It’s like it just drove by a cop and was potentially going too fast.  When the cop pulled out behind it and started following, it slowed down, observed all traffic laws and inconspicuously put its seatbelt on.

Crud.

By my count, I’m 41 days into to this expedition of Letters From The Past, and find the regularity in which I write parallels, well, my regularity.

Just today I got what I thought could have been a pretty darn good idea for a new post.

It all started when I was tying the draw string on my shorts.

Cardio today.

So if you’re doing it right, there’s a point when you’re tying a shoe lace or a drawstring where you use the outside of your pinky finger to hold the string tight.  That particular area of my finger is currently dry and cracked because of the dry air we have around here this time of year.

The simplest of questions then occurred to me.  This one is as good as the one in my mind about why we eat corn on the cob in a direction parallel to the cob.

Think about that for a moment.

Where did the process of tying something in the manner we use today actually come from?

Who came up with loop, swoop, and swirl, or the bit with the rabbit ears?

Is it documented somewhere?

You Google it.  I’ll be here when you get back.

In preparing mentally for this piece, I took a picture of my pinky finger where you can see the dry cracking.  It kind of stings when I tie stuff.  I really should consider Velcro in the winter months.

Anyway, something else occurred to me.

Here in the compound, we all have our phones tied to the big ole iCloud in the sky.  That essentially means that when I take a picture on my phone, the magic of the 21st century puts that picture in the photo stream of every other iPhone here in the compound.

That has got to have the rest of the organization wondering just what the hell I’m doing taking pictures of my pinky, salsa, those cream cheese pinwheel things from the big game the other day,  the Girl Scout cookies we ordered, an English muffin, canine laser eyes, and the TharpSter Pit Bull sitting in the back of a jeep that needs a new headliner.

I’m ultimately of the belief that if you act goofy and insane throughout the early years of your life, no one will notice when you actually do lose your mind.

I’m sure at one point the pictures in that photo stream will be used at my eventual competency hearing.  The jury is still out as to whether they will be used by me or against me.

In the meantime, I’ll just sit here in the confines of one of my makeshift “offices” afforded by a laptop or smart phone and continue the effort to write about something other that what sums up to a gripe about dry skin and the need for lotion.

Cancel next year’s Super Bowl party and I’ll give you exactly two reasons why.  The second reason should come as pretty darn obvious, however I’m going to subject you to a TharpSter Rant with the other reason first.

Overall it was a good game.  Just like a few years ago, it came down to the wire on whether a Hail Mary that Tom Brady launched somewhere in the stratosphere could be caught by someone who has seen him naked in the locker room.  Don’t forget to add the indiscriminate remarks Brady’s hot wife made.

As a fan of the NFL, my expectations were met by the game and the adult beverages I imbibed in he process.

So here’s the first reason you can cancel out your plans for this time next year.

Aside from the fact that it was the championship game where winner takes all and obtains squatters’ rights to the big trophy, what was different about it?

Nothing.

You had a half time show loaded up with production quality staging, wardrobe, and hype intertwined into the performance of an icon who has incorporated other artists known only to their specific genre.

On yeah.  There was lip syncing too.  I suspect that Al Michaels and Chris Collinsworth participated in part of that, but I have no evidence (manufactured or not) to prove that.

In summary, the half time show sucked.

Predictably.

Speaking of “it sucked”, let’s talk about the commercials. Do I really have to make a point here?

The Super Bowl is heralded as the one event in American television were ad space reigns supreme.  Yet still,  there was nothing special about this year’s crop of efforts to liberate the viewership of their hard earned, over taxed dollar.

In summary the commercials sucked.

And that my friends is reason number one why you can cancel your “Save The Date” flyers for next year’s party where the closest of your casual acquaintances raid your fridge for more free beer.

Outside of the game itself, there was no difference between this game and the games played over the last twenty weeks or so.

