There is a new crocoBaby in the house! You shall all rejoice! It's a boy, so I now have a complete set of the various genders that babies come in.

New crocoBaby is more awesome than you, so don't email him with any questions or complaints unless you want to get smacked down by a newborn.

New crocoBaby is not as awesome as me. I will put him in his place if he tries to take over this site.

That is all.

From the back seat of the car, crocoKid sings:

"This old man, he plays two
he plays knick-knack on your poo!

"HA AHH HAHAH HA!

"This old man, he plays three
he plays knick-knack on your pee!

"HEE EEH HEHEE HEE!"

With a knick-knack paddywhack,
give a dog a phone.
This old man went rolling home!

I'm still alive, but I haven't had much to say lately on the site. I post now only because the internets are so boring without me. I leave you with:

The record store cats.

Since we last saw the Elevator Lady, my employer has physically moved to new offices at a new location.  These new offices are spread out more than the old ones, so I don't casually run into the same people I used to.

It's the end of the day and I'm waiting at an elevator, doing nothing in particular, wondering what type of chinese food I might like to order for dinner, when I hear someone approaching from my right side.  It's her.

I'm pretty sure she thinks I don't see her because my head is turned as she approaches.  And I don't really see her as much as I sense her.  She's klip-klopping arond in a loud pair of shoes and the klip-klopping is getting louder.  In my peripheral vision, I see her making a bee line for my elevator when all of a sudden the klip-klopping breaks stride and starts to move in a different direction.  I look up and confirm who it is.  Her back is to me at this point, I'm sure she believes she successfully navigated herself out of a torturous elevator ride with me.  Well, maybe so, but she didn't escape a blog entry about it.

The elevator I was waiting for is not very far from 2 other banks of elevators.  I am 100% positive she was heading for my elevator before turning away and heading to a different one.

I'm just glad she turned toward a different elevator so that I wouldn't be forced to feign like I forgot something then walk away.

No, really!  According to CNN I do.  They say "Software Engineer" is the #1 best job in the Country.

"Designing, developing and testing computer programs requires some pretty advanced math skills and creative problem-solving ability.  If you've got them, though, you can work and live where you want"

That's me, baby!  Don't you wish you were me?  And if I told you where I work, you'd be ten times more jealous.

Read the article to find out how your lame-ass job stacks up.

I'm walking down O'Farrell street towards Union Square when a jaywalking white guy almost gets hit by a car.  The driver's window is rolled down, and traffic is crawling, so they exchange words as the driver rolls along slowly.

Jaywalker:  Hey! I'm crossing the street!
Driver:  Yeah, I know.
Jaywalker:  You almost hit me!
Driver:  You're walking in the middle of the street!
Jaywalker:  What were you thinking?!
Driver:  C'mon man, you saw me coming!
Jaywalker:  Why don't you pull over then?
Driver:  What!?

The driver screeches to a halt and jumps out of the car.  He's a six foot black guy, and gets right in the jaywalker's face.

Driver:  Pull over for what!?  What are you gonna do!?
Jaywalker:  err ... umm ...
Driver:  Well ... !?
Jaywalker:  ...
Driver:  That's what I thought.

The driver hops back into his car and speeds away.

Me:  Don't stand on the arm of the chair, please.
crocoKid:  Why ... ?
Me:  Because you might get hurt.
crocoKid:  Why ... ?
Me:  Because you might fall off.
crocoKid:  Why ... ?
Me:  Because you could lose your balance.
crocoKid:  Why ... ?
Me:  Because your inner ear isn't working at the same level as an adult's.
crocoKid:  Why ... ?
Me:  Because you're only 2 and a half.
crocoKid:  Why ... ?
Me:  Because that's when you were born, two and a half years ago.
crocoKid:  Why ... ?
Me:  ...
crocoKid:  Daddy?  Watch this!
Me:  Don't stand on the arm of the chair, please.
crocoKid:  Why ... ?

