Heeeeere’s Greg…

This portion of The BradLands is brought to you by So New Media, publishers of Greg Knauss' "Rainy Day Fun and Games for Toddler and Total Bastard." So New Media -- not just media, but new media. Only more so. Like extra, super new media. So New Media. It's got that new media smell.

Hello, I'm Abraham Lincoln and when I'm not spending time being dead and in the public domain, there's nothing I enjoy more than relaxing with a good So New Media book. They're terrific! Not only are So New Media books conveniently printed on paper -- like such classics as "Garfield Gets Tied Into a Canvas Bag and Dropped into the River" and "The Bible" -- but you'd be hard pressed to find other books that have that been as thoroughly handled by Ben Brown, unless you live in Austin and visit the pornography section of used bookstores.

Take, for instance, "Rainy Day Fun and Games for Toddler and Total Bastard" -- please! Ha ha! Oh, joyous mirth.

"RDFGTTB" -- pronounced like you're clearing your throat -- is the only book about parental love with a chainsaw and the word "bastard" on the cover. These heart-warning tales are sure to make you realize that you've read them before, as they're re-printed from An Entirely Other Day. But who could resist such bawdy folderol as this:

Tom saunters up to me -- he's sauntering now, Tom -- and says, "Do you work at a office or in a office?"

"I work in an office, at the office."

Tom looks confused, then laughs.

"Them prepositions," I say. "They're tricky."

Of course, you won't actually find that story in the book. But there are a number of other grammar jokes, for the connoisseur. You sad, lonely people.

So remember, citizen, for all your so new media needs, think So New Media! Because, y'know, that's what we sell. It's called branding. We used to sell these tasty little sponge cakes, but nobody ever came to buy them, because, pftt, "So New Media" just doesn't scream "sponge cake"! It was a silly thing to try. But still, sponge cake. Mmm. Everybody likes sponge cake.

I'm Abraham Lincoln, now irretrievably thinking about sponge cake. What the hell was I saying? Has anybody seen my hat?

No fault

Here's a sobering and, ultimately, utterly self-evident fact I somehow wasn't able to grasp before tonight: I have spent the past ten years or so, through a hundred retellings of the story -- from my perspective, mind -- hoping for and expecting someone to affirm my assertion that it was all his fault. When, in fact, there is plenty of blame to go around.

Or, more probably, no one is to "blame" at all.

Why did I wait a decade to tell the story to the one person I knew would understand best and, more importantly, tell me the truth I didn't particularly want to hear. Self-sabotage sucks.

A Conversation From the Bar Scene

David: They're having a sale at Dillard's this week. You buy a sportcoat, you get a putter free.

Jack: A putter, like golf?

David: Yep. Nice one, too.

Jack: What could I buy to get a nice wood?

Brad: Well, I'll have another cosmopolitan. Thanks.

Sorry lady

On Saturday, completing a three-year search, I finally found a table lamp that I liked for a particular spot in my house. Admittedly, I had not dedicated much energy to the search, since I found it in, of all places, K-Mart. I bought the lamp and a bottle of soda.

Once home, I decided I liked the lamp so much, I resolved to get another for an adjacent table, so I went back to K-Mart today, picked up the last one they had in stock and, as an afterthought, a soda to enjoy on the drive home. By happenstance, I had the same clerk who'd checked me through on Saturday. We exchanged pleasantries and, as she took my money, she regarded me with a curious expression.

It was an expression that said, "I'm having deja vu."

If I could keep this up every two days for a month or so, I believe I could drive the woman mad.

A commercial I’d actually watch

That Verizon guy, sitting in a restaurant at dinner, repeating "Can you hear me now?" into his cell phone, then being beaten senseless by dozens of irritated diners. Alternate locations: movie theatre, public restroom, art gallery, library, cross-town bus.

Better late?

You've got to give a man credit, I suppose, when he says "I'll call you" and then he actually does.

Of course, after seven years, I'd pretty much stopped waiting by the phone, but with spring just around the corner, I'm in a forgiving mood.

