I'm blogging to you live from the cf.Objective() conference at the Crowne Plaza in beautifully overcast downtown St Paul. There are a lot of nerds here. I keep searching the room for the hugest nerd, but I can't see -- oh, wait. OH. MY. GOD. Look at that dude! Ha ha! Oh, who dressed you, Sparky, your mom? Oh, Lordy I -- oh, that's a mirror. *cough*

UPDATE 9:47 AM: Well, the conference is off to an interesting (and hopefully not unfortunate) start. I didn't quite see what or who went down, but someone a couple of rows directly in front of me had a medical emergency during the keynote in the ballroom. They have cleared the room to give the ambulance crew room to work. Hope the person is OK.

UPDATE #2: Dude that collapsed during keynote evidently was OK. He walked out of the room on his own.

In brief bursts, I've spent the last few weeks clearing my house of clutter. The seven years in my humble home in Eagan have been the longest period of time I've spent at any residence since I moved away from the farm when I was 18. Living alone in my three-bedroom rambler, I haven't exactly been wanting for space, which hasn't given me much incentive to get rid of shit I don't need. Pay stubs from my minimum wage job in college, boxes from computer peripherals I threw away or sold years ago, gas station receipts from 1997 -- I have no fucking clue why I've hung onto any of it, and the growing collection disorganized boxes and chaotic piles of junk have made it nearly impossible to find the things I actually need when I need them. I'm tired of living in my own (non-biological) filth.

Phase I of Project Make Shit Go 'Way Now was to drag every overflowing box and drawer from my master bedroom and office and sort through every last scrap of paper and loose screw. That phase resulted in the disposal of an estimated 60 to 90 gallons of trash at the curb and 10 to 20 gallons of financial and other sensitive documents burned in the fire pit over beers and booze. The small percentage of items I wished or needed to keep were sorted into several piles in my living room. Financial documents, house-related documents and receipts, insurance and medical documents, photos and keepsakes, tools, computer parts, adapters, and cables, office items, and other assorted shit stayed in these piles for several weeks. The other day, I finally started putting these items into several stackable plastic drawers, folders, and other items purchased to aid in organizing my whatnotteries and bric-a-shit.

In addition to the trash, there are a lot of perfectly useful items for which I no longer have a need. These will all go to Goodwill. The most useless of these items are the boxes and boxes of toys I have collected over the years. Some I compulsively purchased, foolishly thinking they would increase in value. The following is a small but shameful sampling of unopened Star Wars toys that I took to Goodwill yesterday. Most of these items are worth exactly what I paid for them -- or far less-- in 1998 and 1999. These do not include the toys I opened and used for the purposes of interior decorating until I came to in a rush of snap maturity -- at age 27. Since then, these toys have accumulated dust in my closet.

Bear witness to my shame, bitches!

Back in high school, I never thought I would have much use for algebra or geometry. But today I find myself using both of them yet again for the I've-lost-counteenth time in my career. I'm recreating an electronic signature capture program in a different programming language to make things easier for us to maintain and for our users to use. So I need to capture this signature, translate it and save it as a series of coordinates, and then recreate the signature later using simple geometry when it needs to be displayed again. Such an endeavor requires complicated test signatures to make sure the program works. Here is the signature I captured and saved earlier today.

I can't say I ever see using calculus though. The last time I used that was when I wrote a simulation program in college that given variables such as air temperature, altitude, and body temperature, and volume, would calculate how high of a structure someone would have to shit, piss, or puke off of for the said matter to freeze solid before it hit the ground. I sold it to Microsoft for $15 and a punch to the nuts.

There comes a time in every man's life when he has a staggering moment of regret. Mine came after leaving the Unique thrift store in Burnsville the other night without bringing home this special little guy. He was curiously stationed in the electronics section nestled snugly between a monotone monitor manufactured in 1982 and a Russian modem that measured bandwidth in bushels and boar tongues. I was immediately infatuated with him, but in my tired, crabby, commerce-worn state, I scoffed at spending yet another $6 for a faded ceramic chimp coin bank. I had taken that photo of him though, and I could not get him out of my head. Oh, shelf chimp, how could I have forsaken you, leaving you to rot amidst frayed serial cables and naked, hairless Barbie dolls macabrely entombed in sandwich baggies? I knew I had to make this right or die trying. What better use of my Friday lunch hour than to rescue my ceramic soul mate?

Shelf chimp (aka "shelf monkey") as I originally found him, coyly tickling his own privates.


The road to shelf monkey was long and arduous. I had to pass a car on the way there. My blinker hand is exhausted.


"Shelf monkeeeeeeey! I'm coming, little buddy! I'm so sorry. So sorry... [sobbing]" (see cell video)


Soon I found myself at the store. I dried my tears, took a deep breath, and rushed inside.


