Perl helps private investigators bring criminals to justice.

I was sitting in a bar, wearing my “I know regular expressions” xkcd t-shirt, and a guy walked up to me and slapped me on the shoulder.
“Perl! Where did you get that shirt? Talk about the story of my life. A steroid dealer who had several NFL players on his frequent buyer program found out that his girl-friend was tipping off police, so he murdered her and then killed himself. The girls family hired us to go over 80GB of data to find out if there was evidence to support a wrongful death lawsuit.“

And they use Perl to grep through all this data!

Hmmmm. I guess I shouldn’t be so excited about that. It’s still cool, though.

A fifteen story tall post modern structure interrupts the seemingly endless plain of northern South Africa. In the near desert that was once Botswana, sheet metal shacks and small huts congregate around the monstrosity, like pagans bowing down before the blasphemy that defies the natural order of its surroundings. Paul walks through the market on his way to the bank. It has been a two day journey from the coast, and he is anxious to get there, but every step that brings him closer fills his mind with fear and paranoia. He stops at a venders cart and orders a beer. The dark skinned local pours a straw colored liquid out of an old plastic milk jug into a cup made out of a Coke can. Paul tosses a few Euros down and pounds the tepid brew. As he walks away he wonders if the fact that he didn’t regret wasting perfectly good money on that swill was proof that he really was an alcoholic.

The lobby of the bank was surprisingly cool, and clean. The center of the building was open, so you could see elevators ascending and descending, taking patrons to and from the offices that overlooked the lobby floor. People of all nationalities paused and enjoyed the refreshing atmosphere. After making a deposit or withdrawal, most of these individuals would have a long trek ahead of them. This place was an oasis in more ways than one. Paul took it all in for a moment before beginning his climb up one of the staircases. For some reason he was just not in the mood to take the elevator. He sighed as he took the last step onto the fourth floor. Hundreds of terminals with dark curtains suspended on what looked like circular shower curtain rods loomed before him. About a third of the terminals were in use and only about half of the clients cared enough to close the curtain around them. Paul waked by a fat middle aged elderly Korean man who was checking the contents of his digital safety deposit box. Apparently he felt no shame about retrieving his illegal Hentai, because he left the privacy curtain wide open. Paul cocked his head to one side as he walked by and watched the Asian’s monitor. He thought about informing the manga connoisseur that there were never actually any tentacle Digimon, but decided against it.

Paul smiled as he thought about the similarities between picking a terminal and picking a urinal. You should leave at least one open space between you and the next guy. He wondered if they thought about this when they decided how many terminals to install. He picked a suitable terminal and scanned in his thumb prints and entered his password before inserting his drive and uploading the key. There was no need to close the curtain. He was simply going to withdraw the file from the safety deposit and close the account – no need to view any of the contents here. After the download, he shoved the drive in his pocket and closed the account. As he started his descent down the stairs, he looked up at the executive offices on the higher floors. “What a shame,” he thought, “somewhere up there is Kevin O’Neil. Even though this is the first time in years that we are on the same continent, I have never felt so distant.” Paul grinned as he mulled over just how witty his thoughts were.

San Francisco is nothing like I imagined it. For one, I did not see a single fag. I drove across the Golden Gate Bridge. I saw Alcatraz. (from the shore, but still) I drove down some steep twisty streets. And yet, San Francisco is nothing like I imagined it. For some reason I thought it would be a modern city. I swear, the last piece of construction was completed in the 70’s. I thought it would be crawling with hippies, like Portland. But no, everyone there is Asian. Ooh, BTW, did I mention that EVERYONE in San Fran is Asian? Totally cereal.

I wanted to go out to eat. I wanted to drink. There were 17 restaurants within a 1 mile radius of me. They were all Asian. I talked to the clerk at the hotel. “Do you know of any hotels around here that I can get a beer at? That aren’t Asian?”

“No, you have to drive 5 miles to get to the nearest American restaurant.”

“Well, OK, I’ll try anything twice. What is the best Japanese restaurant around here?”

“HaHa! Stupid American! Sushi is for the workers, eh, how do you say? The labor workers. It is for those who can’t afford Sashimi. Here eat Sashimi.” I didn’t know if I should feel honored or insulted. I ate the raw fish. It was awesome. The coolest thing about the raw fish that I ate was that most of it was brought in by locals who caught it hours earlier, and some of it was actually sea snail, and some of it was actually illegally poached sea snail. Why do illegal things always taste so much sweeter? I was there for hours eating whatever the locals tossed across the bar to the bartender and drinking whatever rice based alcoholic beverage he tossed at me. It was awesome!

