager comes within 15 yards of my cubicle, I immediately start screaming RAPE and set off my personal alarm. If they continue to get closer, I break out the pepper spray. Sure, it won’t get me very many raises, but my personal safety is much more important to everyone, I’m sure.

• If you, or someone you know, is assaulted, find out what resources are available.

  I’m not sure what resources they’re talking about here; ideally, the main resource that I’d like to have is a large caliber handgun concealed in my pants BEFORE anyone tries to assault me. But afterwards, I guess maybe a bottle of scotch and a few hugs would be okay.

• Pets (of any kind) are not permitted in the workplace.

  What about invisible ones? Are they okay? ‘Cause my two beautiful invisible bunnies, Hass and Pfeffer, ain’t going NOWHERE without ME.

  That’s right. I’d give up my job for my invisible rabbits. AND YOU ALL WOULD TOO if you could see how cute they are, but of course you can’t, since they’re invisible. It’s so unfair.

• Pencils carried in the pocket should point down. Do not carry pencils behind the ears or with the point toward the palm of the hand.

  It’s definitely preferable to take the point of a pen in the solar plexus than in the palm of the hand. I mean, if you hurt your hand, you won’t be able to write, and then you’re USELESS to the company. On the other hand (har!), my buddy Bob accidentally stabbed himself in the stomach with the pencil in his pocket when the stair-squid tripped him; he was able to staple the wound shut and continue working until 6pm, when his boss told him he could drive himself to the hospital, where they removed his spleen, which had graphite poisoning. That’s a REAL employee, right there.

• Remember that hot water from “Hot” taps on water fountains is extremely hot; avoid splashing it on the skin.

  Oh, if only I had known, I might still have an epidermis!

• Be aware of symptoms such as sneezing, itching, watery eyes, headaches, etc., especially if they subside when away from the workplace. These symptoms can indicate problems ranging from insufficient outside make up air to contaminant growth in the air handling system.

  Well, I dunno about that stuff, but I’m usually in a pretty horrible mood from the moment I walk into the building until I leave. Hm. I should see a doctor so I can identify exactly whom I need to sue.

• Last, but certainly not least: Horseplay is hazardous and is prohibited on company property.

  What about sheep play? Or golden showers? Are blumpkins out as well? Man, that’s no fun.

I know those rules may seem hard to remember, but just keep this in mind: a little safety-sense will GREATLY reduce the number of eye-gougings and gunshot wounds at the office.

I think HW is mad at me.

And here the younger portion of the audience is thinking, “I wonder what she said to him?” To which I (and every man with a long-term significant other) reply: HA. HA HA HA. Hold for a moment whilst I repair my split sides with duct tape and crazy glue. Wait, no, not yet: my guffaws continue unabated.

Okay, much better.

Anyway, what I was getting at, in that lengthy paragraph of drivel that spewed forth from my brain like goo from a toothpaste tube being run over by a Peterbilt, is that when a woman is mad at you, she’s not going to come straight out and TELL you that she’s mad at you. The reasons for this are two-fold:

1. If she tells you, then SHE is “a bitch.”
2. If she DOESN’T tell you, and you never figure it out, then YOU are the insensitive clod that should have KNOWN something was wrong.

So no, she hasn’t said anything. But her behavior of late has been very bizarre. For example, recently she has started replacing toilet paper rolls. Normally, this would be a good thing, as her ancient habit has always been to get a fresh roll out and then just sit it on top of the john (this is the way it’s done in her family because certain members thereof have a tendency to play with the paper if it’s properly mounted on the dispenser, and we all know who you are, SuZann).

However, she has strangely mounted the new rolls such that the paper is dispensed from the BOTTOM of the roll, instead of the top. Which is just disturbing. I mean, what person in their right mind would want to dispense paper from the bottom? It’s harder to tear off, for one thing, and aside from that it’s just frickin’ UN–AMERICAN. I guess it might make it harder for the cats to play with the rolls, but we only have one cat that does that, and she’s the same one that treats the entire basement as her personal bathroom, so she’s about one more warm puddle removed from a ghastly demise.

Also, she (Sarah, not the basement-peeing cat) has taken to locking the front door, which is nice in that it makes us safer from the violent cretins that walk the streets in our neighborhood, except that inevitably she only locks either the knob or the deadbolt if I’m not home. This is like putting on half a condom: probably technically safe, but if you’re going to go to the trouble, why not go the whole way? Plus it drives me nuts when I come home, get my key out, put it in the doorknob, realize it’s unlocked, try to open the door, and bash my forehead against the door because the deadbolt is still latched. (I tend to lead with my head when I walk because my skull is impervious to injury.) It goes without saying that this happens most frequently when my hands are full of various jaunpiece.