Shelf chimp was no longer in the electronics section at his former post. But I kept the faith, as I assumed that the diligent staff at Unique noticed he had been misplaced and returned him to the sea of random shit in the middle of the store. Like this multicultural paint. One could use this Olive shade to paint a portrait of a Greek fellow eating some pie.


I wandered the aisles for what seemed like an eternity. Oh where are you, shelf chimp. WHERE ARE YOU!!?? Oh, hey, astronaut diapers. Fuckin' A! *throws in cart*


In the very center aisle of the store and in the very center of the aisle, with a florescent light showing on him with a glow like the aura of an angel, I saw him. He looked at me, fingered his pee pee, and I smiled. I had found him. I had found my precious shelf chimp.


Gently, I took him into my arms. He whimpered softly, and I wrapped him in a tuxedo shirt like the sweet baby Jesus in swaddling clothes.


Shelf chimp, or shelf monkey, or whatever the fuck you are, you are mine, and I love you like no other, you crazy, fucked up piggy bank thing, you.

Now sit down and grab a stiff drink (and if your dick is hard, go ahead and grab that, too -- no one's looking). This is going to be difficult for you to process, perhaps even impossible to believe. For the first time in the entire history of this blog (please, I told you to SIT DOWN for this!), I have a girlfriend. Are you ok? You look faint. Should I call 9-1-1? Do you need some smelling salts or a sandwich or something? No? In any case, she is the lovely Ang from Unapologetic Nonsense and Overheard in Minneapolis. She totally makes my pants dance. Swuht.

As you may recall, at Amber's party, Rich, Hedy, and I attacked the Death Star along with the rest of Rogue Squadron. We died a geeky death for you. Freedom isn't free, man.

...can be found here. We're models!

My date Amber and I pose for a traditional pre-prom photoGeek Prom 2007 was a stellar success. We danced, we drank, we laughed, and totally geeked out.

The evening started with a drive with Mary from my digs in Eagan up to NE Minneapolis. Mary is Sally Goto Girl when it comes to being a designated driver, and she volunteered pick up my platonodate Amber (I keep identifying her as a "platonodate" because I want you to know that if you are a single, hot woman, you can date me without fear of Amber scratching your eyes out of your head), her roomie Rich, and his girlfriend Jen. We posed for a few dorky dude-picking-up-prom-date photos and group shots (note that I even brought Amber a corsage!) and headed to St Paul to meet up at Cossetta's with Abysmal Chick and Alie. Hedy would join us later, as she had to pop in at a friend's graduation party and was still in a mild last minute panic trying to find something suitably geeky to wear.

After stuffing ourselves with pasta, we went over to The Liffey for a couple of drinks before walking to the Science Museum. It was geek central! This was a scaled back version of Geek Prom compared to last year, and I think it worked for the best. Last year the dance floor and cash bar were right in the lobby, with different booths and activities spread through a good portion of the museum itself. Since you're dealing with geeks, giving them open space to roam means they will probably avoid congregating and socializing. This year, while there was still a stage for a talent contest and other activities elsewhere in the museum, the dance was in a smaller banquet room, and the cash bar was just outside. I think herding the geeks into a smaller area created more opportunity for social interaction. Unfortunately it also created more opportunity for sexual molestation. More on that in a moment.

For all of the fruitless running around town I did last weekend (ok, not totally fruitless), my outfit turned out way better than I ever could have hoped. After resigning myself to wearing another a geeky t-shirt with yet another bad jacket, same as last year, I found a t-shirt with a built-in battery-powered EQ that actually lights up and reacts to sound. It could not have been more perfect. It worked incredibly well, and one set of batteries lasted through the whole Geek Prom and beyond. I lost count of how many people came up to me wondering how it worked, congratulating me on my awesome shirt, and wanting to yell at my chest. Even one of the guys from the band came over during a break to ask about it. Here is a typical exchange:

Fellow Geek: "Oh my God! I saw your shirt and just wanted to come over and tell you that it rocks! Does it actually react to sound?"

Me: "Sure does! Check this out. [singing] La la la LA LAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!"

FG: "NO WAY!" [yells at my chest] "AUUGGGGGHHHHH!!"

Me: "AUUUUGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

FG: "AUUUUUUHHHHHGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

Together: "AAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHH!"