While on hold with my local DirecTV provider, the "on hold" music was the worst fucking music I've ever heard.  I think they play horrible music on purpose.  They want me to hang up in disgust so they don't have to take my call.  This one song in particular (must have been titled "Tears of Joy", since that was the main thrust of the chorus, with all the cheesiness that implies) sounded like it was written by a 3rd grader and sung by a wolverine.  The song was intended to be inspirational, but the only thing it inspired me to do was write this entry about how awful it was.

How come when you're on hold they don't give you a menu to choose the music you want to listen to?  They have all this crazy technology now with voice recognition and confusing, number punching, brainwave reading, menu trees.  Once you get through that mess and are actually on hold, you'd think they'd let you "press 1 for reggae" and "press 2 for showtunes" and "press 3 for music your ears can bleed to."  At least that way I wouldn't feel like the bad music was being forced upon me, it would be my choice to listen to it and then complain about it on the Internets.  As it is, I have no choice.  I'm forced to complain about it because I was forced to listen to it.

I've been busy.  Selling my house, moving to a new place, taking vacation, moving to a new office at work.  But now I'm back, baby!  No, that's not a threat, it's a fact, bitches!  So prepare yourself for more hardcore crocoPuffs action!

I enjoyed a lovely weekend with the family this ... weekend.  We drove to Monterey and grooved on the beach and at the Monterey Bay Aquarium.  At the aquarium, crocoKid liked the jellyfish, didn't like the giant tuna, too scary with their downturned mouths and ugly grey scales.  And she was surprisingly indifferent to the sea otters.  I love the sea otters, those filthy showoffs.  They dive and loop and swim on their backs and wrestle with kelp and the more people watching, they more they do it.  They're just so cute!

Then we ventured into San Francisco to attend a "Bugs Bunny on Broadway" performance by the San Francisco Symphony (see, I gots culture).  The show is fantastic, this was the second time we've seen it, first time for crocoKid.  She was good for about an hour of it, and we left during intermission.  My motivation for mentioning it here is because it's a great show, but the damn thing wasn't even close to sold out.

I didn't realize it was playing until early last week when I received a postcard from the symphony soliciting ticket buyers.  We didn't have plans for Saturday, so we picked up the tix.  Obviously, sending a mailer so late meant they really needed to sell some tickets.

Here's how it works, they project Bugs Bunny cartoons on a big screen (not quite movie theatre size) while the orchestra plays the cartoons' music live.  And they show all the classics: "One Froggy Evening", "Bunny of Seville", "High Note."  It's a fun show, so I was shocked at the number of empty seats.

It's a traveling show -- sponsored by Warner Bros. -- so check your local symphony's schedule.  If it's playing in your town, buy tickets today!

I encountered the woman in the elevator yet again this morning.

This time I "accidentally" pushed the buttons for 2 seperate floors, causing an extra stop before she could reach her destination.  Whoops!

Yesterday crocoWife and I were at a Spine & MRI clinic (more on that later).  Being an office that deals in busted-up spines, they have a ramp leading up to the door for wheelchair access.  At the bottom of the ramp lay a banana peel.

I shit you not.  With a low enough angle I could have snapped a photo of the banana peel with the office door in the background loudly proclaiming it's Spine & MRI-ness.  That would have been a sweet photo.  So sweet, in fact, I think I might bring along a banana peel later this week when we go back to the office so I can recreate it and take the picture.

There are a lot of dumb jokes I hate.  I know they're intended to be cheerful little friendly blurbs, but goddammit, they piss me off!

"I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you."

Hardy-fucking-har.

That is the stupidest, cheesiest, oldest wisecrack in the book of stupid, cheesy, old wisecracks.

What I hate most is how overused it is.  Usually some nerd will whip it out on you when you ask the most benign of questions, like, "What kind of sandwich is that?"

And when I say "nerd", I mean it.  I think you know the kind of person I'm talking about here.  The kind of person who thinks "I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you," is funny.

Next person who says that to me gets a flipping ninja foot to the ass.

My sister had her third child on Saturday (congratulations!), a girl to go with her two boys.

