Cheapskates Get Bad Haircuts

"Ouch." A hair is yanked from its dream follicle on the side of my head by a 30-year-old barbershop buzzer. My Bigdaddy smirks and teases me about taking it like a man, and I grow an inch taller on that butt-punishing, iron stool placed perfectly just outside the garage. It happens again, but this time I just wince.  I'm 7, and this isn't the first haircut Bigdaddy has given. He'd been doing it for years, but that razor was on it's last leg. He must have seen me wince, because he mumbles something about oiling the blades.

I was at his mercy, much like the thousands in his unit who needed buzz cuts during the war. I would sit on that old black stool for thirty minutes, staring at the cars whizzing by on Atlee Road while he buzzed and clipped away at my aching scalp. Haircut Day never failed to be the most gorgeous day of the week to sit motionless on a device intended for torture while your brains constantly vibrated under a tool that can only be described as a jackhammer with scissors. Tiny fibers of distressed proteins rained down past my shoulders and landed in piles on the driveway. 

I couldn't wait to feel that soft brush on my neck that signaled the end of my misery. The existence of those remaining prickly hairs on the back of my neck would drive me to madness every time. As soon as he would unfasten that white cape, I would make for the swimming pool faster than a subatomic particle. It was always emotionally and physically painful and I winced constantly, but I didn't let anyone else touch my hair with a razor until I turned 16.

Although my mother would argue with this, I think I gave up those haircuts way to easily. No one could ever give me a haircut like Bigdaddy... because his were free.

As I grew older, It was a surprise to learn that people would pay money to experience this misery.

$12 for a haircut plus tip.

$23 for a shampoo and a haircut plus tip. 

$18 for a hot towel $10 for a shampoo and $11 for a haircut PLUS tip.

$40 for consultation, head massage and a haircut... PLUS TIP!

Call me frugal or Mr. Scrooge, but I hated paying any amount of money for this tribulation, much less, a tip.

Hair stylist: "Excuse me sir, may I crucify you on this stool and let you watch in this beautiful mirror. In the mean time, I won't bring you any drinks or onion rings to make this any easier on you, so you must give me a tip when I'm done."

Me: "Okay, and while you're at it, can you dangle loose hairs in and around my eyes in an attempt to blind me? Thanks."
No. Not anymore I won't stand for it. So I went looking for a way out.

Coupons gave me some relief, but one afternoon on my way to a raw bar with some friends I found it. The Virginia Beach Beauty and Barber Academy. "$2 a haircut. No tips." I couldn't contain my excitement. Finally, an answer to my faithless prayers. I wrote down the number and made an appointment for that evening.

Work ended anticlimactically, and I hustled over to that Academy like a school boy going to his first coed sleepover. Jittery with excitement, I grabbed a couple of quarters from my ash tray to complete the total required for my haircut. I sauntered toward my destination thankful that I thought to make an appointment, because looking through the tinted windows from outside, I realized I wasn't the only one that had found this "Secret Garden." 

INT. CROWDED BARBERSHOP - LATE EVENING

The door opens and a tall, handsome, debonair, young gentleman walks in with a grand smile. He walks up to the front desk.

 SHAGGY YET HANDSOME MAN 

         My name is, Ben Hornby, I have an appointment for 5:30. 

As his name and appointment time is confirmed he lifts his head to take in his surroundings... 

CUT TO:

EXT. CROWDED BARBERSHOP - STRIP MALL - LATE EVENING - CONTINUOUS

Someone screams, "Noooooo!" from inside the barbershop.  

I freak out. A mob of small Asian men all dressed in white smocks with black pants are staring directly at me. I'm the only Caucasian, so I'm a head taller than anyone else in the room. An unusual murmur ripples through their ranks as they glance back and forth at each other and at me. This goes on for a couple of minutes until the voice of the attendant behind me cuts through the air and states, "They want you to pick." 

"Pick what?"

"Who cuts your hair."

Suddenly overcome by a desire to flee, I point and say, "Eenie, meanie, miney, moe...; ...catch a tiger by his toe?" My awkward smile turns to a nervous smile as I realize my sense of humor was my last hope. Defeated, I say, "I don't care."