A Conversation From the Bar Scene

David: So I was up near your old stomping grounds last week. I went t--

Brad: I never did.

David: What?

Brad: I never stomped.

David: Beg pardon?

Brad: Never, not even as a discontented child. I moved with elegance, the very definition of grace and elan. Sleek and sure were my steps as I traipsed about the town, calling a merry hello to passersby who stood rapt with awe at my confident stride and manly bearing. I never stomped.

David: Are you through?

Brad: Yes, and now I must pee. (trips over barstool)

David (to bartender): Could we get another round? A rum and coke for me and a beer for Cyd Charisse there?

Brad: Bite me.

David: "Bite me"? Yep, that's "elan" all right.

Predictable

It doesn't matter how early I get to bed. I always seem to pop wide awake around noon, and I just can't get back to sleep.

In which I am a reluctant computer consultant

If it weren't for Steve's hardwood floors, I probably wouldn't be here at CompUSA at the wholly unreasonable hour of 10 a.m. on a Sunday morning.

I was awakened by a buzzing that sounds like locusts fighting inside an aluminum can. It takes a moment or so of sleep-fogged concentration to realize that my cell phone has vibrated its way from the bedside table where I scattered the contents of my pockets last night and landed on the floor, where it is now skittering across the slats toward the closet door. I shake my head and force my eyes to focus on the clock. It's just after 8.

Extracting myself from the tangled duvet, taking care not to wake Steve, I take a couple of steps from the bed and retrieve the animated phone. When I see the incoming number on the tiny display, I briefly consider resigning the call to voicemail. Instead, I stumble back to bed and flip open the phone, croaking a groggy hello.

On the other end of the line, Jeff sounds frantic. "Where are you?" he asks. "I need your help!"

There is an urgency in his voice, a tone that implies he's either suffered a mortal wound or just heard the announcement of a white sale at Famous and Barr. I am instantly fully awake.

"What's the matter?" I ask. "Are you all right?"

"My computer is dead. I need you to help me pick out a new one. Can you come right away?"

I hang up on him.

I know this is a short-term solution. I am not likely to be getting further sleep. Sure enough, the phone vibrates half a minute later and I answer immediately.

"For this, you interrupt the Lord's day?" I ask.

"Get real," Jeff says. "You are a godless man."

"As it happens," I reply, "I am in bed with one right now."

Steve is stirring now. "What happened?" I ask.

"I was IMing with this really hot guy last night -- well, this morning actually -- a totally rich number. You should see his GIF. We're talking a major packer."

"Jeff --"

"Anyway, he sends me his number. We're gonna hook up. And then another window opens up and the whole fucking thing just crashes. I try to start it up again and...nothing."

"Your computer died because you had two instant message windows open?"

Silence.

"Jeff?"

"Sixteen."

Steve rolls over and runs his hand along my stomach. "Sixteen," I repeat. "And a lot of pictures, too, right?"

"Yes," Jeff says, adding sadly, "They were on the hard drive."

"Call me back at a decent hour," I say, glancing down at Steve's head resting on my chest. "Two, maybe three."

"Wait, why aren't you at home?" Jeff asks, then answers his own question. "That guy from Clem's?"

"No comment."

"Meet me at the store at 10 sharp, sweetie. I want the dish and your electronic expertise. I'll buy you brunch after. Ta!"

I refold the phone and replace it on the nightstand, taking care to reactivate the ringer so the little critter doesn't scurry away again.

"What was that all about?" Steve asks.

"My friend Jeff," I say. "He was mutually messaging himself into a frenzy with some e-trick last night and fried his computer. He spends half of happy hour last week eschewing the bar scene and then goes home every night and cruises AOL for hours. Like that's any healthier."

Our eyes meet and Steve's mouth bends into the little grin that made me melt in the first place.

"What was your screenname again?" Steve asks.

"Shut up."

A Conversation From the (Taco) Bar Scene

Brad: Well, then, we'd like to sit in Jason's section.

Hostess: He already got off.

Brad: (speechless)