On my way to the hospital, my mom asked me to stop by her house and pick up a bottle of champagne which she forgot to bring.  No problem.

No problem, until we were walking towards the hospital entrance from the parking lot.  People were milling about in front of the hospital, talking grimly on cell phones, tissue in hand.  And here I come, carrying a bottle of champagne.  Let's party!

They looked at me with vitriol, as if I might any moment pop the cork and pour champagne over my head like I had just won the NBA championship.  These are things nobody ever tells you about.  I've never seen a Ms. Manners column speak to the etiquette of carrying champagne into a hospital.

However ... I made it through the entrance and lobby safely, no brawling required.

I left a few things out from my previous bashing of crocoWife, I think it's only fair that I include those things now in her defense and set the record straight.

First, I forgot to mention that she caught mono earlier this year.  We were in a four-way with Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston, Brad had mono but we didn't know it at the time.

She broke her toe by stubbing it on one of the bricks of hundred dollar bills we have lying around the house.

She broke her finger because the 30 carat diamond she wears is simply too heavy.

The crazy skin-eating fungus turned out to be my fault.  She really didn't want to eat those mushrooms, but I told her it would be okay.  I convinced her they would free her mind.

She acquired the tendonitis in her shoulder from punching out all the Jehovah's Witnesses that frequent our house.  Oh, and from all my handjobs too (I'm surprised she didn't get tendonitis in her neck, if you catch my drift).

Her ocular migraine however, is not funny.  It's a very serious condition in which no humour can be found at this time.

Between raising a kid, working, cooking meals, doing laundry, engaging in celebrity foursomes, and counting all our dough, you can now better understand why she occasionally feels "tired."

Just thought you'd like to know.  It's hard being crocoWife.

I encountered the woman in the elevator again this morning.

We both pulled in to the parking garage at about the same time.  She reached the elevator first, and stepped inside while I was still approaching.  I knew she was already pressing the "close doors" button before I got there, but considering it never works, and the doors stay open for like 5 minutes before closing, I took my sweet ass time taking those last few steps.  And of course, when I finally stepped inside she was mashing away on that broken "close doors" button.  Surprisingly, the doors didn't budge until they were good and ready.

The elevator stopped at my floor, and no sooner do I step one foot off the elevator car and she's pounding the button again.  The broken button that never works.  Hey, did I mention that the "close doors" button is disabled?  Well, it is.  But she's the only person in the building who hasn't noticed.  I guess she figures the button will work for her because she's in more of a hurry than everyone else.

I've devised a plan.

Next time I encounter her in the elevator, I'm going to stand outside the doors and smile at her.  If she finds time between button presses to ask me if I'm getting on, I plan to respond, "No, you go ahead, I'm in no hurry."  And then I'll wave to her as the doors close.  But in that last instant right before the doors fully close, I'm going to throw her a mean look.  Let her stick that in her pipe and smoke it for a while.

I'm concerned for crocoWife.  In the last year or so she has broken a toe, broken a finger, got some crazy skin-eating fungus on another finger, been diagnosed with tendonitis in her shoulder, endured a heinous ocular migraine that made her think she might have a brain cloud, and last weekend felt the pangs of a possible muscle spasm in her back.  Most disturbing of all, however, are her reports of feeling "tired."  That's the clinical term.

Lucky for her I'm like Columbo when it comes to research, and webMD informs me that her fatigue could be a symptom of a dire problem.  For example, she might have Hypothyroidism, Fibromyalgia, or a Congenital Heart Defect.  Tuberculosis, perhaps?  No, those are just wishful thinking, crocoWife's level of exhaustion is clearly more serious than those wimpy diagnoses.  My money's on Chronic Fatigue Syndrome (CFS).

Other symptoms of CFS include: muscle and joint pain, check.  Unrefreshing sleep, check.  Sore throat, check.  decreased ability to think clearly, check.  As you can see, my concern is more than warranted.