It is then that I notice, how many empty chairs there are to chose from, 30. This barbershop school, the venue I have chosen for the demise of my head of hair, is larger than the largest hair salon/barbershop/killing floor I have ever been in.

Thirty Asian men and ME. You have failed, Grasshopper, only your own ambition. More murmurs. Then silence. All eyes center on me again. The sea of identical bodies begins to part and one emerges taller and more confident than the others. "I will do it," he spoke in broken Engrish. 

He took my hand, and I was a lamb, a tiny little lamb being led to the slaughter. The mob follows, closely behind me, as I land in a cushy chrome chair. I sit and look at my face in the mirror. Every last pore has opened and sweat erupts from me. I am glistening. They turn me towards the student gawkers and then the torment begins. 

However, not the torment I'm used to, an excruciating torment that reminds me of the fourth level of Hell. The last thing I see before shutting my eyes and splintering off into a thousand personalities as a coping mechanism, is one man standing before me with a pair of scissors in one hand and a razor in the other hand visibly shaking because I must be his very first paying customer ever.

I kid you not, two hours later, (yes, two hours later) smiles begin to emerge on the faces of the onlookers. The sculpture is beginning to take shape and I'm beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel. My phone is now buzzing every 5 minutes because I forgot to tell my wife I had stumbled into a Hunter S. Thompson nightmare. 

The smiles ripple through the audience and just before a round of applause arrives, I am spun around to observe the masterpiece in the mirror. Everyone takes a deep breath. Something is weird. All the faces stare back at me through the mirror waiting for me to rejoice, then I look into my own eyes. I don't recognize myself. And then the horror of it sinks in to my numb skull. I look like... them, like the Asians. With my white cape, my black pants and now my Asian haircut, I look like them. I am now an American-Asian.

I want to be clear here. I love the Asian people, Asian food, and Asian culture but I don't want to be Asian. So naturally, I begin to feel a little ridiculous. I smiled, then hummed and hawed, admiring the absurdity of it all, then I asked him to take a little more off the top, because that's what customers sometimes do. He does, and I nod, and accept his mild offering. Another awkwardness ensues as I wait for him to take my white smock/cape off and finalize the deal. After waiting long enough I reach for the snap myself and hop out of that chair. 

They all bow and nod and thank me for coming in as they escort me to the front desk. I continue smiling and reach in my pocket for the two dollars. I pull it out. And then God Almighty slaps me in the face. There in my hand is four quarters and a receipt for a Pepsi that I got at 7-11 during lunch. AUGHHHH! I apologize profusely, run as fast as I can over to the ATM across the street, withdraw twenty dollars, walk back in, hand him the twenty dollars, then wait for my change.

No change. I. am. the. only. paying. customer. 

I turn and walk out the door leaving Alexander Hamilton laying face up on the counter in front of thirty Asian men who are no doubt bouncing off of the walls. Then I call Jenny and tell her I am going to Hair Cuttery down the street to pay $20 dollars for someone to fix my fool-headed fool head.

---------------------

I tell this story because you may be like me, a curmudgeon. Stop it. Don't let it ruin your life. Someone once said, "You get what you pay for." I would like to amend this by saying, "You get what you pay for, unless, you try to get something that you didn't pay for then you end up paying for it twenty times over."

Yes, I still pinch pennies, but not as many as I used to.

*This may or may not have been what I looked like.

Your Digital Estate

Log In information. Usernames and Passwords. Trillions of them flooding cyberspace on a daily basis. We all have them. I almost have too many to remember now. Financial accounts, social media accounts, business accounts, hobbyist accounts, online retailer accounts, email accounts, smartphone accounts, and the list goes on.

I can't tell you how many times I've been locked out of one of my accounts because I can't get the right username and password combination. It's almost like trying to crack a safe that's sitting at the bottom of the ocean guarded by a troll-like mermaid firing phosphorus flames from her flippers.
Accessing a piece of my digital life shouldn't be that cumbersome. But it is, and it doesn't help that my online footprint is everywhere, from Facebook and GoDaddy to the DMV and the NRA. And once in a while I have to go on that epic online journey in search of the ever elusive "Contact Us" link to get a hold of someone that knows who I am, because I haven't got a clue.
 
