Technically my position is hourly, so every Thursday I have to submit a timesheet. A few of my friends are the poor souls who have to go through the countless timesheet e-mails and process all the numbers. I thought I’d spice up the drudgery of their day with the following, which I submitted with my timesheet:

Ode to Timesheet Day!
By Seth

The most wonderful part of the week is today!
Today is the day we submit how much we get paid!

Will I be broke or will I make rent?
How much money will I have to spend?
Will I be rich or will I be poor?
What kind of leisurely life is in store?
Will I be dining on steak or on bourshe?
Can I yet afford that new dream Porsche?

Should I start building a building or a cardboard house?
Should I buy a new keyboard, computer, and mouse?
Or should I pack up my bindle and prepare to delouse?

It is Timesheet day!
It is Timesheet day!

Hip hip, Hurray!
Hip hip, Hurray!
Hip hip, Hurray!

About two months ago, with some pride I said "I'm glad we've never had a mouse. Or at least one we've known about." The next day, Laura walked in to the living room and declared "Ah, a mouse!" Which was appropriate because she had spotted a mouse. I entered just in time to see the mouse dash under the bookshelf.

Since I don't get a lot of chances to hunt animals in San Francisco, I didn't want to let the opportunity to pass. So I went in to General Patton mode to catch the nimble rodent Rommel. I purchased some traps from Walgreens, and armed them with peanut butter. Peanut butter might be affective, but it isn't very fear inspiring. I demand more fearsome mouse traps! Can we at least get camouflage mouse traps?

I have never seen a Vietnam movie where someone called in a peanut butter strike on their own coordinates. I've never seen anyone harmed by or with peanut butter, which might indicate the harmlessness of the product or perhaps a boring lifestyle on my part. Or, think of it this way: you've probably never eaten a napalm and jelly sandwich, have you? I wanted to at least soak the traps in gasoline and then attach flint locks to the trap, but Laura didn't agree with me using mutual annihilation tactics against a mouse.

Before you ask, let me answer your question: Yes, I considered getting the non-lethal mouse traps, but I'm not sure what you do with a live mouse. It isn't like the traps come with mouse-sized water boarding kits. And I don't have any place to release a mouse that isn't practically someone else's apartment.

After setting the traps, I became suspicious that everything might be the mouse's counter attack, especially when I returned home the next day and discovered this in the living room.

In the end, I got the mouse and managed to keep the X-Box 360 by defusing the giant trap in Hurt Locker fashion. Also, I did actually read Mouse Guard: Fall 1152 a few weeks ago. Very good.

Why Money is Awesome and Often Better than Mice or Canadians*
Narrated by Me.
Illustrated by I. M. Too Tired to Use Photoshop Right Now.

1. It fits in my wallet.
2. There is some in my wallet.
3. If you're fortunate, your job pays you in money as opposed to mice or the less useful Canadian dollar.
4. If you pet money too hard, it won't die in your pocket, George won't get mad, and you won't be played by John Malkovich in the movie adaptation.
5. Unlike mice or Canadians, money doesn't typically have to be caught in a trap baited with peanut butter.
6. If you bring money home, you don't have to worry about it eating crumbs and pooping in your cabinet. If you're Stephen Harper, you're in the cabinet. And if you dislike his politics, then you might think he is pooping in there.
7. Through the transmogrifier of capitalism, you can normally exchange money for better things.
8. If you're a magician, you can use money in tricks.
9. If you're a rabbit or a John, you can use it to buy Trix.
10. The awesome toy store down the street accepts money.

This weekend I turned money in to some Lego Minifigures Series #1. There are 16 collectible figures in all, and I've managed to collect 12 of the 16 (rumor has it they made an Amelia Earhart minifigure, but no one can find her). The only figures I'm missing are the Indian, the Robin Hood, the Zombie, and the Clown. I need the Indian because until I get her the Lego casino operation I'm running is pretty illegitimate.

Of the 12 I have, here are my favorite 5:

From left to right: Astronaut ("Mike Dexter"), Ninja, Cowboy ("John Marston"), Robot ("AW3SOM3"), and the Wrestler. I'm not sure what name one might give the wrestler. He appears to be the imaginary love child of Nacho Libre and Mickey Rourke. I wouldn't name a child after a Jack Black reference, so the same holds true for a toy.

* = or Canadian Mice or Mice Canadians. The latter was created by a biological warfare experiment gone wrong.

The conversation went...

