A discovery.

Upon executing a Google search with the string "uBlog," I ran across what can only be described as a Bizarro uBlog. Stranger still, whoever's running the place is identified as "Ubaid," which - again - can only be described as a Bizarro Anagram of Ubaldi.

UPDATE: Ubaid, I apologize and have removed the latter part of my entry. I certainly didn't think that the name of your blog was inspired by this one; though I do receive traffic I humbly accept my minor league status.

In fact I did peruse your weblog, including the poetry and reflections. You're not classless; we simply disagree and I shouldn't have said what I did. Something else was on my mind and I wrote through emotion.

What's left of my original post is playful, making a reference to Superman if you're not familiar, and not meant to offend. I'm not used to running into anyone with a similarly syntaxed surname. To be blunt, it really weirded me out.

And, in fact, knowledge that a third uBlog exists provides a sort of interesting twist to the whole realization.

If this weren't proof enough that I need a vacation, I'm leaving for it tomorrow.

From Penny Arcade, a comic that gets passed around like an inside joke, is today highlighting...an inside joke. It won't make any sense to anyone who hasn't been blessed by the cartridge-insertion of Soul Calibur [sic] for the Sega Dreamcast.

A tip-off from a friend. I see him, Gabe!

The Mommas and the Papas' "Monday, Monday" slunk its way into my head. I detest the song, particularly on cold, cloudy days - several of which Cleveland has been privy to over the past week. Through willpower alone, I smashed the four seedy bohemians with a cerebral onslaught of Gary Numan's relentless "Cars."

Apparently I'm the only one in the world - or at least the immediate vicinity of the office - who not only recognizes the distinct, seven-note sequence of a telephone number on a touch-tone, but remembers them and can sing familiar phone numbers at will.

I am misunderstood. Ahead of my time. Shamelessly ridiculed. Yes, ahead of my time.

Friend, former fellow Concordian and premier virtuoso composer Jonn Sokol held his senior composition recital at Baldwin-Wallace College in Berea. I attended with friend, former fellow Concordian and premier rock-of-many-colors performer Gabe McElwain. We came, we saw; Jonn kicked it. Tone clusters, atonal dirges, double quintets - it was a sight to see. Afterwards, Gabe and I shuffled into the reception room. Jonn entered and with an explosion of secondary applause from his family and friends, the party began.

Naturally, we spent the time hobknobbing and engaging in various forms of wiseacre tomfoolery. To wit:

Gabe: So, yeah.

Mike: Music.

Gabe: (surveys scene) Music.

Mike: Courses related to music.

Gabe: Yes.

Mike: Degrees derived from courses related to music.

Gabe: (pauses) Careers pursued with degrees derived from courses related to music.

Mike: Encyclopedia entries about careers pursued with degrees derived from courses related to music.

Gabe: Bibliographies -

Mike: W-what? (laughing)

Gabe: Bibliographies citing encyclopedia entries about careers pursued with degrees derived from courses related to music.

Mike: (pauses, thinking; then grins broadly) Okay. Papers written for classes related to music -

Gabe: Ha!

Mike: (laughing) Papers written for classes related to music with bibliographies citing encyclopedia entries about careers pursued with degrees derived from courses related to music.

Gabe and Mike: (aware that they completed an entire cycle of goofy nondescription, both wriggle in creative ecstasy; exeunt right)

Later on (paraphrased):

Gabe: I motion for "College Girls." All those in favor, say "aye." The "ayes" have it, motion is passed. College girls.

A good time. I gave looks, I got looks; specifically from the shapely soprano I'd had my eye on since she sang Jonn's second-to-last piece. In complete adherence to the vocal student stereotype, she conspicously sang "'Scu-u-u-use me" on a descending minor third when she pushed past to snag a few more bits of finger food. Twice. Growl.

I haven't had so much fun on an outing in months. So good to see everyone.

Pros to using Movable Type: Self-determination. Independence. Satisfaction.

Cons to using Movable Type: Database inevitably begins to show signs of degradation. Bah!

For the spilling throngs visiting these pages and frothing at the mouth for Ubaldi biographical information, add clearly depicted photographical age to the birthdate for current age. This is Rockville, Maryland - far from where I currently reside but quite close to where my sister has settled with her husband (she is, of course, to the right and conducting a little pre-emption of her own, thankyouverymuch). I must have had a good reason to regard the point where wall meets ceiling. Memory hadn't kicked in fails me.

Thanks to Mom, Dad, the Stork, and God. Though not necessarily in that order.

UPDATE: According to my mother, I was looking at my grandparents who had come to visit from New York City; I was also struggling with "a very bad cold," which may help to explain my otherwise inexplicable aversion to cake on birthdays (well, inexplicable but for the fact that gathered family devours spaghetti and meat sauce every year for dinner on The Day).

A transformer blew across the street, some five hundred feet from our fourth-floor office. A small, crackling discharge sounded, rousing us; by the time I moved to the window the poor power depot was expiring with a loud pop and a whiff of mustard-colored smoke.

I went off to the restroom and upon my return, the rest of the office had chosen a vantage point at whatever window was closest. A nearby bank, apparently, heard the sound and emptied; policemen and fire had descended and swarmed; a small crowd from the adjacent mall gathered.

Nothing.

Back to business, a little off-kilter.

We're always learning something in the workplace. Three coworkers happened to come into work wearing their company clothes - logo-imprinted polo shirts - and a fourth joked that "it must be Garanimal Thursday."

This fellow grew up in the 70s. I didn't. I asked him to explain what, in goodness' name, a "Garanimal" was.

He obliged.

Yes, I sound stroppy. And yes, it's because I probably am. Look at it this way: by blogging with brash candor, I save myself the plight of migraines. Fair enough?

But a nod to the lighter side of things: don't eat blue Jelly-Bellies alone. Bad idea.