The hype, on the other hand, was flatulent.  It was big on sound and smell and lacking in substance.

Reason number two.

According to the Mayans, all bets are off at the end of this year.  There will be no Super Bowl next year because there will be no next year.

Duh.

My name is not Sherryl and the positive feedback you littered onto my site has nothing to do with the story at hand.

That’s all I have to say about that.

A few years ago, Budweiser ran a commercial of a young couple preparing for a horse drawn sleigh ride.  The young man gave the lady a candle to hold, and as he was making his final preparations, the horse got a little gassy.  When the camera came back to the lady, her face was smoldering, her hair was blown back, and the candle had been extinguished.  Next to some of last years Doritos commercials, I had never laughed so hard at a Super Bowl commercial before.

Budweiser obviously found  nothing funny this year as they chose to focus on the banning of prohibition instead.  Meanwhile, I sat there drinking Fat Tire.

Bridgestone had a couple of good ones, and Doritos had one that I can remember.

Note to Super Bowl advertisers.  If you’re going to show us duds, let us know.  I had to pee.

Regarding the half time show.

Meh.

What can I say that hasn’t been said already?

My original impression was that she nailed it and overall did a good job by keeping things to her own genre without dragging good rock music into the muck and mire of pop.

Elaborate productions combined with the right song choices and lip syncing tend to come off that way.

Just sayin’.

I guess.

Case in point, between Wifey and me, one of us was kind of gassy in our sleeping hours last night.

Early this morning one of our alarms went off this morning making irrational demands that it was time to get up.  The alarm tone used was the sound of a harp.  It was quite a heavenly sound compared to some other choices we have on our phones.

Shortly after the alarm went off, the one of us who was supposed to get up remained in bed contemplating a return to sleepy land.

During the contemplation, the other one of us who wasn’t getting up for 30 minutes cut the cheese in a pure display and validation that flatulence is for the most part, an involuntary process.

The other one of us who was thinking about staying in bed reacted accordingly.  “That’s a snooze button I’m not going to hit.”

The potential tragedy of sleeping in was averted.

Onward and upward.

In just a few short hours, the New England Patriots and the New York Giants will parade onto the field to play what I expect to be a pretty good game.

Of course there’s plenty of hype around the game.  There always is.

The commercials are in the can with the promise of either hitting a home run or throwing a gutter ball.  I’ll reserve comment until I see the homage to Ferris Bueller.

Bueller?

In preparation for the big event, Wifey has made salsa.

Wifey makes good salsa.

This time around, she’s changed it up a little.  She normally makes a mild batch, and then segregates a portion out in order to add chipotle to it.  It’s gooooooood.

Today, she’s made two batches.  The first batch was chipotle.  As I said before, it’s goooooooood.

The other batch has five habanero peppers in it.  It’s hoooooooooot.

So here’s the thought.

If I start digging into that stuff during the first half of the big game, I should pretty much be in the middle of an “Occupy Wall Street” exercise in the privacy of my own bathroom at the point the NFL lays an aesthetic assault on my senses and 42″ TV when Madonna performs for what the Mayans predict will be the last Super Bowl half time show ever.

That’s right people.

I would rather endure the gastronomical pain an anguish of my 43 year old systems dealing with habanero salsa than to sit there and watch Madonna play the Super Bowl.  Just for the record, I’m guessing both of those encounters will create a burning sensation when I pee.

Note to the NFL.  This is your last Super Bowl (according to the Mayans).  Can you cut it out with the crappy half time shows please?

By the way. I don’t really understand why members of the male gender wear those things.

So anyway, there is a collection of country artists on he TharpSter 4S, even though I generally prefer to bang my head.

One of those songs is “We Shall Be Free” by Garth Brooks.  It’s loaded up with a bunch of lyrics about getting along and curing that which ails us.  Once all of this is taken care of, we shall be free.

Isn’t that nice?

Garth has pretty much set the bar which will define when we  shall be free.