There it is! "Contact Us" buried in the smallest font imaginable under the "play video games for life" ad. I luck out. This actually has an 800 number and not some obscure texting rigmarole.
"Beep Boop Beep Beep Boop Boop Beep Beep Boop Boop."
"Ringtone...Ringtone...Ringtone...Ringto..."
"Halo, This is Raji, from tech support for Hot Pink Pajamas dot com, can I help you?"
"Umm...I can't seem to remember my password?"
"What eese your username, sir."
"Umm...I can't remember."
Stupified by my stupidity, Raji says, "Ummmm...," which completely unmasks his ethnicity, because on the other end of the phone line I picture him cross-legged with his eyes closed transcending time and space. "Let me transfer you to phone call purgatory and see what they can do for you."
"Thank you, but no. Is there anyway YOU can help me?"
"What eese your social security number?"
"Nice try, Bucko. Go chase yourself."
"Very well, if dere's nothing else I can help you with, have a nice day." *Click*
AUGHHHHH!
Other than a feeling of ineptitude, a slight twinge of rage, a pinch of vulnerability and a tablespoon of shame, my personhood is intact.

Believe it or not, this happens more than you might think. Keeping your cyber life organized is only about as difficult as balancing a checkbook or slaying a mammoth, depending on how you look at it. Here are a few ways you can turn this veritable bucket of chum into a well crafted German automobile.
Option One: Put together a list or spreadsheet with five headings: Company, Username, Password, Secret Question, Secret Answer, then fill in the blanks for all your digital accounts. You can do this on a Word Document, Legal Pad, or piece of papyrus. Then store said information in a safe place. However, not so safe you yourself will forget where it is, Mr. Griswold.
Option Two: Make all usernames match. Make all passwords match. Make all secret answers match, no matter what the secret question is. Don't make it to easy, you wanna make it easy on yourself, but as difficult as possible for identity thieves.
and finally,
Option Three: Send me all your usernames, passwords, secret questions and answers. I'll organize them, make a photocopy and give them back. End of story.

Each option has it pros and cons, which you have to measure carefully. Whatever you end up doing the goal is to inevitably make you easier to be around, because if you are constantly talking to tech support or reading emails about how to reset passwords and usernames then you are probably not the epitome of frivolity and pleasure.
The second reason you need to do this if for your loved ones. In the unlikely event of your untimely death or relocation as a result of the witness protection program, your loved ones will need an easy way to successfully secure your digital estate. (Yep, that's right I'm makin' it super real up in heya!)
While your making your way to the pearly gates, your friends and family are trying to figure out how to stop that weekly subscription to Fancy Cats or those automatic location updates to your social media profile.
"5 minutes ago at the Hospital." / "10 minutes ago at the City Morgue." / "6 minutes ago at Finnigan's Bar." Whoops!
Fun Bobby "likes" this.

It's tough enough in this world when someone passes; why not try to make it a little easier on everybody. Organize your digital estate and make it manageable. Tell someone you love and trust where all your information is, so some unsuspecting family member doesn't get a call from the Jane Fonda Fan Club trying to find out why you haven't been attending the online meetings.

In death and in life, your property is your property. Whether virtual or actual, you own it, and you decide who gets it when you're gone. And although Raji may seem like he's happy to hear from us, he's not, which might have something to do with that clandestine "Contact Us" button he doesn't want us to find. If we have that much trouble trying to get our own log in information, imagine getting it for someone else. Raji doesn't want to hear from us because he knows he'll just make us angry. He'd rather just play solitaire. I'd rather just blog about it.

For more information about what Digital Estates click on the following links:
http://cupofjoepowell.blogspot.com/2011/01/your-digital-afterlife.html
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Digital_estate
http://www.cnbc.com/id/46750736/Facebook_May_Become_Part_of_Your_Digital_Estate
(This is a crazy story about a woman's son who died and Facebook wouldn't allow her to access his Facebook profile)
http://seattletimes.nwsource.com/html/businesstechnology/2017171847_pfdigitalestates08.html

 _______________________________________________________________


***This blog post is dedicated to my friend and fellow artist Andrew Todd, who passed away last week. He showed me how to pursue my dreams by pursuing his at all costs. He helped get me my first job in media and mentored me through the mine field of mass communications. I will forever be grateful for his kindness and friendship. Here's to you Andy.***

