"I, Macintosh"

So the other day, I finally got fed up with my crappy and stupid router (see: Netgear Solid), so my roommate Chris and I decided to stroll down to Best Buy and get a new one.

We found a router. We were getting ready to leave.

Chris: "Hey, that looks cool."

Derek: "Yeah, iMacs are so much sweeter than crappy Dells. Dude! I want to firebomb my Dell!"

Chris: (thinks for a few moments) "Alright, I think I'll buy it."

Derek: (speechless) "I'm speechless..."

Chris: "Think I should get it?"

Derek: "Well, what are you going to use it for? You've already got a laptop that was nearly top of the line when you bought it less than a year ago."

Chris: "I dunno. Prolly just poker."

Derek: "Where are you gonna put it?"

Chris: "Dining room table."

Derek: "Dining roo- what? We don't have a dining room."

Chris: (shrugs) "Whatever, just the table between the kitchen counter and the couches and shit."

Derek: "The poker table? You're going to set your computer up on the poker table...."

Chris: "Yeah. It'll be appropriate."

Derek: "Because you're mostly going to use the computer for poker."

Chris: "Yup. And the internet. It'll be convenient."

Derek: "You never play poker because you're rich and lazy; you have a laptop you put in your lap on the couch while you watch TV. How can an iMac possibly be more convenient?"

Chris: "Man, look how fucking CRISP that monitor is!"


So we went to Best Buy to snag a router, and The Beatman snagged a kickass iMac on a whim. Most people would pay with a Credit Card, or a Check/Debit Card. Not Chris. Chris, why don't you just go to the bank and get a Check Card, man? It's like cash, but you don't have to carry cash around. "Naw, it'd take way too long." Chris, it takes, like, ten minutes to order one. And a week- maybe 10 days at the absolute most- to get it delivered. Oh, and they'll give you a temporary card to use until the big dog comes. "Yeah, but what if it takes twenty minutes? I'd have a nervous breakdown, I think..."

So Chris was going to pay in cash. However, he required a small favor.

Beat: "Hey, Derek? How much cash you got on you?"

Wang: "I dunno, man. Not much. I think I've got like a hunny, maybe a little less. Yeah, like point-nine hundo... I don't really have enough to help out with the com-"

Beat: "What's the router? Like 70 bucks?"

Wang: "Yeah, a little more than 74, after tax."

Beat: "Can you do me a favor? Cover that and I'll get you back when we get home?"

Wang: "...sure. You've got enough to cover the iMac on you?"

Beat: "Yeah, just barely. I knew I should've been carrying more cash."

Wang: "That's exactly what I was thinking..."

So we load up the i(mpromptu)Mac, and drive home. Chris was feeling positively ebullient, excited about his new purchase.


Him: "I've got an idea. Let's clean the whole fucking apartment."

Me: "It's in pretty good shape. We've just got some pizza boxes, some trash that needs to be taken out, some cans that nee-"

Him: (evile laugh, with an evile look in his eyes) "My room's a little messy; there are quite a few boxes in there."

Me: "Yeah, your room's a bit of a sty, but I don't know if I really feel up to wading through The Swamp. You've got enough beer cases, pizza boxes, and random containers in there to keep a fire going for 3 days."

Him: (super evile look in his eyes) "Naw... I bet it'll be like 3 hours."

Me: (resigned) "Aw, fuck... we've got a fireplace, don't we?"

So we gathered all the fucking paper and cardboard trash in the house and put it in front of the living room fireplace; I'd try to explain how much there was, but nobody would believe it without seeing it, and I didn't have the foresight to take a picture for posterity. We established a Natural Light case-base, and found a Detroit Free Press from more than a year ago to use as kindling; within moments the fire was raging. Then the real work began. We rotated positions, one of us tearing strips of cardboard/paper/whatever, the other feeding it into the inferno.

We got through about half the pile- both of us dripping in sweat from the exertion, stress, and heat- before the glass gate on the fireplace shattered into a few thousand pieces. Very well-constructed fireplace, Shitty Apartment Complex; I'm very glad to see it's not JUST the AirConditioning that's subpar.

So now, somehow, I'm roped into taking all the awkward boxes and random garbage from Chris's room to the dumpster. (shrug) I suppose that's not too much to ask, though: I'm publishing this from his brand new iMac, while I watch the X-Files on his 40" flatscreen LCD TV. I have a feeling I'm getting the best of it...

Ode to a Brother

The Birchman said...