You could also argue that she demonstrated her anger a bit more clearly when she stabbed me with a meat fork on Thanksgiving, but in our house, violence is a manifestation of great love, just like when we scream insults at each other and cause the neighbors to call social services.

I have learned another lesson today: even zombies can suffer from tooth decay.

I had a dentist appointment scheduled back in September that got rained out. Before you ask, NO, my dentist doesn’t work outside, scraping at people’s teeth during breaks between horse-shoeing appointments. On the date in question, it rained all day, such that much of Newark flooded. My appointment was at 4:30; at 4:25, as I made yet another U-turn to avoid driving through running water three feet deep, I called to alert them that I would not be making the appointment, and would call back to reschedule. Fast forward 2 months to last week; I called and scheduled an appointment for Thursday afternoon.

The next morning, the dentist’s receptionist called to let me know my hygienist had called in sick, so could we reschedule? For 7am? The day before Thanksgiving? Argh. So I got up this morning at the ungodly hour of 6, scoured off a night’s worth of bed-bugs and armpit mung, and headed to North Wilmington for my semi-annual scraping.

Let me tell you people, the days of yanking teeth out with a pair of hot tongs are OVER! In the 8 months since my last appointment, they brought in all kinds of nifty new gizmos. Now instead of scraping your enamel off with a stainless-steel spike, they have this ultra-sonic water-pik doodad that can wear your choppers down to the nubs in half the time! They also developed a technique to test for periodontal disease in which they, get this, stick a metal object down between your tooth and gum and record how far it goes and whether or not it causes bleeding, which is sort of like testing someone’s skin resilience by carving at their arm with a steak knife and recording “whether or not it causes bleeding.” They jab you three times per tooth, and the experience is less than thrilling.

Another device they’ve developed is some kind of electronic doohickey that they can put on a tooth, and then it measures the electrical resistance across the tooth to determine how much decay may be inside it. Apparently in the past, determining exactly how much of a tooth was rotted out was mostly guesswork. Anyway, it’ll come in handy when I go back in a few weeks to have a cavity drilled out of my wisdom tooth. Assuming that is, I don’t decide to just pry the tooth out myself with my Leatherman and a meat thermometer.

There was a bit of good news: the periodontal disease test determined that my gums are hell of healthy, to which I respond, “Brush and floss twice (or thrice, if your dentist is a real hardcore mofo) a day, huh? Yeah, WHATEV. I’ll keep to my strict regimen of brushing once every two days whether I need it or not, and the only time that floss will go between my teeth is if I have a piece of rotting buffalo jerky stuck in my molars. So there.”

Tomorrow: THANKSGIVING! Probably no post from me. Friday I hope to unveil my new Christmas color scheme! I love xmas. STAY TUNED!

An old dying woman stole my soul last night on the way to rehearsal.

I’m seriously serious. I think. I’m not sure. I have no soul.

I got in my truck (running late, as usual) and made the first left turn onto the main street in our development, just behind an ambulance running with its lights off. Which means one of two things: the customer is pretty much okay, but needs to get to the hospital for observation, or the customer is extremely UNokay, and needs to get to the hospital for dissection and cold storage.

Just as I pulled in line behind the ambulance, I saw the old woman inside, and then my headlights reflected right out of her eyes. At least, that’s what my logical part is trying to believe. In reality, I know that her eyes simply glowed with the power of Satan, and stole my soul straight out of my chest, rending my viscera and turning me into a 6 foot 3 inch zombie.

I’m telling you, it was hell of creepy.

So now I’m trying to figure out what this really means for my life. As a n00b zombie, I’m interested in gathering as much information about the undead lifestyle (what an amusing oxymoron that is!) as possible. Questions I have include:

1. Is this a permanent thing? Am I going to be wandering the earth with the other zombies long after humankind has perished in the final cataclysm?
   • If so, can I do cool stuff like get in fights with crazed crack addicts and never get injured? Or is it more like I can get injured, but I heal incredibly rapidly like the ghosty-razor-blade-wielding-dredlock’d dudes in Matrix 2?
2. Do I have to feast on human brains? Is any human flesh okay? I’ve never been a big fan of headcheese, but a good braised shoulder is very tasty.
3. Can I still eat of other animals? It won’t go over well at Thanksgiving dinner if I poo-poo the turkey and start gnawing on my uncle’s forearm.
4. What’s the story on reproduction? I imagine my chromosomal makeup is largely unchanged, so if I knock up HW, do we get a normal human baby? Or some kind of half human, half zombie creature that’s immortal except for the vulnerability of a STRONG allergy to dandelion pollen? Is Zombism a recessive trait, or dominant? I would assume dominant, but I ain’t no gene doctor guy.
5. What percentage of the night hours do I have to spend walking the streets of a major city, moaning about my hunger for the contents of folks’ crania? I need a solid 8 or 9 hours of sleep per night or I’m useless at work the next day. Keep in mind the nearest major city is Philadelphia, a solid 45 minutes away, so if I have to spend 3 hours per night doing my Zombic Thang, we’re really talking about the loss of almost 5 hours of sleep. I can’t be having that.
6. What exactly are my vulnerabilities? Do I need to avoid water (I hope not, I’ve drunk almost a bottle of it already this morning), or just Scotsmen with katanas? I really need to rent some films on the subject.