In a few of those conversations, particularly if it was a woman, as the person leaned in close to yell at my chest, I jokingly pointed to my groin and said, "No, no. The mic is down here!" I stopped making that joke after one apparently intoxicated guy butted in and said, "Down here?" and RUBBED MY FUCKING DICK THROUGH MY PANTS!!! He did not cup. He did not pat. He rubbed. In a vigorous and circular motion. On. My. Fucking. Dick. Quite honestly I didn't know what to do. I was too shocked to be outraged. Then he said something about me having a lot to show off and that I should join him and a few others in the long held tradition of streaking the dance floor later. Still stumped for words, I declined, and motherfucker went in for another rub! This time I physically blocked him and said, "Dude!!!" Yeah, way to lambast him.

Feeling dirty from being molested, I returned to the table to join the others. It wasn't much later that a line of several pale, translucent streakers came bursting from the restroom, circled around the ballroom, and made their way to the dance floor. Not much later, some of the girls came from the dance floor and were complaining their throats and eyes burned a little. Apparently the streakers disobeyed an order by the police to stop, and the cop(s) launched pepper spray at them. In a crowded fucking ballroom. For streaking. Really. My throat felt a little raw, but I had been yelling about my shirt a lot. But Rich, who had been nowhere near the dance floor pepper spray fiasco, complained his throat was irritated, as well. The streakers made it back to the restroom, where the cops blocked the doors so they could get dressed without sneaking away. The guys emerged and as the cops confronted them, the crowd gathered 'round, chanting "FREE THE GEEKS! FREE THE GEEKS!" Coincidentally, we bumped into some of the streakers after the prom and asked them what happened. They were issued citations for indecent exposure and were kicked out of the Science Museum. My guess is that incident will put the kibosh on the streaking tradition. Not that I'm complaining. Who wants to see dangling, hairy geek balls clanging around near their drink?

Close to the end of the evening, the band played a couples only dance, and Amber took me out to the dance floor. It seemed only fitting that I have at least one geeky, awkward dance with my glowing date. Then the band picked up the pace and closed with Boston's More Than a Feeling, Mary and Abysmal Chick joined us, and we danced our dorky hearts out. It was midnight, and we closed a magical evening with more drinks at the Liffey, then headed to our respective homes to dream of Star Wars, clothing that lights up, and the many digits of pi.

Jeremy, Amber, Rich, and Jen before heading to Geek Prom



Amber was thrilled to meet the dude dressed as the berries and cream guy! She had even been singing the song as we walked to the museum. It was providence.


When about to be attacked by a polar bear, drink a martini and shit your pants.


Auuugggghhhhhh!


Jeremy and Hedy are shy geeks.


Hedy and Mary


Sometimes footwear makes the outfit.


If I had known I would be sexually molested for real later, I wouldn't have jokingly posed next to this bronze casting's penis. I am scarred for life.


Alie and I are going to the Geek Power rally later. Who is with us?


Gnuh! It's in there somewhere. Just a little further.


Hedy wants a boogie, too!


Now Alie wants in on the action. I prove that you can indeed pick your friend's nose. Take that, fuckers who made up that stupid saying!


Mary and her Swatch shirt.


Ok, we'll pose for a photo, but we're really uncomfortable with it.


Hedy!!! Good librarian girls do not flip the bird!


Abysmal Chick wants you to have a close encounter with her chest.


Hedy and AC, two of the sexiest geeks on the planet.


Shake what yo' momma gave ya!


Ok. Um. Maybe shake it a little less than that. Bring your shaking quotient down to about a 7.4.


Amber and me on the dance floor. Booty Pop ratio: 99%


"Rich and Jeremy, let's get a photo of you cats together." What? But men aren't supposed to pose for photos togeth-[snap]. Hey!!!


Miss Aliecat, pretty, pretty princess (with a sailor's mouth).


I just invented gravity.


And close the evening with more dancing, star wipe, and we're out...


Check out more Geek Prom fun from Hedy, Aliecat, and Abysmal Chick has more here, here, and here.

Photos to come...

πoday we celebrate that wacky irrational, transcendental number pi, also known in extremely abbreviated form as 3.14 (and so on) or its ubiquitous symbol π. Pi is the pregnant woman of the number world, constantly craving dill pickles covered in maple syrup and crying when the cat meows too quietly.

Fun facts about π:

-The circumference of a circle is its diameter multiplied by π.

-The area of a circle is π multiplied by its radius squared.

-Computers have calculated π out to more than 1 trillion digits

-My favorite flavors of π are pumpkin and french silk. Ooh! Apple π and blueberry π are awesome, too!

-I've proposed to many literary and mathematical councils that we start using π to replace any occurrence of "pi" in the written language. This will result in a 0.0027% increase in productivity in the world workforce, reducing poverty levels by 0.00091% over a span of 350 years. For example: "Fancy Shasta can! Who πssed in the kitchen sink?" or "Captain πcard could totally kick Kirk's ass in a πano playing contest, but I'll bet Kirk could eat twice as much πzza." These proposals have been consistently rejected.