Top 15 Things I Learned from Reading The Hunger Games

1. I can read books without pictures very fast.

2. My son does not like being neglected.

3. Suzanne Collins hates coal dust.

4. Child violence is way more exciting than spell casting or Vampire hunting.

5. I can literally weep over the death of a fictional character.

6. Distopian societies are the pits especially for those on the fringe.

7. Any simile involving a dead slug is a great simile.

8. Cake decorators are naturals at the art of camouflage.

9. One-eyed squirrels have more meat on them, than squirrels with both eyes intact.

10. You can sleep much better strapping yourself into a tree during the first night of the Hunger Games than you can on a comfortable bed the day before the Hunger Games begin.

 11. Bowhunting and snare rigging sound much cooler when girls do it.

12. Iodine is still the most archaic way to purify water for drinking.

13. Tracker Jackers probably have a love/hate relationship with smoke.

14. Never put your explosives and your survival supplies in the same vicinity.

15. Cornucopias can and do incite dread. Thanksgiving will never be the same again.

The Walking Dead: A Polar Bear's Review

When I was little, I was scared of two things: 1) waking up past 6:30 am on Saturday mornings, because that meant my sister was eating the last of the Pac-Man cereal and watching Care Bears shoot rainbows from their bellies through the Land Without Feelings, and 2) zombies, for obvious reasons. As a result of the latter unfounded anxiety, I've never been a fan of zombie fanfare... until I watched the first episode of The Walking Dead.

Over the years I've actually grown fond of waking up past 6:30 a.m. on Saturdays, and recently, I've become a fan of zombies, but I call them "walkers" effectively making them less like zombies and more like a collective infestation of racoons. Walkers mozy around downtown Atlanta not because of some voodoo magic poured out of a salt shaker in some backwoods bayou but as a result of some unexplained virus called TS-19, whose properties are explained in detail in The Walking Dead Season One Finale.

Walkers are stupid. They can't climb stairs, open a door, or run, but they will stop at nothing to feed, whether that means keeping the deer population down, cleaning the roadkill off the middle of the highway or chomping on the face of someone's grandpa. Sounds gross, yes, but that's only half of 3/4 of a percent of what this show has to offer. It's so much more than a plague of dead people traversing the globe in search of sustenance.

The Walking Dead is a production of AMC which has been hitting a lot of shows out of the park as of lately, with Mad Men (15 Emmy wins), and Breaking Bad (4 Emmy wins). The Walking Dead is another such show, and it brings a largely different fan base to it's channel surfing knees every Sunday evening. It breaks the mold on an otherwise well-known horror genre, and zombie fans are watching closely. I'm watching closely for different reasons... because it's a freaking awesome television show! Excuse my French or Haitian/Creole.

If you take the character development of Lost, the drama of ER, the intensity of 24, and the writing of the Sopranos, and throw them all into a Zombie Apocalypse then you've just scratched the surface of The Walking Dead. Be warned, it's not a family show, with all the intense language, nor is it a dinner time show, with all the eating people alive craziness, but it is entertaining.

Each episode confronts real issues we all face and then adds the elements of no electricity, no government, and no hope of rest from a constant onslaught of dead people. However, the constant onslaught isn't as constant as zombie fans prefer. It subsides now and then, just long enough for the plot to keep moving and some drama to work it's way through the many characters. It then continues for a few minutes only to tease another plot twist and keep viewers on the edge of their seat.
To be honest, The Walking Dead isn't horrifying, it's suspenseful and you don't have to like zombies to get sucked into it. But you do have to like good television.

Believe or not, other than good television and "a 'safe' and offbeat excuse for guys to horde guns, ammunition, tactical gear and other survival supplies without being tagged as being a member of a militia or other extremist group"* zombie apocalypses make for good CDC publicity. Yep, that's right folks, take it to the craps table and double down on the eights: the CDC actually has an official page on Zombie Preparedness. They claim "If you are generally well equipped to deal with a zombie apocalypse you will be prepared for a hurricane, pandemic, earthquake, or terrorist attack." There you have it. In the interest of disaster preparedness, you can't ignore AMC's The Walking Dead. Your very survival depends on it.