Her: "Who do I make this to?"
Me: "Seth."
Her: "Huh?"
Me: "S-e-t-h."

Though I did spell it for her, I think she'd have gotten it right on her own if someone hadn't started speaking right at the start of our exchange.

It is funny that songs in karaoke and in games such as Rock Band are always listed as "Some Song as made famous by Some Band." If you're the original artist, as you play Rock Band in your broken down trailer at the state fair, the labeling of the song must be a sad reminder that another band took your song and made an actual career with it. Or at least better money than you did. On the other hand, there are definitely songs you would not want related to your name, such as "Popozao" or "Achy Breaky Heart."

It is a naming scheme we should really apply more often. For example, "Oil as made famous by BP", "Hentai as made famous by Japan", or "Robot Voices as made famous by Rotating Fans and Stephen Hawking". The last one is more of a collaborative duet that has led to the famous philosophical question, if Stephen Hawking talks in to a fan, does he sound normal?

Today we're going to discuss the song "Cotton Eyed Joe as made famous by Rednex". In case you've forgotten what the song is like, here is the music video:

In high school, we'd heard this song for some reason, and my friend Mark asked me what I thought the song was about. I thought about the lyrics to the song...

If It hadn't Been For Cotton Eyed Joe
I'd Been Married a long Time Ago
Where did you come from where did you go
Where did you come from Cotton-Eye Joe

I answered that "It is about a man whose woman has been stolen away by a guy named Cotton Eyed Joe." And if you really wanted to push things, one might argue Cotton Eye Joe is a new generation's "Rocky Raccoon". Albeit a  very untalented, uninspired version. Think of it as "Rocky Raccoon" if George Harrison had written it. But Mark proposed a different theory, and every time I hear the song, which is thankfully not often, I am more convinced that he is right...

The Theory of Cotton Eyed Joe as made famous by Mark Almack:

"The song is about a man who was engaged to a woman, but Cotton Eyed Joe showed up and then the man fell in love with Joe instead. He would have been married, but instead he went gay for Joe." In other words, Joe stole the men and that broke the hearts of the girls.

Sure, you might not think it makes sense either until you read the rest of the lyrics from the song. Yes, I was also surprised to discover the song has more than 4 lines of lyrics:

He [Joe] brought a disaster wherever he went
The hearts of the girls were to hell, broken sent.
They all ran away so nobody would know
and left only men 'cause of Cotton-Eye Joe

Now you too will find yourself wondering about it every time you hear the song.

What do you think?

The difference between "stealing" a book from the library and "not returning" a book is completely dependent on whether or not you were an amazing historical figure. We know this because a few months ago the New York City library discovered that George Washington never returned two books. His late fee, after 220 years, is approximately $300,000. Of the two books, one was the 12th volume of a 14-volume collection of debates from the English House of Commons. 220 years after he checked out the volume, it is the only volume of the series missing.

As someone who never returns library books on time, I enjoy this story for three reasons. First, I now know my inability to return library books signals the unbridled ability to either lead a country to greatness or ford a river while striking a dramatic pose. Second, at least one person has raked up a book fine I will never top. Three, I must be as equally busy as Washington had been.

In college I had the privilege to check out 20 books at a time. I never did because I knew that since I could never return one book on time only divine intervention could help me to return 20 books on time. And if I'm going to ask God for a miracle on my behalf, it will be less along the lines of "Can you help me return these books?" and more along the lines of "Can we have one more volume of Calvin and Hobbes?". I'm still convinced the 20-book limit had to be an intricate predatory inter-library loan system overseen by the American Library Mafia.

I can't blame boy George for never returning the books. After getting home, he must have realized there are better books to read/steal. I hope he didn't die with the regret that he hadn't checked out "Pride and Prejudice and Zombies" or a good Tom Clancy or Dan Brown book. Even a madlib might have proved more entertaining. Or maybe it was a madlib of debates from the English House of Commons.

As we all know, given the timeline, such a madlib would have included William Wilberforce's 1789 Abolition Speech to the House of Commons...

"When I (lasso) the magnitude of the (poop) which I am to (prance) before the (Queen of England)—a subject, in which the (Girl Scout cookies), not of this (peacock), nor of (Uruguay) alone, but of the whole (Rascal Scooter), and of (Walt Disney's Cryogenic Chamber), are involved: and when I (hump), at the same time, on the (stupidity) of the (ninja pirate) who has undertaken this (smelly) cause—when these reflections press upon my (va jay jay), it is impossible for me not to feel both (excited) and (aroused) at my own inadequacy to such a (border collie)."

