I go through more leather wallets than — using an old phrase my dad uses — “Carter has liver pills”. Does ex-President Carter even take these “liver pills” anymore? Did he take such an absurd amount of them that they can be used to describe a measurement of incredible amounts? Anyway, I dunno. Who knows.

Since I’m completely frustrated with leather wallets, I decided to give another material a try: duct tape. Yes, there are wallets you can actually buy that are made from duct tape. You’d think there would be all sorts of sticky edges around the wallet’s seams, but that’s not the case at all. These wallets by Ducti are made from a specially engineered “super duct tape” that prevents lifting or stickiness, which so far is holding true.

The best part about these wallets by far is the lifetime guarantee on them. If for any reason you don’t like how your wallet looks or feels, or it gets damaged in any way at all, Ducti will replace it for free forever (or at least as long as the company is in business). And you don’t need a reciept or other proof of purchase to get the replacement. So in essence, you never have to buy a new wallet again. Ever.

You can get the Ducti wallets through ThinkGeek

My first concert experience was Van Halen back on their first tour with Sammy Hagar, right after 5150 debuted. Eddie was a huge influence for me in picking up guitar, even though I never got much further than learning tablature from books and magazines, putting funky stickers all over my guitar, and listing my future aspiration in my year book as, “playing guitar in a band.” Hey, it sounded a hell of a lot better than nerdy IT guy at the time and maybe saved me from a few jock pummelings.

Back in March I mentioned the upcoming Van Halen tour coming to the Worcester Centrum. At the time I thought it was a bunch of bull, but it turned out true. I hadn’t been to a rock concert in maybe ten years, but somehow notalgia got the best of me and I felt the itch to go see what I considered a rare event — Sammy back with Van Halen. Hell, if their past is any indicator, this could be the farewell tour!

My brother was raring to go and couldn’t contain his excitement! Alright that’s not so accurate, but I was able to easily lure him into coming with me. Well OK, I bought him the ticket, but really he was happy to go…after I reminded him it was an excuse to get out of the house and I’d buy the beers. And then there’s the lie that they were just opening for Clapton but let’s get back to my quasi-review.

I remember from past Van Halen tours that people hated the fact that Eddie would switch from guitars and go stand behind a keyboard for a few songs. I mean, who goes to see Van Halen to watch Eddie play keyboards?! I was pleasantly surprised to see Eddie stick with his axe the entire show, even for the opening number, Jump. Eddie not only never hit the keyboards, but nobody did. They said fuck the keyboards and just played a track or shoved the poor Schroeder in the back — put a no-namer on stage with VH? Fuck no!

And speaking of the opening number, bravo on that. Sure it’s not my favorite, but if I remember correctly, they rarely played that in concert or weren’t able to because of ownership issues with DLR. Sammy and crew know damn well that a boatload of the people there want to hear the popular songs and not only crap they’re pumping out for the greatest hits album. Nobody’s there to hear the new shit. When the new songs come on, that’s usually when it’s time to go drain the weasel. Playing for the fans gets them huge marks in my book.

Another big point getter for me was digging up a rare one like Somebody Get Me A Doctor, and then add a few more for letting Mikey’s pipes let loose on it finally. That boy can still crank out some incredible highs and is the driving force behind the all-too-familiar background vocals heard in everything since the first album.

I also have to mention that a divorce, a hip replacement and a battle with cancer have somehow worked wonders for Eddie. Shirtless, sporting a top-knot, and running and jumping around the stage for a few hours without so much as two minutes rest, I was in awe. (Don’t look at me like that — I was just sayin’ that he was shirtless!) Also, I’m not sure if him sporting a cigarette once in a while for a few puffs looked sad or screamed, Cancer? Fuck cancer! Take this cancer!. I prefer to think of the latter.

And as for Alex, that dude is ageless. He looks the same as he did ten years ago! However, I think he fucked up a few songs in there, which I have to say I’ve never in all my years of concert going knowingly bore witness to before. But I was a hell of a lot less sober back then, so he could’ve tore a hole in his snare in those days and I’d think I was listening to the album verbatim.

Although I’m no fan of a bass solo, at least Mikey made it short and bearable. He also spiced it up by giving old-time fans a glance at his earlier years, toting the good ol’ Jack Daniels bass and hammering back a whole bottle of the sour mash! Alright it was a nip bottle, but a whole bottle!

