As many of you know, for Valentine's day Laura purchased stand-up comedy lessons for me from the San Francisco Comedy College. One of the
perks of taking the classes is that you have access to the open-mic nights. And what is the point of taking the
classes if I don't take advantage of all the opportunities they offer? So last night I performed at my first open-mic
night.

1. It was my first time to ever "entertain" a crowd (on purpose) on a microphone
2. I had a 3 minutes time limit
3. I'm actually not chewing gum in the video, though it looks like I am
4. I forgot to look towards the people on the right-hand side of the stage until about 2 minutes in
5. Only one joke bombed - And I knew it would
6. I moved around a bit too much
7. Yes, I harvested a lot of this from my blog
8. Overall, It went perfect

Your moment of Zen:

If you're in the SF area and want to see my next stand-up set, drop me a line, and I'll send you the details.

I've always loved to read. Many of us do, but I rarely make time to read. Over time, I've managed to buy more books than I ever
have read books. I have magnificent shelves filled with finely sorted books that have perfect spines. Only a
few books on my shelves have scoliosis - Fahrenheit 451, Timequake, Walden, and
my collection of Calvin and Hobbes.

I am on a quest to narrow the amount of time I spend in front of a computer monitor once I'm away from work,
seeing as my job in IT consists of little else than staring at monitors. At the end of the day,
I want my mind to be better. Though the internet is a vast landscape, I often find its oasises spaced too far apart and that I'm bored in route between them.

I'm as fluent with the depths of the internet as anyone, but I feel as though I'm a stranger
to the depths of chapters in books. I've been snorkeling too long, so I've set out to read more. I now
receive subscriptions to Wired, Play, Geek, and the New Yorker, and I read each issue in full. It is
a good feeling, though I am drowning in the New Yorker.

You never realize how often "weekly" is until there is a visual reminder of it. And I almost feel
shame as I look at the slowly growing stack of New Yorker magazines that seems to arrive before I can
finish the previous issue and think to myself "Surely, You can read these faster than they arrive." (Hurray,
self-efficacy!)

I'm also breaking the spines of the books on my shelves.

We (Laura and I, not me and my book shelves or magazines) ventured to the City Lights Book store, a brisk fifteen minute
walk from our apartment, on Friday night. By far the best book store in San Francisco, it reminds me of the
beloved Shakespeare & Co in Paris. Though City Lights is bigger and more clean, they both seem to have
the same guiding principles. And City Lights is owned by Lawrence Ferlinghetti, the last living beat poet.

From City Lights, I purchased Tom Wolfe's "The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test". It is a smooth read. The words
seem buttered. A passage can be read with such ease, that I'm always convinced I must have missed something.
And Wolfe's style seems to be a blend of Arlo Guthrie and Hunter S. Thompson. Also, Wolfe must have been
allergic to commas. He either removed as many commas as his editor would allow or he used few enough commas
to not cause anaphylactic shock.

A few weeks back, I had a chance to try ten flavors of the Harry Potter Anything Flavor Jelly Beans
produced by Jelly Belly. The idea of anything flavored jelly beans is a novel concept, but if you think
about it, the majority of things in life are not edible for a good reason. They taste gross.

It is strange what people won't do, but will do. Under sane conditions, you would not try these flavors.
You wouldn't order vomit flavored food from a menu. But if a company makes a novely gift sample pack, you'l
find yourself having a tasting party with five friends.

The taste of these candies is so uncanny an disturbing, you will quadruple check the list of ingredients.
The other strange thing is - for some reason - we've all tasted these in real life somehow, which might
be more disturbing.

Dirt - This had that dry, soil taste you remember from being forced to eat dirt on the playground as a child. Like when you did a back flip out of a swing, caught your foot on the chain, ate a mouthful of dirt, and knocked yourself out during recess (true story).
Or one of those real attic boogers that you fish out of your nose on a dry day.
Scrumptiousness: Bearable, better than real dirt

Grass - It tasted like a freshly mowed lawn smells with an additional hint of Dirt.
Unlike eating from lawn, there is a lowered risk of dog poop being involved.
Scrumptiousness: Better flavor than dirt

Booger - The great news is, if you like this flavor, you don't need to buy anything in order to please your
taste buds.
You are your own factory.
Scrumptiousness: Oddly familiar

Earwax - Just like the real stuff. A bit sour. Find a Q-tip, and you can make the equivalent of a popcicle.
The only downside, you ate this on purpose and not on accident when nibbling on your significant other.
Scrumptiousness: Somewhat edible

Soap - Now you can experience the taste of minimum wage at a Bath & Body store. The flavor attacks your taste buds with the same overload your olfactory receives when you're within a hundred
yards of such a store.
It also tasted like the flavored candle I once took a bite of on a dare.
Scrumptiousness: Over-powering

Black Pepper - I'm confused why they put a fairly normal taste in a sample filled with fairly gross flavors.
It tasted peppery. Imagine that.