I took this photograph at my parents house last weekend. Nothing is better than visiting home, and I believe this picture starts to capture a tiny portion of the beautiful place where I was lucky enough to grew up.

For Memorial Day weekend Laura and I attended our friend Alisonn's wedding in Oklahoma. I'm happy to report that both the bride and the groom attended the wedding as well (not that anyone feared otherwise). The evening didn't feature a garter toss, but it did feature an awesome Oklahoma-style thunder storm and fireworks. Real fireworks. And I got to break out my brand new DKNY charcoal grey suit for the occasion.

The entire day rocked, but at the moment I have a different goal in mind. At the wedding rehearsal, I had an experience that I've not had in ages; my reputation proceeded me. As I was being introduced to a guy named Adam, he said "I know who you are from Xanga."

In April my blog turned 7 years old. The earlier years definitely rank as my favorite, because I was in college, blogging had become a new craze, and all of my friends had Xangas. I might not have been the best writer or the most entertaining, but I did have a decent following. And at some point my following reached an interesting threshold and people on campus began to recognize me.

I'd be walking across campus, checking out a book, or eating lunch at Coney Island and someone would go out the way to come in, make an introduction, say he/she was a fan, talk about a new post or random topic, and then head out on his/her way again. In group settings I'd be introduced as Seth (definitely an appropriate introduction) and would receive a typical run-of-the-mill cordial response. Then someone might utter the words "He is PopeOnABomb." And with those words I could spot a change. "Oh, I know who you are!" People recognized me, had something in common to talk about, wanted to say hello, and scariest of all had expectations of me.

The most out-of-place experience I had is when someone in a San Francisco art gallery recognized me from my Denver Airport video. And thanks to YouTube I know only a handful of people have ever seen that.

No matter how many/few time I've been recognized, I've always found the experience exciting, alien, and intriguing. It is fascinating, and I love it. I'm not always sure what people see in me (or if they see anything at all), but I am pleased when they see it. And I'm thankful for all of the strangers, friends, and family who have taken interest in what I write and who also often take the time to respond. (I apologize for not always returning the favor - I do try).

So to all of you, thank you. Thank you very, very much.

Now I have to go outside, because the day is gorgeous and I want to find something funny to write about.

I love to eat seafood. I find it tasty, and I may have an appreciation for eating things captured with nets. In which case I'd probably find butterflies delicious and spiderwebs an irresistible dinner. However, I don't plan on testing my palette for either of those. This is all a very large way of saying that I've come to the scientific conclusion that I am allergic to mussels.

This is strange / interesting to me for two reasons. First, I'm awesome and my life is not plagued with allergies or health problems (I pray that the good fortune always continues). I can eat, roll, play, hump, lick, and hug almost anything without an allergic reaction or lawsuit. Second, I'm not allergic to any other seafood. It would seem that in the entire ocean another seafood might fall in to the same kingdom, phylum, class, order, family, or genus as mussels, and that I'd be allergic to it as well.

If you take all of the animals from the ocean that I've eaten and divided them in to two groups and called one "Everything Except mussels" and the other "Not Carrots" (the latter group consists only of mussels), and then you make me eat each group. Here is what happens. 

Both groups have the same fundamental dining experience:

1. Order from the menu
2. Eat too much free bread
3. Devour delicious meal
4. Impress the other patrons by playing some jazz flute
5. Pay for the meal
6. Impress patrons by computing tip in my head
7. Go home

After returning home, things become different though. With the "Everything Except mussels" group, my evening continues as follows:

1. Blog about twittering
2. Twitter about Blogging
3. Day dream about having a giant robot and retrofitting it with cool things (lasers, jetpack, picnic basket)
4. Play video games

The "Not Carrots" group converts the evening in to:

1. Blog about ACCUTE PAIN
2. Twitter about OMG MORE PAIN, STILL IN MY STOMACH
3. Day dream about Morphine
4. Wonder what the show would have been like had it been called "Might Morphine Power Rangers"
5. Google weather
6. Google whether OMFG CAN THAT CRAP FROM ALIENS REALLY HAPPEN?
7. Followed by playing video games while in pain
8. While playing video games I pretend that I'm Battle Damage Seth, taking real battle damage from the video game

That is a pretty accurate summary.