*Urban Dictionary: Definition 3 of Zombies

The Teacher Becomes The Shepherd

The cacophonous bell breaks an eerie silence as it's clang enters the ears of every student at Leonard Nimoy High School. A raucous shuffle ensues as teachers yell final assignments over deaf ears and the hall fills with commotion. One teacher stands at his door and takes in the sights and sounds as oxygen. He breaths, looking forward to the next onslaught of eager minds ready to take him for all his worth. This won't happen for another 2 hours, so he quietly bows out of the doorway and walks to his humble desk like a proud warrior walks to his steed. The slamming lockers and vocal buzz softly fills his empty room through the open door. The chair creaks as he sits and the intercom buzzes over head.
"Mr. Thorne?" came the voice from overhead.
"Yes?" head tilted, eyes down, ears up.
"Mr. Stricthouser would like to see you."
"When?"
"Right now."
"Okay, I'll be right down." Mr. Thorn closes a few books, opens a calendar, writes some notes, shuffles some papers and sticks a pen in his breast pocket. He pushes himself off the desk and proceeds to the Principal's office. The still busy halls receive him with smiles and greetings from students. On his way he nods and smiles expecting the best from everyone he encounters. Respect is an afterthought. He strives to challenge.
In the stairwell, he wonders and his knees buckle slightly as he ponders, a "What if" scenario. He catches himself, mentally and physically and continues the journey through the administration office past a couple dejected students sitting in some chairs outside Mr. Stricthouser's office.
"Chin up, Thomas. It's a learning process, just take this like a man, and walk out of this place better for it."
"Yes Sir, Mr. Thorne."
"And Ralph, you've got to start acting like the guy I know you are. Learn some self control and you can soar."
"Yes Sir, Mr. Thorne." He looks at Tommy and snickers.
Mr. Thorne smiles and knocks on the cracked glass pane.
"Come in," came the inevitable answer and he opens the door and shuts it behind him.

-------------------------------

Lunch Lady Land now has a new Supervisor, Mr. Thorne. He won't be roaming the vibrant halls upstairs anymore between classes. No more savoring that fresh paper aroma on the first day of class. Hygenically challenged freshmen will have to find another teacher to ask for a spritz of Right Guard before taking on the day. The kitchen receives him like boiling water receives uncooked spaghetti.
Steam thickens the air in his new white sterilized amphitheater of food. He holds his chin up as Mr. Thorne ties on a new apron and embraces his new humiliating position in the ranks of public education. The "What if" scenario he entertained walking down those stairs 8 months ago pans out. He tries to think of his other options again, then thanks God for his new job. He would make this his briar patch and meatballs and marinara would be his specialty.
Oregano and Garlic search wanting noses on this Monday morning, the first day of school. Lunch time looms like sweetness in the air, and the Pavlovian lunch bell cues the drool at the corner of every yapping jaw. The first watering mouth enters the serene kitchen holding a tray with both hands.
"Mr. Thorne!" the sophomore yells in surprise.
"Andrew!" mimics Mr. Thorne.
"What are you doing here?"
Mr. Thorne practiced countless answers to this question for weeks before setting foot on school grounds.
"Making you a feast!" he hadn't practiced that one. There is an excitement in his voice he didn't realize was going to be there. The young minds he longs to challenge walk with hungry stomachs and he is eager to feed these wandering sheep. The flock crowds around the banqueting table and Mr. Thorne beams as he feeds their stomachs and nurtures their starving souls.
Marinara Monday turns into Turmeric Tuesday and everyone looks to Mr. Thorne for life in an otherwise dangerous pasture of loneliness and constant threat. He gives up teaching 100 and becomes the Shepherd to thousands.
Students expose their deepest secrets, teachers share their biggest struggles, and administrators find strength for the hardest challenges in his cozy kitchen.
One step closer to his destiny, he holds a wooden spoon as a metaphorical shepherd's staff and earns
earns a valuable apple of gold that year to share with his son 10 years later.

-----------------------------------

"Son, Don't fear failure, it's only a stepping stone to your final destiny. That 'What if...?' in the back of your head will only get bigger if you entertain it. Smack it now, while it's still small enough to hit with a fly swatter."