That is the one redeeming thing about business trips - drinking with Asians. For example, tonight I was drinking Yuengling and eating 150,000 scoville heat unit wings (http://www.quakersteak.com/food/menus/core_menu.pdf)and it sucked. You know why? No Asians. OK, maybe that’s not true. Last night was awesome and there weren’t any Asians there, just Italians. That is the one redeeming thing about business trips – drinking with locals. I’m done with trendy bars. Long live Asians!

"The people who cast the votes decide nothing. The people who count the votes decide everything." - Joseph Stalin

For my birthday, my parents got me a t-shirt with that quote on it. I have been wearing it for the past few days because I have been amazed by others reactions to it, and when you are on a business trip in a strange city you can get away with wearing the same cloths every day until they start to noticeably smell.

My dad told me, a long time ago, that the only jokes that were funny were the ones with a premise that was extremely close to the truth, or the ones with a premise that could not be further from the truth. What he forgot to mention is that much like the slapstick of Americas Funniest Home Videos, the best jokes are only funny to the outside observer, the one who is not getting racked in the nuts.

I was not even thinking about what I was wearing when I went up to the ticket lady to check my bag. I handed her my drivers license and my boarding pass. When she scowled and said, “What’s that supposed to mean?” I instinctively thought that there was something wrong with my ticket. I looked down at my boarding pass to make sure that I did not accidentally hand her the month old one that I was using as a book mark for The Fountainhead. It was a second before I realized that she was talking about my shirt. I mumbled, “Eh, it’s just… elections, uh funny.”

Now, in my defense, she did catch me off guard. I did not think to have a rebuttal prepared. She typed something into her computer and took my bag. I was deep in thought about what had just happened while I meandered through the ropes leading up to the TSA check point. The agent took my ID and made a point to noticeably pause and read my shirt. This is always an awkward moment. What do you do – stand still and let the individual read the text, straiten out the wrinkles to make it easier on them, try to obscure the message like it is some sort of mistake, or just pretend like there is nothing written on your clothing and stare back at them like they are crazy? The later is the typical treatment I get from women in Wall Mart who have phrases written on their busts or butts. I learned that his does not work so well with members of the same sex who have a badge. “You think that’s funny?” he said. “Um, yeah,” I replied. He took an extra long time making sure my drivers license was not fake before letting me pass.

At the bar in the beer belly that overlooks the Bible belt of America, I thought I noticed a few dirty looks. Starting to feel paranoid, I asked the bartender, “Is this shirt offensive?” “Well, yeah,” he replied, “I could see how people might be offended.” I did not question him further on the subject, even though I was confused by his answer.

Sitting here, drunk, in my hotel room, I am still confused. What I thought would be a hilarious joke is apparently deeply offensive. Perhaps I misjudged. Maybe the joke neither close to the truth or far from the truth. Maybe it is in that same purgatory of humor that Dane Cook resides.

Of course, the alternative is far, far more depressing. Maybe, just like Americas Funniest Home Videos, to the outside observer the joke is hilarious. Maybe, to the guy with the camera, this is side splitting humor. Maybe, just maybe, the reason why the joke is not funny is because we are the guy getting hit in the nuts.

I don’t like this joke anymore.

It’s always that second beer that gets you.

Joy could hear it in my voice. I wasn’t scared… I’m too lucky to get scared; I was just flustered.

It’s that second beer - the one right after the beer you have after the one you had after the last one. It’s the second beer that really gets you.

As if he was attempting to be stereotypical, he had a white crack head chick (a few dominoes short of a full set of dentures) sulking behind him. “Gimmy your money!”

Fuck that second beer. If it had been my first beer, the first beer, that is, after the last beer, I might have attempted to be reasonable with him. But, no, I had to take that second beer with me. I love it when someone offers you a plastic cup for a beer take out.

The bartender knew what he was doing. He saw the swagger in my step. He knew that the beer I just pounded was the first beer after the last beer. He was the one who closed my tab. He knew…

“This one’s on me.”

Staring at him through the Sammy Oktoberfest, fresh off the tap, I asked him, “why is this one on you?”

He didn’t answer. I missed the train. Some black kid with just enough crack to keep a whore in toe thought he could bow up to me.