Hey

I just got back from Notre Dame for the Michigan game (if you can even call it that). I'm pissed though...I got a picture under Touchdown Jesus, but it was such bad quality you'd think it was Field Goal Noah...Or the less liked Pass Interference Mohammed

But anyways...Those Tigs aren't going away just yet. Cutting it too damn close though...

Little brother speaks. You know, there's not much about my life I'm proud of, but neglecting my younger brother must be one of the best decisions I've ever made. I've been a pretty awful example for DanMan, but if my absurd farce of "OlderBrotherhood" even SOMEHOW contributed to:

1) Intense UofM fanhood

2) Creative religious humor

3) Intense Detroit Tiger fanhood

4) The grammatical knowledge that led to his capitalization of "Field Goal Noah" and "Pass Interference Mohammed"

...well... I suppose I can consider my life a success, so far.

When Danny and I were kids I used to make him suffer something fierce. I'd force him to wrestle me: "You and the dog versus me." "Okay, Derek...." I was 6 grades older, and I'd body slam him into a pile of pillows until he gave up. He finally realized our 20lb. mutt just barked and ran in a circle, but it didn't stop him; for the life of me, I can't remember him telling me no.

When he was really young, I remember teaching him square numbers. He was in Kindergarten, at MOST, and I made him memorize 1-10 squared. "Hey Danny! What's 5 squared?" "Twenty-Fiiiiive!" I don't know if I ever told him how proud I was. Once, a few years later, I taught him about liquid volumes. I heard in school (probably from a math teacher) that many people- especially children- have trouble discerning volume-differences when one container is very tall and thin (but of low volume), and another is very very wide, yet short (and of much greater volume). As a 7th grader I explained the concept once, and he understood. Unlike the square numbers talent, we couldn't show this off, but I was even more proud.

As a kindergartener, he dominated his AYSO soccer league. They played on those stupid-short fields with the nets that looked like tall hockey goals. Saying "Danny Dominated" is a gross understatement; the kid imposed his long-blond-haired will upon the entire league. I went to almost every game, and watched with a mixture of pride and envy when a pack of children trailed after my brother, as he scored goal after goal after goal. Stopping at 3 is also an understatement: DanMan routinely scored all 6 of his team's goals. I was out of my element and pretending playing for a local Flint squad, for heaven's sake. I was the older brother....

In our family, baseball was easily the sport of choice. The OldMan was baseball player. I was a decent baseball player. DanMan... he was a baseball player, GodDamnit. I saw him make plays as a 2nd or 3rd grader that I could not have made in my prime as a highschooler. I remember sitting on the metal bleachers at a local Overland Park little league field, making polite conversation with someone's father, watching the kid play third base. Somebody hit a sharp groudball to his left: he layed out, gloved the ball clean, and threw the runner out at first- with 60ft. bases mind you- from his knees with a step to spare. He stood up, dusted himself off, kicked at the dirt in front of him, and held his pinky and index fingers up, turning his head to make sure everyone saw: "Two down."

Even before then, I recall my travel baseball team coming to my house when he was a kindergartener, making him demonstrate his absurdly precocious skills for hours on end. 11 year olds watching in awe as a 6 year old hit a wiffle ball or played catch with the aplomb of a little man that didn't know better....

The little fucker started-and kicked serious ass- on a JV basketball team at a school of 2100+ as a FRESHMAN. He played in the state playoffs on one of the best varsity teams in recent school history as a SOPHOMORE. He started most games on a great GB basketball team as a JUNIOR. His junior year, he took more charges and drew more offensive fouls than anybody in the conference; he singlehandedly changed the momentum in critical spots in more games than I can count. I don't think I ever told him how proud I was, seeing him flop on his tall ass after drawing a ref's attention just moments earlier, clapping his hands and pumping his fists after working SO hard and SO intelligently for a much-needed and uber-underappreciated turnover.

We're a baseball family, though, so my proudest moment was when the DanMan started the first game of the varsity baseball season at second base as a sophomore. Parents bitched.

He led the team in hitting.



I just wish I could let the kid know how proud I am of him....

What's up, fat bitches?

After a lot of thought, I've decided to become a video game designer. My first project will be entitled "Netgear Solid." It's going to be JUST like the "Metalgear Solid" games, except instead of Snake sneaking around and killing bitches, he's just going to encounter problem after insufferable and unlikely problem with his Netgear router. That's it. That's the game. I might throw in a few awesome weapons and maybe some Russian or Chinese villians, and maybe an alien (outerspace, not illegal) or two, but that'll be mostly for distraction and perhaps replay value.