Scrumptiousness: You can finish this

Earthworm - A nice play on the flavor of Dirt. It could use a slimey finish though.
Not as meaty as you'd expect.
Scrumptiousness: Interesting, but nothing to write home about (blog instead)

Vomit - Want to feel like a bullimic soccer mom for a day or a bird being fed? Pop a bunch of these. They have the same acidic,
regurgitated taste as the real stuff. Except it is going down instead of coming up.

Scrumptiousness: You might taste this both directions

Rotten Egg - This is the only flavor I could not swallow. I tried, but after 5 seconds, I made a mad dash for
the trash can, spit it out, drank a mojito, and still suffered flashbacks for the rest of the evening.

Scrumptiousness: What the dead hooker in the trunk smells like

At OSU, in my first architecture studio I sat by Tegan and Kristin; two very fun girls and good friends at the time. I still keep in touch with Tegan. In fact, I went to Tegan's wedding. That was the garter that started my garter catching streak. But I lost contact with Kristin long ago.

One weekend we all went to Tegan's apartment to eat pizza, drink, and watch movies.

Between the two of us, Kristin and I finished an entire fifth of Whiskey - not quickly, but over the course of an entire evening. Needless to say, you're pretty gone after that much whiskey.

Kristin had been trained and worked as a masseuse. She also took ecstasy sometimes. I don't approve of drug use, and I've never taken drugs (not even pot) - but I can't police my friends, so whatever.

She offered to give me a back massage, and I accepted of course. I don't think I had a choice - I was already face down on the couch about to fall asleep. And I remember it lasted forever.
(No, it didn't turn into anything X rated - we were on a couch in the living room of someone else's apartment at a small party.)

The point of the story is this: if you ever split a fifth of whiskey with a masseuse, and then receive a massage from her, while she is on ecstasy, it will be impossible for you to to ever enjoy another back massage to that degree. It is the nirvana of massages. You don't need the Dhali Lama. You need a crazy friend.

From that moment on, my back and shoulder muscles took a permanent vacation. To this day my muscles are still relaxed. A nuclear holocaust could take place on my shoulders, and I wouldn't be able to feel it for anything.

It always reminded me of something that Hunter S. Thompson might have happen (either the massage or the nuclear holocaust, but specifically the massage). On the other hand, a massage from him wouldn't have interested me. Then again, if Kristin never publishes a book, that story won't have many bragging rights.

ps - The funniest post I've seen this week.

Two weekends ago, the partners of our company let Laura and I use their ski cabin for the weekend. So we
spent one day skiing at Squaw Valley Ski Resort, where the 1976 Olympics took place, and one day at Sugar
Bowl. Of course, we took our friends Jess & Ryan and Megan
& Daniel with us.

Once we arrived, my first order of business was to create a fire. Technically, we were in Truckee, which
is in North Tahoe and is also a terrible name for a town. We arrived to discover that the partners pay for a very
nice cabin: 3 stories, 3 bathrooms, 4 bedrooms, and a huge kitchen, living, and dining room. Also, we discovered
ice-cold beer chilling in the snow on the balcony.

Skiing at Squaw

Saturday morning, Jess & Ryan dropped us off at Squaw Valley. I'm a good skier, and I was thrilled to be at Squaw.
However, Laura hadn't been skiing in 9 years. Needless to say, an Olympic quality hill is not the appropriate
place to let your girlfriend remember how to ski. In all, I think there are only 3 green beginner trails, and over
half the trails are rated as difficult.

On day 2, the falling snow kept freezing to my stumble, so I had an ice beard.

She got cold, so we switched jackets.

Mountains have the magical ability to make a tiny bag of chips and a Snapple cost $7.46. Notice, that isn't even
a standard $0.99 bag of chips. That is typically a $0.69 bad of chips. Mountains can also make teeny tiny pizzas,
about 8 inches across, cost $12.00.