Allow me to adjust that bar.

When I can order a hamburger anywhere I want (not just Fuddruckers) and be asked how I want it cooked,  I shall be free.

When I can tell the grill cook at work to stop cooking the red out of my burger without getting a stupid look, I shall be free.

When the Texas Man Law (the redder the better) trumps some stupid ass health regulation that burgers have to be cooked to the point of ruination, I shall be free.

Now redo my burger and get it off the grill when I tell you to.

This morning at the ever so unsociable time of 6:30, I participated in the annual biometric screening sanctioned by a company who’s striving to stay up with all of the fads, fashions, and practices of the time.

If you want my real opinion about the program, keep reading.

Anyhoo, this morning I wandered into one of the bigger conference rooms typically reserved for, well, wellness events.  It was there that I was obliged to fill out a Scantron form with all of my pertinent information.  Height, weight, age, name, political affiliation, and favorite cheeses were just some of the items I had to bubble in on the form.

Note to the people who publish those infernal forms with the small font and colors which don’t contrast enough for those of us with bad vision who struggle in providing correct personal information as a result.  Stop it.

After negotiating the form, I presented my middle finger to the tech charged with extracting a sample of my red stuff.  That thing stung for a moment, and then inhibited my ability to type the letters “E” and “D” for the next few hours.  I don’t type “X” a whole lot.

Five minutes later, I was escorted to a separate room with a self proclaimed health coach in order to go over the results of my blood test.  I started with the most pressing question in mind.  “Did the rabbit make it?”

After feigning the minimum amount of amusement for my comment required by law, the coach preceded to go over my results.  “Ok, let’s look at your BMI.”

“It’s 42.”

Offering no response, she broke out the color coded chart, identified my height and weight on the X and Y axis, and navigated her way right into the red zone.  “…and your BMI is 42.  How did you know that?”

“It’s the answer to life’s most important question.”

“What I would suggest is that you lose about….”

“Ok, here’s the deal,” I chimed in.  “I’ve been consistently trying to lose weight since last spring.  I exercise at least 3-4 times a week, try to eat lean protein, fruits, and veggies, and have pretty much plateaued at my current weight.  Recently I realized I was doing too much cardio, so I altered my routine.  Beyond that, what can I do to lose the weight?”

The health coach then donned a look on her face that told me she was about to ask me a delicate question.

“Do you cleanse?”

“Cleanse?”

She nodded.

“I’ll say ‘No’”.

At that point, I learned about the capability of my intestine to hold a whole bunch of ….., nah, you probably wouldn’t  believe it anyway.

“There are teas you can drink which will clean you out and give you a jump start.  Just don’t drink it here at work as you may get a surprise.”

With the discussion of the contents of my lower GI set aside, she then moved on to what I should be putting in said intestines.  “For the next  2 weeks, eat only fish and salad.”

“Uumm, as a valiant crusader for the rights of our friends under the sea, I don’t eat fish.”  That was only half right.

“Okay, chicken.”

“That’s fine,” I responded.  “…and how may cups of ranch dressing am I limited to with this approach?”

Big picture, it would seem that I need to embrace white guilt on this one and avoid eating white food.  Fortunately, Reese’s are a mix of brown and tan.

Speaking of which, I may have found an avenue to jump off of the wagon where those bad boys are concerned.

In the past, I could pretty much be accused of mainlining the miniature, individually wrapped version of their peanut butter cups.  I’ve been a good boy about not giving into temptation and buying a bag of those things once or twice a month.

And then I found the minis.  It’s a cheaper, smaller bag.  The cups are not individually wrapped and they’re about half the size of the miniatures.  These features alone allow me to open a bag and poor them into the ole piehole.

Isn’t that wonderful?

Now where was I?

Oh yes.  The wellness program at work.