Eddie also brought his son “Wolfie” up on stage with him to play a guitar duet of sorts. Holy shit did that make me feel old. I remember when he was born, and now here he is up there playing guitar with his dad?! Eddie was quick to announce, “you are all looking at the future, right here!” I’m not sure whether to pitty Wolfie or envy him, but I have to say he was so pudgy and seemingly awkward, you couldn’t help but want to give the poor kid a hug (Stop looking at me like that! I’m just sayin’!).

In summary, I was pleasantly surprised. It was a good way for me to properly say goodbye to the Van Halen concert scene, possibly for good. I got to hear Van Halen as I had first seen them, in the first venue I had seen them in, no less.

As my brother and I stood there after the last encore and the lights came on, we both agreed that the show was better than we expected. We watched, pointed and laughed as mullet heads abound swept past us in disappointment that the show was over, the waft of spent joints in the air.

“Look at all these idiots,” my brother said.

I laughed. “Hey, at least they still got the hair, right?”

“But they’re gonna miss Clapton!”

In the movie Lord of the Rings: Return of the King, was it just me, or did anyone else wonder who the heck had that ungodly task of sitting atop those mountains, waiting for years and years to light that signal fire? It’s not as if the fires took at least a few minutes to light either — they went up almost immediately after the previous one did! That means someone was sitting there….waiting. And waiting.

Captain: “You there! You’re on torch duty.”
Soldier: “Oh drat!”

I can just picture some ragged old hermit, sitting cold atop the mountain in the clouds, wiping away the crud from his eyes as he stares endlessly at the previous signal fire station miles away. Trying as hard as he can to keep the flame in the ignition torch he holds to stay alight against the howling, chilling winds. Poor bastard.

I’m sure there are literally tens of people suffering from the same problems I’m suffering in the workplace. You arrive at the office on time, grab your coffee/tea/bloody mary, and not two minutes into sitting in front of your computer, some real pain comes along to make the rest of your day a living hell. This little annoyance is always waiting for you, sitting on your office floor, just itching for you to try and get comfortable before stabbing you in the back. It’s so bad that some days, you consider throwing the little pest out the window. Yes, your chair is that bad.

Recently inspired by a comment thread posted on Slashdot, I figured I’d give the Fitterfirst Exercise Ball Chair a try. Not only did I hope my sitting habits would improve, but I always thought my posture could use some work as well. They’re reasonably priced (~$30 ) and can be used for exercises other than sitting (indeed, some people consider this a sport).

My office is sort-of a mish-mash of weird stuff — tribal masks from different countries, ten promotional coffee mugs, a soda can of Clean Air, various Tux figures, a few D&D-like pewter figures, a plantless pot, etc. What better addition to my environment than me plopping my arse on on huge inflated ball? Well, probably a total overhaul would be a better addition, but that’s beside the point.

I ordered the Classic 65 cm, 25″ version of the chair, seeing as it would accomodate my 6-foot stature best. One thing I did not anticipate when I got the ball was its color. The ordering page for the ball chairs show some respectable, male-worthy colors: yellow, silver, blue, black. They decided to send me the one color that no straight man would dare be caught near, let alone sit their derriere on: periwinkle. Oh God, I said “derriere”! That color truly is a curse.

After convincing myself that the ball was actually colored Vikings-helmet Purple and I wasn’t sitting on one of Barney’s testicles, I tried it out for a bit at home. The first thing I noticed was that I was still slouching when sitting on the ball when out on an open floor. I wasn’t leaning on a desk or anything, which I wasn’t sure was the issue. I also tried sitting on the ball without my legs touching the floor, which is more doable than it sounds due to the amount the ball compresses when you sit on it. Then I found the air pump in the box the ball came in. Wow, when this thing’s inflated, it’s much too big to be a human-sized dinosaur’s testicle! I was relieved.

The morning after using the (inflated) ball, I could tell that my lower back had gotten quite a workout. Just from sitting on the ball for about an hour, I could tell there were some serious results. After a few more times of using the ball, the back pain went away, but I could definitely tell this would do wonders for my back and posture.

I’ll be bringing the ball into work soon and will report back here with my findings. So far I see good things coming from using it as my new chair. Hopefully I’ll make it through the front doors of my building before I get pummeled to death by punks.