From the top of Squaw

Skiing at Sugar Bowl

The weather forecast for Sunday predicted rain, but luckily it snowed all day instead. Jess & Ryan headed back
to San Francisco early to avoid the snow, but the rest of us used the day to ski. However, because of the snow
we didn't take any photographs. I'd already spent a ridiculous amount of money the previous day on crappy
ski resort food, and I didn't feel like ruining a digital camera on top of it.

Laura and Megan kept to the easier slopes, while Daniel and I dashed off for adventure. Every few hours we'd
meet up and ski with the girls for a bit, and then dash back off. Also, for the first time, I tried and mastered
the art of skiing backwards.

Let's cut to the end of the day: we were soaked from skiing in falling snow. Daniel had brought his Audi sports car,
and we barely got the car out of the parking lot and down the mountain to the next resort. At the next resort we found
ourselves stuck between two steep hills that the Audi could not scale. So, soaking wet, I hopped out of the car and
started to ask people in the parking lot for a lift to the nearest general store (and a ride back) in order to get
chains for the car.

After getting rejected 6 times, it dawned on me: "Why the hell isn't Megan in the snow asking this? I could be
sitting nice and toasty in the car." I didn't want to push Megan in to the cold, but she happens to be a lovely
Osage Indian. If you're a young man asking for someone to get chains for an Audi, they think you're an arrogant
prick. If you're a lovely young woman asking the same question, you get instantly rescued.

Sure enough, the first person Megan asked offered to drive her to the general store. That is when she surprised him
and said "Oh, thanks. I'll get Daniel, my husband, and he can ride with you." In the car, the first thing the driver said
to Daniel was "I thought there were only two girls in that car."

After about 45 minutes, Daniel returned with tire chains. Then he and I had the wonderful task of putting the
tire chains on in the falling snow, while we were still soaking wet. Our clothing was wet enough that I didn't even
bother to wear a jacket, and the temperature couldn't have been higher than 32F. And of course putting chains on
while the car is in 8 inches of snow doesn't make the task easier. So after 45 minutes of putting on the chains,
which included 15 to fix some broken rungs, we made our final departure down the mountain and back to the cabin.

Then we had to rush to clean the cabin, pack our stuff, and head out as quickly as possible in order to avoid the
roads turning in to pure ice. Of course, as we're about to leave the cabin I hear "Oh, no! The toilet is
over flowing!" Thankfully it was clean water. I fixed the toilet, cleaned up the bathroom, and we finally
made it down the hill.

Overall, the trip was great. But the 2 hours of getting from Sugar Bowl to the cabin made for an extermely long
day. And Daniel lost his cell phone while putting the chains on the car, and Megan's phone was ruined by
snow at some point while skiing.

Life seems to move in themes. Shortly after my last post, I purchased the LP "I Need a Life" by the Born Ruffians.
The title song on the album is (tada) "I Need a Life". Watch the video:

Doesn't it sound like they're saying "Oh, Black People, Out at night!"

A while back I wrote a post about a misprinted Laffy Taffy
joke. Well, on Wednesday evening I went to my first stand-up comedy lesson. After the class, there happened to be an open-mic night,
and they're having a contest: You tell a joke, they post it online, and people vote for the joke.

So I decided to tell the "Flash Garden" joke. In a way, my entry in itself is a joke, but even so, I want to win the contest
and to do that I need people to vote. Go Vote For My Joke.
There is a winner each week, and I'd like to be that winner.

What is the difference between me and a black woman telling a joke? In my url there is a three. See, I posted the link to Twitter and Facebook, but I forgot the 3 at the end of the URL. GRRR!

I enjoy being an uncle. Part of the fun is playing "Ask Seth, he probably knows." My friends play this to, because I'm wikipedia personified (the result of not knowing what I wanted to do in college). Of my nieces and nephews, Aidan is the most vocal about his thoughts. He is very focused introspectively. His sister Kiera loves to be tickled and chased and frightened (even at 8 she is a thrill seeker). Aidan likes to ask and be asked questions.

I've not been around a lot of five year olds, but on the other hand. He is the only child who, when at the age of five, asked me how gravity works. Aidan is 6, and his mom recently explained the holocaust to him (they live in Germany).

Aidan: "It is too bad God wasn't alive back then."

Beth: "He was."

Aidan: "Then it is too bad God was a sleep."

A good explanation is simple and short. For example, if you can't explain a drinking game in less than 30 seconds, then it is too complicated. Not that I explain many drinking games to five year olds.