Treatment includes regular visits to an acupuncturist, daily intake of dogbane and knob grass, and nightly voodoo ceremonies capped with the capture of a wild mongoose whose fur is rubbed against a balloon, creating enough static electricity to power a George Foreman grill, upon which a hamburger is cooked and eaten by the CFS afflicted individual.

Or maybe she has a cold.  And a child that never gives her parents a single fucking moment of god damn peace!  In fact, I believe there is a correlation between the onset of CFS and the birth of our child.  But I digress.

crocoWife's lucky she makes kick-ass chocolate-chip banana muffins, her magical culinary skills prevent me from trading her in for a new model.  And when I say "magic" I'm not kidding around.  Poof!  There's dinner!  Poof!  There's waffles!  It's amazing!  I lay around on the couch and poof!  Banana muffins!

Speaking of new models, I took my car to the dealer for service last week and requested a loaner car for the day.  I expected a 1976 Datsun or some other old jalopy, instead they gave me a shiny red Mazda RX-8.  Because they recognize the pimpness.

(P.S. If you didn't catch the "brain cloud" reference, go rent Joe vs. the Volcano.)

A co-worker needed a ride home last night, I was happy to oblige because he's provided hours of entertainment lately by way of jokes at his expense.  You see, he can't drive right now because he hurt his neck.  From a sneeze.  Yes, Mr. Tie-quan-doe-black-belt injured his neck while sneezing.  Pussy.

When informed of this serious neck injury (which kept him out of work for a week) crocoWife suggested he might have been trying to give himself a blowjob.  And I was thinking, "Yeah!  I bet he was!  Pervert.  Sneeze, my ass!"

Anyway, while waiting for the elevator to the parking garage, the doors opened and a woman came charging out of the box.  Until she realized, hey, this ain't the garage, at which point she threw us a look as if it was our fault she tried to get off on the wrong floor.  Man, the look on her face was hilarious, her embarrassment complete, then she ran back into the elevator and repeatedly pressed the "close doors" button (which everyone knows is broken).

Our building only has three floors.  We were on the second floor, so for her to have been on the "down" elevator meant she was coming from the third floor.  That look she gave us, she clearly couldn't comprehend what happened to the parking level, as if we somehow moved the garage and replaced it with our floor so that we could purposely delay her descent.  The entire ride down I choked on my laughter to avoid snickering over her shoulder.

How can a person be so blissfully unaware of their surroundings that they can't tell the difference between a one floor elevator ride and a three floor ride?  The elevator "dings" at every floor, all you need is to be able to count to three.

Then I drove "sneezy" home.  Rain was falling in buckets so I dropped him off at the bottom of the hill, a few blocks away from his house.  I couldn't drive him directly to his doorstep, I wanted to get my car out of the rain storm and into its nice warm garage.

At the request of a co-worker who thinks my online crocoPuffs persona does not match my real-life persona, here is a picture of the calendar I have hanging at my desk.  I'm not sure in what way cute little kittens affect my being crocoPuffs, but anyway ... here it is.  Think of me what you will.

Because of an article I wrote last year, I have some explaining to do.  In Blog This! I calmly explained how stupid and worthless most blogs are.  And here I am, a year later, with my own blog.  Here's the deal: other bloggers suck ass, but I don't.  I KICK ass.

So I've relocated the "crocoPuffs News" section to the blog (here).  And now I have a place to write about things that frankly didn't merit an entire feature before.  I cringe at the thought of how much brilliance has been left off my site because I only had a couple sentences to write about a topic.

And yes, now that blogging has matured, and some actual GOOD writers have started blogging, I'm willing to admit that SOME blogs can be witty, insightful, and well-written.  Of course, none of them as much as this one.

The other item I might need to address is in my FAQ (here), where I wrote this:

Q: You should have reader "talkbacks" or message boards.
A: No way, rookie. This site is better off with less of you and more of me.

Because this blog will allow user comments, that answer is now only partially correct.  This site is STILL better off with less of you and more of me, but the "No way, rookie" is now a fib.  I think I'll leave it as is, though.  There are still plenty of morons who will never figure out how to post a comment anyway.