Thursday morning, 1:02 AM PST

I like to time things. It's a nerdy little habit that I picked up years ago that manifests itself at odd times. At amusement parks, while waiting for friends to finish up on rides I found too alarming, I would sit on a bench and count the seconds until the next screaming car rocketed by. Eventually, I'd be able to close my eyes and point to the bellowing moron sitting in the second car, third seat back, right side at exactly thirty-seven seconds after the minute. I remind myself of the Clock King villain that I saw once in a Batman cartoon. He could dodge Batman's predictable punches and make his escape on reliably scheduled trains. One of the weaker villains, no doubt, but still the one that I identify with the most.

I once timed the flickering of the street lamp outside my high school as I waited for my father to pick me up from youth group, knowing exactly when it would dim, when it would die, and when it would fire back up. My math teacher was impressed, but then he attended Star Trek conventions in Las Vegas on his family vacations. As much as I disliked him, I still felt bad that he had to wait with me. Obviously, I didn't inherit my timekeeping abilities from my father.

Tonight, I lay in bed transfixed by the mysterious orange pulse of light on my ceiling that blinks once every thirty seconds. Luckily I lost my wristwatch two years ago. Otherwise I'dve been staring at both it's indigo-glowing face and my (as it now turns out to be) smoke detector for the past fifteen minutes. As it is, I'm pretty accurate with my counting anyway; I use the One-Mississippi, Two-Mississippi method.

Why can't I sleep?

Now I'm beginning to realize that this whole timing business is one of the myriad of nervous tics that have plagued me over my lifetime. However, unlike the unrelenting need to rapidly blink in unsatisfiable demanding patterns that tormented me for years, this one has stuck with me into adulthood. I don't really mind this one so much, though. It's always made me feel kind of neat -- like I hold some power over things just by knowing how and when they are going to act.

I only time things when something's bothering me: my embarrassment at making others wait with me, my cowardice when faced with the Magnum XL-200, my inability to pay my student loans. Maybe by knowing when things happen, I'm subconsciously trying to make up for the things I'm powerless against.

It's now 1:45 AM. I suppose I should get back into bed and try to accept the fact that I can't control my life as much as I'd like. Tomorrow, I'll get up and count the minutes between my snooze alarms, the time it takes the toilet to refill, the seconds it takes for traffic lights to switch from yellow to red...

On the chopping block

Dear Frazz,

As you may already know, I keep a very tight rein on the comics I read each day. I do wish that Yahoo would widen its daily comic strip selection so I could enjoy some of my perennial favorites, but I digress...

The real issue is that interest in your comic is waning in the 20-30 yr old, Asian-American-males-named-Jed demographic. We feel that although your premise seems promising (the antics and ideas of children are almost endlessly hilarious), your strips lack the ingenuity of those others that have preceded you. More specifically, we're a little put off by the fact that your comic's hero seems to be a bleak vision of Calvin's janitorial future after he grows up and forgoes his tiger foil. Readers who were initially drawn to your comic by Frazz's visual similarity to Calvin are now being repelled by his smarminess. To put it frankly, Classic Peanuts is far outstripping you in the target population. Unless you dramatically improve your product within the next few weeks, I fear you will share the same fate as Dilbert (whose link no longer even shows up as ever having been visited). A deal with Gary Larson over potential "Classic" syndication of Farside is currently being negotiated.

I am sorry to have been so harsh, but every minute spent reading your comic is one less that could be reserved for reading the Onion. Please inform your colleague For Better Or For Worse that she can soon expect a letter from me as well.

Stupid Ninja

After two weeks, I've completed Episode 12 Level 3 with all gold. Now my life can go on.

Words fail me

Hardly anyone uses Craigslist Seoul. Those that do, mainly post to the personals section. Those who do that are mainly freaks. Are these guys serious?
R-E-S-P-E-C-T
Penpals first. Then, wife.

I think this one must be a joke, because it just has to be.
The Monster

More time wasters

MilkandCookies.com has video of one of Mitch Hedburg's comedy performances. Give it a viewing. The late great Mitch Hedburg has always been high up on my short list, but he rocketed even further when I found out he contributed to "Home Movies".

Quality time killers

First off, Meet the Beastles. I liked Party Ben's mashup of the Gorillaz' Feel Good Inc. with Cake's Never There into the cleverly titled Never Feel Good, and I had high hopes and respect for the abilities of music mashers. But I could not predict the sheer catchiness of properly-melded Beatles vs. Beastie Boys tunes. Especially good are Tripper Trouble and Watcha Want Lady, although I think I'm most impressed with Mad World Forever.

Next, I present the greatest video game ever. Submit to Way of the Ninja. And let me just add the caveat that you're a pussy if you exit a level before collecting all the gold possible.

Finally, thanks to Drew for introducing me to this great instance of a Movie Out Of Context.

Thank God for the weekend.

Friday Night Blights

A pox on thee, UPS. I eagerly await the arrival of my shiny new Marantz PMD-660, which will revolutionize the way I, ever the narcissist, will listen the sound of my lovely voice. I need it. I can't sleep without hearing me. Yet you plot to keep it from me. It was supposed to be in my hands yesterday, but now I will have to wait until Monday, because your lazy-fuck driver didn't leave the "Sorry we missed you" form on my door. Not that I believe he even came by.

Fuckers.