-----------------------------------

**Not the usual blog from the Polar Bear, I know, just something I've been thinking about for a few days.

A Modern Day Villain

We're saved. Sabu, also known as Hector, has helped the "good guys" nab the "evil doers" who are Anonymous. Anonymous is a large group of hackers that fight the power by crashing mainframes and exposing secrets of the: government agencies, big banks, Wall Street fat cats, and high profile religious organizations, among others. They are Robin Hood meets Fight Club meets Occupy meets Neo. The FBI has done us all a big favor. All noobs can rest easy. Surf the vast expanse that is the Internet with less trepidation. Press any button you want on your computer. Download what you want when you want from where ever you want. Open unsafe email attachments, Click on pop-up ads, and lick the bottom of your curbside trashcan.
Hold it. Don't do any of that.

FYI the Internet is not any safer now than it was 48 hours ago, and I'm about to tell you why.
1.) They only caught a handful of hackers. As it says on their website, Anonymous is "Legion, and we are many." Your neighbor's son could be Anonymous. Otto the bus driver, Jill the typing tutor, Joe the plumber. They are everywhere like V for Vendetta. A dirty dorm room with Ramen Noodles dripping from a half open cabinet on the edge of a desk glowing from the computer screen of a hunched over twit wearing a 4chan t-shirt can be the essence of Anonymous.
And...
2.) Anonymous isn't after you unless you make more than $500,000 a year, take vacations to the Moon, or eat prawns for lunch at some Bel-Air buffet. Anyone eating prawns? No? Then... "Safe!" said the umpire. Big Brother doesn't like them. While trying to nab these modern day Robin Hoods the government is ignoring the nastiest computer villain of them all: Conficker. It's a superworm, and it's like nothing you've ever imagined.

But I will try to help you imagine it.

Close your eyes, WAIT NO! Keep reading, I mean.
Imagine if someone mailed you a letter, and on that letter was a little germ or virus. You catch the virus but nothing happens. You function in your life as normal, and that virus paves a nice little path to your cerebral cortex then sends out a signal to some mad scientist in Romania, And tells him that you are infected. You continue to function in your everyday life. Meanwhile, a similar letter is being sent to 10's of millions of others and they are being infected with the same virus. Everybody goes to sleep on a certain night and the mad scientist who created this virus decides that this is the night. He flips a switch in his dungeon science lab and laughs a maniacal laugh as he suddenly has control of you and millions of others. Using a microphone mounted to his laminated countertop, he can tell you to do anything and you have no choice but to do it because this virus has control of your brain - everyone's brain. So he tells them go run amok through Gotham City, burning giant piles of tires and eating candy corns. Then after everyone runs amok through Gotham City, burning giant piles of tires and eating candy corns, he flips the switch off and everyone goes back to their beds. They wake up the next morning with a stomach ache and the smell of burning rubber all around them, but everything else is normal. Now imagine that same thing happening with your computer and it all starts with an email you opened or a pop-ad you clicked on. That little virus or worm is called Conficker.

"What Conficker does is penetrate the core of the [operating system] of the computer and essentially turn over control of your computer to a remote controller...[That person] could then utilize all of these computers, including yours, that are connected. ... And you have effectively the largest, most powerful computer in the world," says Mark Bowden, author of Worm: The First Digital War. We're talking 10's of millions of computers all working together as a Galactus botnet to suck the technological world dry with it's giant self.

Worst case scenario it could crash the internet. So what? You won't be able to check your Facebook or buy doohickeys from eBay. Right? Well, unfortunately, we have decided to use the internet for everything, and by "everything," I mean, most things, and by "most things" I mean, only the important things, and by "important things," I mean technology. Air Traffic Control, medical communications, power grids, the Stock Market. Conficker could take it all down like a fire sale.

Don't worry though, there is a Superhero to this Super-villain. I recently heard an interview on NPR about a small group of computer genius's funded completely by Twinkies and Hot Pockets who are taking on this ominous Conficker worm. They are...wait for it...the Conficker Working Group (umm...okay...I guess the superhero name generator was broken that day.) Despite the yuppie name, these guys are actually making some headway. They think it started by some restless Ukrainians in South America, but they are struggling to get ahead of it. Check out Terry Gross's interview with Mark Bowden to hear a fascinating discussion of the implications of such an endeavor. Then come back.