Anyway, I’m still getting used to this whole “walking dead” thing, so wish me luck, and if you can help answer any of my questions, I’d appreciate it. In exchange for your help, I will try to make sure that your brains are the last I eat.

First on the list: whoever invented “Elimidate.”

Wild weekend, I’ll tell you. Nipples, NBA fistfights, girls making out, fried turkeys, it had everything but the Kitchen Sink, which I almost ordered at the Charcoal Pit on Friday to gross out my friends.

Friday we went to see the Brandywine High School play, “You Can’t Take It With You,” which was pretty damned funny. We did a little pre-eating at Lonestar (mmm…16 oz prime rib), and a little post-eating at the Pit.

[An aside: We had a discussion at the Pit on Friday (Me, HW, Mary, Milo) about the Kitchen Sink, which has 20 scoops of ice cream in it and, according to the Pit menu, serves 2 to 4 people. Everyone else was astounded to think that 2 to 4 people could finish off 20 scoops of ice cream, but then I got to thinking about it; when I have ice cream, I usually have between 5 and 6 scoops, coated liberally with chocolate syrup. It stands to reason that 4 Hearns could eat a sundae containing 20-25 scoops of ice cream. Of course, one would have to find 3 other Hearns, and after they made me, they broke the mold. (Thank God.)]

Unfortunately, the real fun to be had Friday night was not with Team Hearn. The Ychromes had an away gig at George Washington University, followed by a riotous afterparty with a bunch of slutty girls. Good times for all, I’m told. Even the fat kid with horrible teeth got to make out with 2 or three women. These things did not happen while I was in the group.

[Also occurring on Friday night: Ron Artest bitch-slapping Detroit fans! It’s a pity he got suspended, considering if you throw a beer at me, I’m going to at least punch you in the stomach a couple times. Milo says that’s fine for the average citizen, but professional athletes can’t go into the stands no matter what. So if a fan throws a brick at me, I still can’t do anything? Is there a line somewhere that I can’t cross? Beer throwing is okay, but am I allowed to go after a guy if he’s hurling shuriken at my teammates? Artest and I would just like this to be cleared up before next season.

Saturday we got a bunch of stuff done around the house, including the creation of a blueberry pie (with which my wife absconded on Sunday, forcing me to make two replacement pies). At 5, we headed up into Philly, where we ate dinner at “Fat Tuesdays,” henceforth known as “A Particularly Crappy Bar in Philly That Charges Too Much For Everything and Had a Sticky Floor.” Then we went to check out Rebecca Buswell’s nipples cabaret performance at the Red Room in the Society Hill Theater. It was highly rad, and featured our friends Nora and Cindy in a number of songs, and got HW to thinking: “Matt, you should do something like this!” I’m just a meal ticket to that woman, I swear. Or at least a ticket to maybe meeting Janet Jackson someday.

Sunday: Church, bake pies, more church, English “Cream Tea.” The last was amusing; Jill and Wally and I polished off about 18 scones, 40 tea sandwiches, and a gallon or so of clotted cream.

I scooted out of there around 6pm to roll to Colin’s for Thanksgiving dinner, at which I ate too much pie, and we all made fun of the people who weren’t there (Ian, Unga, Ian some more, Justin and his HOTT NEW GIRL, etc.). We also threw the football around, and surprisingly, my left arm still functions! I must be getting more athletic as I age. By the time I’m 50 I’ll be ready to start for the Jets!

Let’s hear it for the short workweek. I’ll be baking a lot of pies. I love pie so much.

Man, yesterday’s post sure generated some commentary! Mostly by one short-bus-riding friend of mine who is suffering under the delusion that John Mayer is not totally rad. That is sad. I recommend lobotomy.

Today I would like to celebrate the life of this man:

Mr. Gary Wayne Rodgers.

Gary Wayne, long a fixture at the University of Kentucky, passed away two weeks ago as a result of catching fire in the parking lot outside Rupp Arena. Let’s all bow our heads and each say a private prayer of thanks for the light that Gary Wayne brought to each and every one of our lives.