(WARNING: The review below is chock full of spoilers. Do not read on unless you want the movie spoiled for you or you’ve already seen the movie. You’ve been warned.)

Everyone at one time or another has known a “Stifler”. Most likely you knew this person somewhere between middle school and college graduation, but when you hit something like 30 years old, that person’s either completely bald, fat and a drunk, or dead. In any case, they make for some peeing-in-your-pants-funny memories.

Now once again, you can try to relive the days of yesteryear in the latest entry to the ‘American Pie’ series, ‘American Wedding’. However, this time your pants will be a little drier when you leave the theater. While the movie does have its funny moments, we’re left with a lot fewer big laughs and a lot of little chortles.

If you’re a fan of the previous movies, I still say don’t miss this one. My major gripe was Stifler not being “quite right” or as funny, but there are still gags that’ll keep for conversation pieces. I’ve heard rumors of a fourth movie in the works called “American Baby”, which I hope will remain rumors. I don’t think I can stomach seeing Stifler over-acted and dealing with baby humor. I’d rather see someone eat dog shit. Oh wait…

As I get older, it becomes increasingly difficult to find the motivation I need to workout. It’s not so much the getting older part as it is actually finding time to fit in a daily routine. With age comes more responsibility — you get your first apartment, then maybe you get married and get your first house, then maybe a dog, kids, etc. You can call them excuses or explanations, but the bottom line is that they inevitably, perhaps only slightly, outweigh the reasons for getting one’s ass into a pair of sweatpants for something other than slouching in front of the TV with a bowl of Cookie Dough ice cream watching ‘Friends’.

For about the past year or so, I found that I lost some motivation for doing weight training. I would run at least twice a week or go mountain biking, but getting my butt out to a gym, for some reason, didn’t appeal to me (i.e., I whined and pouted). I’m not exactly sure what caused this to happen, since recently I had been going to the local YMCA to lift weights four times a week, or had used the small gym in my employer’s building. Eventually that four times a week turned into three, then two, then none.

This past April, I was fortunate enough to have the opportunity to try something new that I thought might cure the workout blahs. My bro-in-law needed to temporarily store his Bowflex somewhere while he awaited a new apartment, so I volunteered my house. Heck, I figured if those people on TV could get as buff as they were using this thing, why not me dammit!

For the past three months I’ve been using the Bowflex, specifically the Bowflex Power Pro XL. Because of its relatively small footprint, I was able to put it in a small room on our first floor and didn’t have to store it in our musty basement, which was a huge plus. Not only was this a more inviting place to use it, but being that the Bowflex was almost always in full view to me when I was downstairs, it haunted me to use it.

As you probably know, the Bowflex works not with weights but with “Power Rods”, constructed of a sort-of plastic/fiberglass material within a rubber sheath, which are bent via a system of pulleys connected to a set of hand-holds or handlebars (for pull-downs). Obviously, the thicker the rod, the more resistance — to rephrase that to leave out the obvious innuendo, let’s just say the length of the shaft doesn’t matter, it’s the girth.

To use the Bowflex’s unique method of resistance vs. weight training does initially take some getting used to. There’s an almost wobbly feeling one gets when trying to pull an amount of resistance equal to what one would normally be able to lift in conventional weights. I’d say that after about a week, I became accustomed to things and the wobbly feeling went away. Coincidently, the wobbly feeling from the Boxflex went away as well — accursed margaritas!

After a few weeks of using the Bowflex, I noticed I was definitely getting stronger, but I wasn’t gaining as much muscle mass as I had when I used conventional weights. There was more muscle definition in mostly my forearms and triceps, but not as much as I expected elsewhere. In my prior experience, I would’ve expected more from a few weeks of lifting.

Another thing to note is the “weight” markings on the rods. On this particular system, there are rods marked 50, 30, 10 and 5. In just a month of using the Bowflex, I was easily using the 50 rods to workout my biceps. With conventional weights, I’d have a hard time curling 100 pounds once, nevermind work out with it. I merely took this to mean that the markings on the rods are only meant as a measure to log your progression by, but in no way could one say they workout with 100 pounds if they’re measuring by the Power Rods.