So now that you have unsuccessfully prevented yourself from peeing in your pants for fear of being victim of such a worm, you can rest assured. I will tell you some symptoms of such an invasion and provide a link for a computer test to see whether your computer is affected. Here's a list of possible symptoms:

• Account lockout policies being reset automatically. Translation: The password thingy is being weird.
• Domain controllers respond slowly to client requests. Translation: Picture's of crocheted oven mitts take 1 hour to load.
• System network gets unusually congested. This can be checked with network traffic chart on Windows Task Manager. Translation: Blah blah blah blah...can be checked with...blah blah blah...Manager.
• High-port TCP and UDP P2P Activity Translation: A geek had a stroke.
• Click here for more symptoms or here for a test to see whether your computer is infected.

If your computer is infected take it to a professional or set a video camera to record its antics 24/7 and see if you can film it rummaging through your fridge or smoking marijuana in the basement while you are sleeping. If that doesn't sound fun throw your computer off the back porch and go medieval on it, like the printer scene from Office Space. You'll have to get a new one, but hey, wasn't that fun.

If your computer is not infected consider yourself spared... this time, Mwuahahaha

Back in prehistoric days, before the alphabet and the first one and zero, cavemen worried about getting hit on the back of the head with clubs from fellow cavemen, trying to take their hot and hairy cavewomen, their stone wheels, their waterfront cave. We still fear caveman clubs and some of us fear hot and hairy cavewomen, but we still need to protect ourselves. One of the simplest things you can do is just log out of your computers and reboot them once a day, and for Pete's sake keep reading this blog. Next time your girlfriend asks you if you have protection say, "Of course, I read The Polar Bear Periodical."
The Polar Bear says, "Spread the word, stay protected and happy surfing everyone!"

PB

Credits:
Tech Editor - Dr. David Lauro
Language Editor - Dr. John Hines

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A Polar Bear Reviews Acts of Valor

Nothing could have been timed more perfectly. You're 2nd child, the game winning goal between U.S. and Spain, A comedians punchline, all have good timing, but none of them are going to net you 12 million dollars in one week. Acts of Valor started as a Navy Seal recruitment video for the Armed Forces and ended up as a motion picture alongside Tyler Perry's Good Deeds and Ghost Rider: Spirit of Vengence. It's number one in the box office and promises to reveal for the first time on film active duty Navy S.E.A.L.S. during combat training.   Real Navy S.E.A.L.S. do not make good actors, however, they do make for good marketing.  Thank you Osama Bin Ladin for making Navy S.E.A.L.S. the baddest Mama Jamas since the RAF of World War II. SEAL team six did for the Armed Forces what the knife did for sliced bread.
Do you realize what this film has done? It has helped propel a new genre of movies into the mainstream. Reality filmmaking is what it is being called. Controlled drama. Real .50 caliber bullets, actual Navy Seals, real world situations, it's a guaranteed success. Who wouldn't watch that?
I saw the movie opening weekend. After the movie ended the theatre was in utter silence for 2 or 3 minutes before anyone dared to move. The theater filled with awe. It was like Mount Rushmore, The Great Pyramids of Egypt, Stonehenge, The Great Wall of China and the Moon all suddenly decided to sing the Star Spangled Banner with Jesus himself and then enjoy a glimpse of the Aurora Borealis before surfing off the coast of Australia. This movie didn't just entertain, it inspired. It challenged the status quo and made the viewer realize what it meant to be free. It made us recognize the real cost of what it takes to be able to make a choice to go to a theatre and see a movie that we want to see. It doesn't just cost 10 dollars and whatever you pay your baby sitter. Someone died for you to be able to watch this movie. Someone with a family and kids, sacrificed his position as a father and a husband to give you the opportunity to choose between Tom Clancy or Dr. Suess. He knew you were never going to think about him when making that choice but he didn't care. He wanted you to have that choice.
Acts of Valor props itself above the white noise inundating action films these days.
Saving the world had almost become cliched until Acts of Valor made it heroic again.
Thank you to all the men and women who have sacrificed to make this country what it is today.
Go see Acts of Valor. Take your kids to see Acts of Valor. Be grateful for Acts of Valor.