Basically, in the first level Snake wakes up in a room. He doesn't know where he is. He can't remember WHO he is. Then he takes a shower and realizes he's just really hungover, and he's in his crappy apartment. The first objective will be to walk to the kitchen cupboard and take 3-5 Ibuprofen and a multivitamin. Then, he has to go back into his room to check his email. (At this point, I think a message will pop on screen: "What are your plans for today? Perhaps you should check your email. Now where could you find a computer...?") But when he gets to his computer, he notices that his wireless ethernet card can't detect a signal. Here, Snake would muse to himself: "I wonder what the problem is? Wireless card? Router? Comcast cable?"

So now Snake has to start eliminating possible causes. There are plenty of options here, including calling Comcast and being put on hold (game over), driving to the Comcast office during lunch-hour traffic (also game over), and many others. To advance, Snake must hook his machine directly to the high-speed modem. As soon as he does so, he'll see that his internet connection is functioning perfectly, and deduce that the router has malfunctioned.

Cutscene: Snake's roommate wakes up, and says he needs to check his fantasy football results ("Today must be Monday," Snake concludes), and conduct some "important business" online. "This situation is untenable. (Snake scowls and punches his palm) This MUST be remedied."

Before leaving his apartment, Snake must pick up his router and search for the car keys he'd lost the night before (in the freezer, behind the Digiorno Microwave Pizza). Once he's collected these important items, he can leave his apartment, and get behind the wheel of his Beater car. When it starts, he immediately informs the player that the AC is busted. And it's the middle of summer! So now there are 2 obstacles to overcome:

1) Snake is so hungover and undercaffeinated that he can't remember where Best Buy is! His internet connection doesn't work so he can't look it up! He's too proud to ask for directions!
2) The car is 100+ degrees!


Snake can't drive more than a mile without passing out due to dehydration coupled with heat stroke, and- to make matters worse- maneuvering on the world map will be incredibly difficult because of his blurred vision until he finds a cup of coffee. The only possible destination is the gas station around the corner, where he must spend his last $6 on a 24oz. cup of shitty coffee, a bag of ice, and gallon of water. Once he does this, his vision will clear up, and he'll be able to head north and west until he finds the Best Buy.

"Do you have your warranty sir?" Snake now has the option of pulling out a knife or .45 and murdering every Best Buy employee in cold blood. If he does so, he's no longer able to utilize the "services" of the only Best Buy in town, and must raid a cash register for the money to afford a new router somewhere else. If he controls his anger, he can walk back to his car (vision tinged red, making driving difficult), spend 20 minutes driving home, 20 more searching for his Limited Warranty, and make the return trip to Best Buy. After haranguing with the manager for nearly an hour, he receives store credit, and exchanges his piece of shit router for a brand new one. If Snake chooses to exchange his current router for another identical Netgear router, it won't work when he gets home, and the game ends when he stabs himself in the heart out of desperate frustration.

If he chooses a different router and sets it up, his connection will function properly for a day or two before failing completely. Snake must repeat the earlier process of elimination. If he does so, he'll realize that NOW Comcast's internet service is to blame. For some reason, his connection is flailing. He can pick up the phone and dial Comcast and be put on hold (game over), or take more appropriate action.

Now we're getting near the endgame. Snake must travel to his private armory, and stock up on munitions and weapons of varying firepower. His destination? Comcast World Headquarters. In order to reign victorious, our hero must kill (or disable permanently) every important Comcast executive in the building, and place explosive charges and plastique explosives in several key locations. Once done, Snake races to the exit, escaping JUST before the building becomes a glorious towering inferno.

Then Snake goes to the bar, gets drunk, and hooks up with a fat chick.

Game Over.

Stream of Conciseness

I'm gonna go ahead and ruin the irony for everybody right away; there'll be no brevity here.

I've got some catching up to do, so I'll start by rehashing one of the greatest weekends of my life.

About a week ago, Chris and I were talking- bullshitting if you will- after a few drinks. I'm not positive how it started, but I think he said something to the effect of: "Hey, you remember that time I got all wasted at Applebee's on that Sunday in Ann Arbor?" Oh, Chris. Of course I remember.

Less than 2 years ago, my friend Chris came to see me in Ann Arbor, well before I met most people reading this. As was the custom on the Friday nights before home football games, we had people over at our place, counterbalancing the party at our good friends' place next door. Michigan played Iowa at Noon the next afternoon (morning... noon is morning, no matter what anybody says), and we threw some legendary tailgates, so- of course- everyone got all bombed on Friday night. If I remember correctly- and I'm reasonably sure I do NOT- I threatened to fight one crowd of Hawkeye fans, and later made a cash wager with the stipulation that "if you win, I'll be here and you can collect; if I win, just don't come back and there'll be no hard feelings."