For the next 10-11 months, I will endure assorted campaigns to improve my “wellness”.  I do online activities and read assorted articles.  I’ll participate in local activities like The Great April Grape Toss, and the November Name That Odor Event.  For each one of those events, I’ll earn points which I will track on the special website.  If I earn enough points by the end of the year, I’ll garner some extra cash on my December 15th paycheck.

For that, all I can say is this.

Yeah, whatever.

Imagine my surprise.

For several years, the filing of my annual taxes served as the equivalent of a February Bonus.  The year 2012 marks a turn in that path.  When I did my taxes yesterday using software that even a Treasury Secretary could handle, I was informed that I will owe.

Its a relatively small amount, but even still the issue irks me a little.

My income for the most part was the same as it was in 2010.  In essence, there were no capital gains on the lottery investments I made throughout the year.

And then I lost one of my child tax credits because the kid was 17 by the end of the year.

I’ll have to dig through previous years’ returns to determine if that’s been changed recently.

Crud.

As near as I can tell, I’m guessing I crossed into a new income bracket and am now being expected to pay my “fair share”.

Whata buncha Streep.

On a side note, I received a note from Dad (Thor) last night about the birthday tribute.  Turns out he wasn’t born in Roswell, but he did live there as a young Viking.  I guess that’s why I said he was born in Roswell proper, which generally meant Roswell and it’s surrounding area.

Roswell proper (click to enlarge the map)

McAmy, Texas, the reported birthplace of Dad, is what I’m guessing to be part of Roswell, New Mexico proper.

He also reminded me that “Tharp” had been misspelled on his birth certificate.  As a result, he was inducted into the Army (where he would learn how to make SOS) as Thor Edward Thorp.

Too bad I forgot that part when I wrote the tribute.

My Uverse is back up to par and is running at full expectations.

I’ll give you a moment to calm yourself and come down from the mirthful elation you’re experiencing right now.

You good?

Good.

Whether you’re aware of it or not, Tharpster.Org in its infancy was produced from Google Chrome. At one point I made some minor changes on the look of the site and a few other things, and bam, I couldn’t access the site on anything but Internet Explorer.

It drove your favorite blogger nuts. Not as nuts as typing these posts out on my phone, but you can imagine my frustration.

A few months ago it all started with a periodic need to reboot the DVR. We could deal with that.  Shortly thereafter, my iPhone lost its ability to stay connected to the WIfi. After troubleshooting that issue mercilessly, I took it to the Apple store where I explained my situation to the young gentlemen donning a blue tshirt, ear peircings the size of the lug nuts on my truck, and about the ugliest pair of glasses designed to make military issue birth control glasses look pretty darn sexy.

After he exhausted all of the tools and expertise ascribed to him as a “Genius”, he generally said; “Screw it. We’ll give you a new phone.”

Great.

I took it home and rebuilt the personalization on it. I reloaded all of the apps and placed them in the assorted folders. I also assigned that picture of my two dogs um… watering the lawn as my wallpaper.

For the record, it’s wallpaper and not a screensaver. They’re two different things. Stop confusing them.

Fortunately, the new phone picked up the Wifi and all was kinda right In my world.

Save for the DVR.

Stupid piece of junk dumped all of the movies I had recorded on those free movie channel weekends.

Bad DVR! I’m going to rub your nose in that!

Finally, after several calls to AT&T, they sent a tech out who determined that the DVR and the gateway (router thingy) were “all jacked up” (his words, not mine).

After summoning the necessary vocabulary and elocution to describe our predicament, he replaced both units.

Things are working beautifully now.

I can use different browsers now to upload pure crap to the internet. In the meantime, I have an iPhone that didn’t need to be replaced.

Yet still, I find myself fighting the keys on the bottom of my virtual keyboard and how my phone thinks I’m hitting the space bar instead of actual letters.

In other news, there was a report on the news tonight that more and more people in the 18-35 year age range are taking their smart phones to the bathroom on a regular basis.

Just sayin’.