One exercise I particularly liked was the laying down curls. This is one exercise that I don’t believe I’ve seen able to be done in a gym and is unique to the Bowflex’s design. Doing the laying down curls helped me keep my back straight and totally avoid “throwing the weight” as is commonly easy to do with a curlbar and weights.

My time is about up with the Bowflex, as Andy has found an apartment he will be moving into soon. This week I’ve started back at the gym at work, and already I notice a huge difference in the exercises. While I’m definitely a lot better off had I not worked out at all before coming back to the gym, my muscles are very sore. I also realize now that with the Bowflex, I can’t recall a time I actually got very sore at all. To me that means the Bowflex simply isn’t ideal for increasing muscle mass, as the pain would tell you there’s some muscle ripping going on, something I just didn’t feel enough of.

Take what I had to say with a grain of salt. I’m certainly no professional you should listen to — I’m merely sharing my experience with you. Who knows, maybe in a few years after using the Bowflex, Andy will show up with a shirt full of muscles and a six-pack, but it’s more likely that means he’s coming over with some seafood and beer. Sorry Andy.

(UPDATE — 2004-12-09: I noticed a board that talks about this post here)

So last night I caught the second episode of the new reality series The Restaurant. Originally, I had decided to swear off all reality shows, seeing as I usually felt dumber as a result of watching them. However, it wasn’t until after the final episode of a show aired that I’d realize my skull felt a little emptier.

It’s like when you go on some huge drinking binge out in the city with your buddies, slamming around on some obscure dance floor with some even more obscure women, having what seems like the time of your life. You eventually wake up the next afternoon with butter knives twisting in your eyesockets, saying with a hoarse voice and through .09 breath, “I will never drink again for as long as I live.” Apparently, most people consider themselves as cats with nine lives, seeing as that’s surely never the last time they utter that sentence.

Now I found myself watching this new reality show, about a month or so after my last binge with the excruciating “For Love or Money” — a new record. For what it’s worth, I plead the “My Wife Made Me” defense in this case. I reserve the right to refer to this method of defense in the future, although most assuredly Deb will counter with the “That’s Bullshit” manuever, to which I will respond with my “She’s Nuts” tactic.

I won’t bore you with the details of The Restaurant, but in essence the viewers are treated to an hour of watching a large handful of whiney waiters/waitresses trying to deal with the whiney customers who were seated by the whiney host and then served food by the whiney bussers, cooked by the whiney cooks. In this particular episode, one customer complained about the lack of red wine in the restaurant. I agreed — from what I could see, not one employee was a redhead.

Unlike the past reality shows, I actually left this one feeling a little more intelligent. There are a few important lessons I learned from watching just one episode:

1. The customers at Rocco’s on 22nd are bitches. They had the queen of whine, Fran Drescher, as a customer that night, and she came off as a proper English aristocrat compared to everyone else. Fran Drescher, people!
2. I will never run a restaurant — at least never in New York city, that’s for shit-sure. NBC has ER, The West Wing and now The Restaurant. I think they need to change their motto from “Must See TV” to “Must Have A Cardiac Arrest from Watching People Under Extreme Mental Duress TV”. So now I add “New York Restaurant Owner” to my list of “professions I will never follow” (which already included Rotten Sardine Taste Detector, Russian Cartographer, and Peep-Show Janitor).
3. I do not need to watch another episode of The Restaurant. I think the details already expressed are enough explanation. If not, try this:
   • Drink nine bottles of a highly caffeinated soda-pop.
   • Go to the baboon cage at the nearest zoo (the monkey cage will do).
   • When nobody’s looking, throw a spatula, various raw vegetables, thirty pounds of uncooked meatballs, a blowtorch, a bottle of red wine, a fire extinguisher and a set of ceramic plates in the cage.
   • Replace the “Monkey Cage” sign with the restaurant name of your choice.
   • Before the first person shows up to watch the baboons with their new toys, make the baboons put together a three-course gourmet meal.
   • For bonus points, throw Fran Drescher in the cage.

In the final scenes of the show, I could see Rocco DiSpirito (the owner/head chef) thirstily drinking a beer towards the end of the night. Unfortunately, unlike a night out drinking with his buddies on that obscure dance floor with those even more obscure women, he will not wake up the next afternoon thinking he will never do it again for as long as he lives. This was only episode number two of a season-long schedule. Have another beer, Rocco.