An explanation either works or it makes things more confusing. To explain gravity, I'm not about to explain gravitational lensing or space-time continuums. I would try to explain that it isn't always the same and fill his head with something fun.

Seth: "The Earth is big. Much bigger than we are, right?"

Aidan: "Yes."

S: "Big things, like the Earth, attract things. That means the Earth is big enough that things want to stick to it."

A: "Okay"

S: "Jump for me. Let's see how high you jump."

A: *jump*

S: "The bigger something is, the more things like to stick to it. This means that on a planet bigger than Earth, you can't jump as high. And on a planet smaller than the Earth, you can jump much higher. The moon is smaller than the Earth. On the moon, you can easily jump up and touch the ceiling."

A: "Okay"

S: "So, back to the game. If I guess the card right, you have to take that many drinks."

Now all I can think about is how cool it would be to jump around on the moon. And on that note, I think my Saturday is going
to start with a trip around San Francisco to find a moonpie. Remember those? I'll post pictures once I find and devour one.

Remember, Go Vote For My Joke.

This post is a little sophomoric, but I had to write it.

I hate using public bathrooms. I like the bathroom to be empty. And I really hate it when you enter the bathroom at the same time as someone else and you get to your stalls at the same time. It's like a secret race. And in my head I'm very self-conscious and I always think people are going to return to their desk and say things like "Seth just had to flush twice" or "He sat down, but he just peed. No poo. Why would he sit to do that?" As though they have a little notebook, like in the game of Clue, and their marking down observations about other people.

It's completely unfounded, but that is the thought process that happens.

Last week I went in to the bathroom at work, and I walked in right as a co-worker did. I had a half step lead on him, so I headed for the handicap stall, because I always use a stall. Here is where the dilemma started: he ducked in to the normal stall beside me, and I'd bet that he needed the urinal.

I didn't need to sit down, but he obviously did, and I'd just taken the nicest seat. I didn't want him to think I was a jerk for taking the handicap stall when I didn't need it. And my brain started imagining scenarios where he would later be telling people how rude I am. "Hey, do you know what Seth did? He didn't even need to sit down, and he took the handicap stall! What a bastard."

So I sat down, that way I at least presented an illusion that justified the need to take the handicap stall.

Then I started to think about the shortest amount of time it might take to convince the other person I'd actually needed to sit. Then I started thinking about how ridiculous the entire situation was, how ridiculous I am, and how ridiculous it is that I hate it when people are in the bathroom - as though I have a reputation to uphold. It started to make me laugh.

As I fought my laughter, out of nowhere I let out the funniest sounding fart. It sounded like a unicorn farted. I'm not sure how a unicorn fart sounds, but that seems to be the right description. And then I completely lost self-control and began laughing.

So I ended up sitting in the handicap stall laughing so hard I had tears in my eyes. And I'm sure that DID make my co-worker wonder what in the hell was going on. Because uncontrollable laughing from the stall next door has to be a strange moment.

It is amazing how long you can go in life without questioning something; how long you can know something, but know it wrong.

Ocean handles are the handles on a the ceiling of a car that you can hang clothing from, that way as you drive to a wedding your tuxedo slacks can fall on to the floor and get nice crinkles. In long car rides, you rest your arm in the window and hold the handle. It (the handle, not your arm) isn't an object you refer to often and seldom do you think about the origin of the word.

In my junior year of high school, I told a story that involved ocean handles somehow. To add to the story, I was the academic bowl team captain at the time, and we (the team) were on our way back from a competition. Before I had finished the story, everyone started laughing. Then a friend name Sheri chimed in "Seth, it isn't an 'Ocean' handle. It is an 'Oh, Shit!' handle. As in 'Oh shit, hold on to something!'"

Suddenly the world made more sense to me. I had no reason to believe I had the wrong name for the handle. And I'd never thought about the word much. Cognitive dissonance at its best.

A few weeks ago, a group of us had a conversation about songs we learned in Sunday school. "This Little Light of Mine" came to focus. I love that song, especially as a spiritual, even though I can't sing a proper note and I'm not ethnic enough to sing spirituals without seeming oddly out of place. Turns out, I've sung the lyrics wrong for 22 years.

The lyric is "Hide it under a bushel, no" not "Hide it under a bush, oh no."

I learned the song before I had learned to read. At the age of 5, "bushel" isn't part of your active vocabulary, and I've never seen the lyrics printed. I'd never pondered the words. And I grew up in a whimsical and ridiculous household where silly lyrics tended to be par. It never occurred to me that I sang the wrong lyrics.