I am a professional gambler.

The night was great, Chris and I got drunk and played basketball on the court out back for money, and then we went to bed at like 4-5ish. Standard.

In the morning, I locked myself in my room like the pussy I am. By this point, most of my friends were used to my fashionably late 10:45AM tailgate arrivals, and stopped pounding on my bedroom door at around 9:15. Score. After I woke up, yawned, showered, took a quick power nap, yawned again, and changed into a sweatsuit, I meandered over to the tailgate, where I planned on drinking as few beers as humanly possible (~8) before heading to the game.

I did not make it to the game.

I was assaulted by a "short stack" as soon as I left my house. "Come on, Derek! You're not bongin' a full beer! It's a short stack!!" Ha. Ha. I'll take your 16oz. beer bong and earn myself some TailgatePoliticalCapital. "Bong Bong, says the RZA." (bong bong, says derek)

Ten minutes and 3 "short stacks" later, an old buddy of mine from highschool sprints over to me and pulls me away. "Jesus, Birch. I barely like you, but I don't think anybody could appreciate this as much as you could." Okay. That's a pretty good hook, man. I'm snared. "Chris just... He ate 12 hotdogs in 10 minutes. He was supposed to keep them down for an hour, but he asked if I'd let him puke after 50 minut-" Wait, wait wait. Chris is awake? And he's already won an eating contest?! "Yeah, can't you hear the chanting?"

After he mentioned it, the chanting was pretty obvious. Chris's name was being shouted in drunken-rythym pockets spanning both lawns. I briefly made eye contact with Chris- and I'm sure to this day that he paused and offered me a barely perceptible bow- before he ran off down the street to drink with his new legion of fans. The next time I saw him was 4-5 hours later, when he hammered on my door until I answered, so he could inform me that, "it's out-pass.... out pass?? It's time to... I'm going to pass out. Get up tonight, bitch!"

As I've gotten older, I've noticed that my friends are less likely to, year by year, to do the stupid shit they did the year before. Each year a number of people grow up appropriately, and become less inclined to participate when people like me push an absurd agenda. Chris used to fret about it. "Damnit, I'm not growing up, Derek. I'm just looking for one of those GREAT weekends, every weekend. I'll take a great day, man. I'll take one great day a semester. You know what I'm talking about." Yeah. I know.

Naptime (in the story, and in real life). More Stream of Ponchoness when I wake up.

Psychological Inventory

Psychologically, I'm a pretty easy guy to figure out. Pretty much anything my mom said I couldn't do when I was a kid I take perverse pleasure in doing now. A few examples:

The window on Chris's car doesn't work, so the passenger side window is permanently down. During my childhood, the presence of an open window- be it in a car or house- instantly made the use of Air Coniditioning a seriously Forbidden Act. "What, you think I should air condition the whold neighborhood?" So, naturually, whenever I drive Chris's car I turn the AC on full blast and lower all the windows. And I smile the entire time.

This morning I woke up, freezing, and realized the Air Conditioning in the apartment had been going full blast all night. It was frigid in my room, like 58 degrees or something stupid. I thought briefly, then padded to the thermostat, determined. You see, it's the middle of summer here, and though it's chilly outside this morning, the temperature will climb steadily all morning - inside and out- as long as I just turned the AC off, and let the temperature slowly normalize. But fuck that. I want it 10 degrees warmer now. So I turned the heat on for a few minutes. In the middle of summer. Put THAT in your rigid, uncompromising pipe and smoke it, Maw.

I have never, not ONCE, made my bed since I moved out of my parents' house. It's a badge of pride.

I almost never fold my clothing. I do a load of laundry 3 hours before I need the items contained therein, and then put them on right out of the dryer. The nicer shirts and jeans and khakis and slacks get hung up; everything else goes in the "clean pile." Ocassionally articles from the "dirty pile" migrate 2 feet to their left (my left?) and work their way back into the rotation sooner than planned. For that reason, I always check myself in a mirror right before stepping out of the house to check for too-obvious coffee or pizza stains. Two words: Can't miss.

I swear an ungodly amount. Never again shall I suffer the indignities of explaining to my mother that I said "shin" and not "shit." She didn't buy it for a second...

There's more, but I'm sure you get the picture. Imagine how much different my life would be if I'd had a terrible mother... I'd probably be a 10-times better person.