In Which We Learn the True Meaning of Irony (It Doesn't Exist)

Today I would like to discuss what I consider a shocking juxtaposition: technology and grammar (read: I can't work a computer and I try very hard to work the English language). After struggling with WiFi for 13 hours (wireless fidelity? faith! hah! another language game), I finally was able to connect to a network I believe to be owned and operated by a local food bank, though I had purchased food in an establishment which advertised its free WiFi (please make a note of the mirroring of the food/WiFi issue -- eat or blog?). Stealing from a charity, that got me feeling low. Later, I returned to my Corporate Network, which was working efficiently for once, and attempted to draft an email. Therein, I began to tweak and fiddle with the language I used and its minutest details. Would sentences end with prepositions? No! Would collective nouns be singular? Of course! Would the meaning grow muddled and murky in the process? You bet! In closing, precision of language confuses things and technology does not work. I think you can draw your own parallels.

They call me a "fancy lad"

I am a man who owns tights. Thanks to an unseasonably warm autumn (it's 68 out right now on November 30), I've been able to do all of my morning runs in shorts and a REALLY stinky long sleeve shirt. But this isn't going to last forever: even when the glaciers are all gone, Denver is our national capital and my morning run down Seventh Avenue is a breaststroke, winters will still be cold and my short shorts won't be coverage enough.
So I did it: with very mixed feelings, I bought a pair of navy blue Nike tights the other day. I haven't worn them outside yet, but I had them on for a few minutes in my bedroom the other day. One thing became clear: I look AWESOME in tights. Just awesome.
Come on, winter, do your worst: I'm ready to face you and have my calf muscles dazzle you in the process.

The Hopes of a FogelPerson

I have been told that I must post to the FogelBlog on this, its inaugural day. Though I have not dropped anything in my crotch today (though I did just eat a chip off the floor), I too would like to welcome all those who have been lured here. I offer you the following promises about my end of this here weblog:
1. I will attempt to keep my fixation on celebrity news out of the picture here, though it does color many of my observations and values (e.g. K-Fed slept with a porn star while married to Britney: against my values).
2. Not all my entries will be 100% fixated on meals and/or snacks.... just 98% Daily Value.
3. I will maintain an air of professionalism and dignity throughout.

After all those negatives, it may be difficult to get a handle on exactly what will be a part of this blog. Like you care. You read 12 blogs a day obsessively because it's the only thing that keeps you going in your antiseptic cubicle. In the immortal words of Charles: "Whenever inspiration strikes, we FogelBlog it."

Things I have dropped in my crotch today

Two pens, piece of pineapple, chicken salad, lettuce, iPod, bottle of water, rubber band, post-it note, M&Ms.

A Bold New Era in Non-Journalism

Soon you will be weary and beaten from endless holiday cheer, from leaving work after the sun sets and from holiday parties that always seem to end with you singing Christmas Carols after you’ve clearly overstayed your welcome.
Then it will all be over, and you’ll wake up in January; fat and with a list of resolutions you’ve already blown strewn amidst the wreckage of holiday-themed Cheez-its and Pringles. You’ll turn on the TV and it will be all about how we’re at war and the economy is withering and Lou Dobbs is shouting about how Mexican al-Qaeda operatives are overrunning the country. Pretty soon your carb-coma will start to wear off and you’ll realize that you’ve spent 11 months living your life, such as it is, and now it’s time to do it all over again.

These times demand the FogelBlog.