It is nice to know things properly. But I must admit, I had more fun when I knew the words incorrectly.

I have a healthy imagination. For ocean handles, I imagined the term came from the 1950's & 60's when people piled in to large station wagons that had fake wooden paneling and made their way for the beach. As the people cruised, they kept one hand out the window to hold the surf boards on the roof down, and with the other hand they held on to the ocean handles.

And I've always had entertaining thoughts of daft people trying to hide candles under bushes and what a terrible fire hazard that would be. And what kind of questions did their household insurance agent ask them?

"Does your house have bushes?"
"Do you have a `that little light of mine' brand candle?"
"Would you ever place it under a bush?"

Besides, my lyrics make sense because trying to hide you're a Christian makes as little sense as putting a candle under a bush. It is ridiculous.

From this point, I have no transition. It is Friday. The partners of the company aren't using the ski cabin, so we're headed to Tahoe for wicked skiing and to have an awesome, massive cabin all to ourselves. I'm going to drink beer that has chilled in snow and have snowball fights. Enjoy your weekend!

I am the youngest of five, and Rebecca is my closest sibling by age. We're cohorts of fun. The first time she was pregnant, she and her husband decided not to know the gender of the baby. I appreciate when couples do this because it helps keep up the excitement surrounding their child, and to already know the due date, gender, and name removes much of that excitement.

During Rebecca's first pregnancy, I advised her that when people questioned whether she knew what the baby was going to be, she should answer "An architect." In good humor, I also suggested names for the child.

Of all the names, "Electra" stood out as my favorite. Every little girl has a dream, and that dream is best answered by having a name that is a comic book reference. In this case it means "I'm an assassin from a comic book."

In 2005, Jennifer Garner starred in the movie Elektra, which holds a fond spot in my heart as one of the worst movies ever. It is worse than if a Wayne's brother movie starred the exhumed career of Steven Segal. I liked the honesty of Elektra. It never possed as a good movie, and you knew that without having to see it. I only saw it because a friend had free tickets on opening night.

The point of my name game is to be ridiculous and to remind my
siblings, in a loving fashion, to name their kids well. Thus far they
have done a superb job: Kiera, Aidan, William, Alexander, and George.

Rebecca is pregnant again, and this time she knows the gender. I am pleased to know that a lovely niece is on her way. I currently have one niece and four nephews. I love my nephews, but some more grace and beauty, rather than loud, rambunctious super heroes, will be a pleasant (and peaceful) addition to this vibrant world. And until she arrives and has been given a name, our family is referring to her as "Electra" for fun.

Here are the other names I've suggested for my niece...

• Melody Toyota - I saw this on the back of a car as I walked to work. It means "divine providence, 5.6% APR, and no interest until August of 2009."
• Crested Butte - A name no child on a school yard could mock.
• Debutante Ball - Can any other name say ruffled dresses and foxtrot with such ease?
• Carson Daly - Every girl dreamed of being Carson Daly. Why not name a girl Carson Daly?
• Plaster of Paris - It says "creative, cultured, and our landlord doesn't allow us to put holes in the wall."
• Punky Brewster - Nothing says family love like Punky's story.
• Eddy Grant - If you get this reference, then mad props to you.
• Chuck Yeager - Enough said.

No matter the name, I'm ready to meet and cherish Electra along with the rest of my bright nieces and nephews.

And all of those things seem to originate in Japan. Where I work, an Out Of Office e-mail is sent each morning with news about who is in or out of the office and some random news. On Monday the OOO included the following:

I posted this to Facebook and watched some great comments roll in. My favorite is Melissa's because she has five kids (five? yea, I think that is right):

To suit that:

I have a friend named Yossef, and his friend had a baby. The moment Yossef heard the news he order the largest stuffed bear he could find - a gigantic teddy bear, three and a half feet tall, holding a little heart with the name "Kevin" embroidered on it. Then when he talked to the father, the father said "Oh, we didn't name the child Kevin after all." So Yossef ordered a second large bear with the name "Samuel" on it. The family received both bears. This actually happened.

I always laugh because I can picture Samuel becoming concerned after running around the house and opening the door to a room he has never been in. A bedroom at the end of a long hallway. He gently pushes the door open and discovers a large bear, much like his own, but with the name "Kevin" on it.

"If I never had a brother, then explain the grizzly sized teddy bear in the last bedroom!"

In other news, it looks like I'm here for