I tried to commemorate the 12 day anniversary of his passing today by duplicating the hair style in the above mug shot family photo. (I call it the “Reverse Transmogrified Yeshiva Mullet.”) Unfortunately, due to having washed my hair within the past 3 weeks, I was unable to really do anything but make it stick up a little in the back, and it does that anyway. My failure as hairstylist merely serves to highlight the genius that was: Gary Wayne Rodgers.

Rest in peace, Gary Wayne. ::sound of Hearn pouring out a half-pint of cheap gin on the floor of his cubicle at work::

So I was thinking the other day about H. Jackson Brown‘s “Life’s Little Instruction Book,” that nifty little tome filled with helpful, often contradictory tidbits to help you along with life. I realized that I, through my 26-odd years of existence on earth, have learned a great number of things that I am remiss if I don’t pass on to the masses. However, I am unlikely to find a publisher for anything I might put to paper, due to a variety of reasons mostly stemming from a medical imbalance in my brain. Then I remembered, Holy crap! You have a website, you idiot! Put it all online! Then I wondered why my coworkers had stopped their meeting and were all staring at me. Then I noticed I had been saying my internal monologue out loud for the past few minutes.

Anyway, here are my ideas. I plan to update this from time to time. Won’t that be nice!

1. If you are trying to get somewhere, and the elderly man who was lumbering along gamely in front of you decides to STOP IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DOORWAY to get his bearings, and you then shove this man aside and cause him to fall and break his hip, YOU will be charged with a crime. This is one of life’s greatest injustices. Be warned.
2. 
   Sarah and Rachel and the Pacific, all three as purty as a posey.

   If you are working on a website post, and your wife instant messages you to say that she has a cute picture to put up, you need to delay the column for a day and just post the picture, or find a way to work the picture into the column.

3. The only time when it is reasonably safe to ask a woman if she is pregnant is when she appears to actually be in labor. Even then, it’s worth tap-dancing around the subject a little bit. “So, do you, um, have any children?” “I’M GIVING BIRTH YOU IDIOT!” “Oh! Really? I hadn’t even noticed! You carry it so well.”
   Note that if you are responsible for the pregnancy in question, the above technique could result in your death. Of course, any man with a pregnant spouse has the Sword of Damocles over his head anyway.
4. John Mayer is the best thing to come out of the American music industry, ever. There are some people around who don’t seem to grasp this. Avoid them at all costs, but if you can’t, and one of them makes fun of you for developing a lengthy interpretive dance to “Neon” or “Split-Screen Sadness,” and you stab them in the ear with a pencil, you will be charged with a crime. Be warned.
5. Trust no one that prefers Pepsi to Coke. Also, trust no one who prefers Diet Coke to Diet Pepsi.
6. You should always leave comments on people’s blogs. Everybody likes to be appreciated.
7. The left lane is for passing. Keep right. Or I will kill you. And then I will probably be charged with a crime.
8. If you see me walking by, and the tears are in my eyes, look away, baby, look away. If we meet on the street some day, and I don’t know what to say, look away, baby, look away. Don’t look at me . . .

   I don’t want you to see me this way.

9. Running from the police is always easier if you’re clothed, but much more fun if you’re nude. Make your own decisions.
10. Humankind’s greatest accomplishment has little to do with medicine, or computers, or the printing press; all that stuff is just convenience. The one invention that has changed the world for the better in almost every way: pie. I mean, seriously, what problem could you possibly have that isn’t helped at least a LITTLE bit by a piece of pie?
    Close second: donuts.
11. If you are very tall, you will never be able to find clothes that fit properly without having them custom sized. This is just something you will have to grow to accept. Try to marry a good seamstress so you can buy shirts with the 18″ neck and 36″ sleeves that you need, and have her remove the extra yard of fabric around the belly. Then use that fabric to strangle whoever it is that decided that anybody with an 18″ neck must also, by nature, have a 48″ waist. (Not that I wasn’t getting disturbingly close, for a while there.)
12. Try to avoid stabbing someone until you are reasonably certain he or she isn’t a police officer or important politician, unless you live in a state that doesn’t have the death penalty, in which case carve away at will!
13. Stereotypes were developed over hundreds of years of consistent behavior. Ignoring them is like playing Russian roulette with a semi-automatic pistol.

Okay, that’s what I’ve got for you so far. I intend to add to this list, assuming I can figure out certain technical difficulties with the numbering scheme. Until tomorrow: stay loose, killers!

It’s not every day you get quoted in a column by Lileks, so I’m milking it for all it’s worth. Read that in lieu of my usual insanity. Good stuff here tomorrow, methinks.

[Sadly, James does ascribe Mozart to the Baroque period, despite the fact that the High Baroque is usually considered to have ended in 1750 (though Handel continued writing merciless dreck through to his death in 1757) and Mozart wasn’t born until 1756. We forgive him, though, because he’s so pretty.]