If it had only been the first beer after the last beer I would be asleep by now, Cartoon Network my only lullaby, but no; there had to be the second beer.

“Hey Joy, I need to get across the river.” She probably thought that I was just drunk and being bitchy. Unfortunately there was another reason for the tone in my voice, that damn second beer!

I took the train to the central station. When I got there, I was supposed to switch trains. I got off, and saw the black kid in the hoody with his crack whore. I stepped off the train and watched him watch me. He stood between me and the train I needed to get on. “Gimmy your money!” Honestly, I was a little shocked. If I only had the first beer, I might have realized that I didn’t have any money. Of course, we know by now that this was not the case; I had the second beer. “Fuck you!” I yelled. He pulled a knife. We stared at each other. I thought about flexing my pecks, then I thought about how lame that would look, as I do not have pecks, then I noticed that the train behind me was about to leave. I backed onto it, and watched the kid through the closing doors. After a lot of heavy breathing, my train came back to the central station. The kid was not there anymore. I crossed to the train that would take me home, and waited. I waited. Then, I waited some more. I looked at my cell phone. 11:12 PM It was at this point that I saw the sign. “Trains hours: 6:00AM – 11:00PM Mon – Fri”

Fuck.

Because of the second beer I was still at the central station. I was across the river from my hotel. I started walking, and after I was thoroughly lost, I called Joy. My cell phone battery was dying. She probably thought I sounded like a little bitch.

“Hey Joy, I need to get across the river.”

OK, that was a close one. A desperate search, lasting no less then one minute was just underway. I just got into my hotel room after picking up dinner and was about to sit down at my computer when I was overwhelmed with panic. The beer in my hand was a pop-top. Frantically, I looked around. There has to be something in a hotel room that can act as a bottle opener. They teach you in school that bottle openers are all around you, all you have to do it look and you will notice them. A hotel room, however, is such a small area I thought I had found the exception. I carefully examined all the counters and flat surfaces, but none would do. I looked in the bathroom, and in all the drawers. Finally, at my wits end, I looked in the closet and found the object of my desire. So, here I am. I’m sitting naked in front of my computer with an iron and a twelve pack of local beer.

There were no restaurants within stumbling distance of my hotel, and I am in an “interesting” part of St. Louis, so I decided to buy dinner and bring it back to my room. Hmmm, I must not forget to expense this stuff. It’s time to take inventory.

12 bottles of Schlafly Pale Ale
4 White Castle Sliders
2 32oz bottles of Gatorade
1 Starbucks double shot in a can
1 32oz bottle of chocolate milk

It’s going to be one hell of a night.

I don’t know what it is about a hotel room, but as soon as I close the door behind me, I have an incredible urge to take off all my cloths. It’s like there is some unspoken rule that things that are normally unacceptable, are ok in a hotel room. I somehow feel that this is what everyone does, but no one talks about. Hotel rooms are the one place where a man can truly feel free. If I ever decided to rub mayonnaise all over my chest, you can bet that it would be in a hotel room.

This iron is really not the best bottle opener. All in all, this hotel room is not that bad. I mean, it has a lamp, a fridge, and a microwave. Of course, it does not have enough power outlets to operate all three simultaneously, but that is to be expected. This is America. We don’t take kindly to madmen who run around hotel rooms naked, trying to heat food and cool it at the same time. I mean, if you are into that, it’s fine, just do it in the dark, so no one can see you through the window.

My rental car is an SUV hybrid. I can’t help but feel that it is an unholy combination. So, do I hate the environment, or not? It’s like a neo-Nazi, skin head waving a flag around with a peace sign on it. Hmmmm, this reminds me of a story that Rosene and I thought up one night. I’ll have to tell it tomorrow. There is a gang fight in the hallway right now. I need get ready.

Is marriage a institution of the church or the state? Adding to the confusion, California:

"Should voters approve the measure, Cruz said, offering another potential outcome, it could inadvertently affect traditional marriages. That's because the amendment would undo only part of the court's decision -- allowing gay couples to marry -- but not the rest, which says that same-sex couples cannot be recognized differently than opposite-sex couples, he said. 'If you've got those two rules -- that you can't let them marry, but you can't give different options to gay and straight couples -- then one possible outcome, if the amendment were to pass, is that no one could get married in California,' Cruz said. "


GOOD! It should be illegal for the Government to regulate a religious institution. This could be awesome - or just funny.

"Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof;"

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2008/06/07/AR2008060701531_2.html?hpid=moreheadlines