Okay, I’m stumped. If any Movable Type gurus out there know why my right column is invading the left one when old entries go to the big archive in the sky — and, more importantly, know how to FIX it — please feel free to let me know. Like, yesterday.

It’s pissing me off.

The gurus over at the Movable Type support forum gave me the fix for my column problem — my layout is now set so that there will always be seven entries listed on the index page, no matter how long it’s been since a new one, so the right column will stay where it belongs on the right.

Of course, this means that I now have a license to not post for weeks and weeks and weeks at a time, but that’s just a formality, really. It’s not like I wasn’t doing that already anyway…

You know, the really sad thing about the whole Janet Jackson Superbowl Boobie debacle is that the very first time Michael sees a real live naked female breast, it’s his sister’s.

I’ve had a tired grey heap parked in my driveway for so long I’ve lost track — at least a year and a half, maybe more. This tired grey heap is my beloved 1985 FJ60 Land Cruiser, which had fallen on some hard times.

I love this truck. It carried me and Steve into the desert on our quest to hang up the Mojave Phone Booth, then brought us back again when we went Back to The Booth. It has carried me and Zoe around our block more times than I can count, because Zoe loves to ride in the back eating Nutter Butters at 10 miles per hour. I’ve used it as a portable offroad light source when shooting a short movie with my brothers. I eschew the driveway when exiting the local Ralph’s parking lot, choosing instead to drive over the parking chocks, across the sidewalk, and off the curb. I love this truck.

But it’s had some problems. I beat the snot out of the transmission on the way back from Back to the Booth by leaving it in 4×4 on the freeway. The timing chain stripped the gears a few years ago, paralyzing it for a few days. The power steering pump spewed fluid all over the engine. It’s had problems that have been expensive to fix, but I’ve fixed them. I love this truck.

But then the State of California and a squeaky wheel laid it low. It failed its smog test and was certified as a gross polluter and I couldn’t register it. And then California started a new policy of impounding unregistered vehicles on the spot. And then I started hearing a scary noise coming from the right front wheel. So I parked it. I didn’t want to run the risk of A) having a wheel bearing go out at 80 mph, and B) getting pulled over for expired registration, and C) having it impounded, and thus D) being screwed. So I parked it in my driveway at least a year and a half ago, and there it has stood ever since.

But now it’s back, back on the road again. Santa Claus brought me a big stack of money for Christmas and I just spent a sizeable chunk of that fortune at my local Land Cruiser specialist bringing it back to life. I could have just about bought a new car for what I spent on my Cruiser, but then I would have just had a crappy car instead of my beloved Cruiser.

I love this truck. It’s big and fugly and noisy and busts kidneys and guzzles a fortune in gas and it’ll drive over every fucking thing on the road and I love it. I’m glad to have her back.

Layoffs are on the horizon here at The Company. My department’s job is to handle converting all of Intergalactic Overlord Parent Company’s radio stations to our software, and we’re just about finished doing it. Once they’re all converted, me and my coworkers are out of a job.

With this in mind, our Human Resources VP has scheduled back-to-back ten-minute meetings today with everyone in my department to help us “explore your options” — and, oh yeah, also to tell us when each person’s individual axe will fall. I’m dressed for the occasion: I’m wearing a T-shirt from one of the stations I converted in Chicago: “Gospel Radio — where the ministry is in the music.”

Yeah, I’m working every angle I can think of. I figure I need the help…

My phone rang a few minutes ago. It was Beth, calling to ask “What does “teabagging” mean?”

I don’t know if I’m proud or ashamed that I knew the answer. I also don’t know if I’m disturbed or pleased that she knew I’d know.

Thank God for the invention of camera cell phones and moblogs. There just weren’t enough out-of-focus pictures of food on the ‘net.

I don’t talk much about my extended family here, but I will today because I’m an uncle again. My sister had her 4th child — a boy — Thursday, making me the afore-mentioned uncle x 4, and also making Zoe a cousin x 4. She’s very excited by that.

We went to the hospital today to see the new addition to the brood. They don’t have a name for him yet; they’ve pretty much settled on Will for the first name but the middle name is up for grabs. Much hilarity ensued as everyone threw out suggestions: Knot, Won’t, Call, Burr, Son, Derness, Kommen… The new dad commented on the increasing laxity in naming as they have more and more kids. With the first one, naming it was a solemn affair, heavy with import and tradition, and the name had to be perfect. Now he’s down to Will Knot — and liking it.

Young Will * himself didn’t provide much in the way of entertainment — he mainly just laid there like a lump and snoozed. It was his 2-year-old big sister who filled the cute baby requirement. Zoe brought her a toy duck with a spring-loaded head that wobbles when you shake it, which prompted my brother and I to start shaking it madly while singing Outkast’s Hey Ya: “Shake it, shake it, shake, shake it, shake it like a Polaroid picture!”

This did not amuse baby Kay, who got very upset and stomped her feet and declared, “No! Shake it like a DUCK!”

After you’ve been together for something like 10 years, Valentine’s Day begins to lose its romance. And that’s okay, because the romance has to be in there somewhere for you to hit ten years in the first place — you just don’t necessarily have to cue it up on pre-packaged holiday demand. It’s an undercurrent, not a tide.

For Beth and I, Valentine’s Day has moved beyond the dozen roses and and heart-shaped boxes of chocolates and romantic dinners. We’ve streamlined it: now we’re down to just the gifts. In fact, we exchanged gifts at 12:02 last night because it was technically Valentine’s Day and we each knew what the other was giving and we didn’t want to have to wait any longer.

I gave Beth a black cashmere pashmina. If you’re anything like me, you just said “Pash-whatta?” That’s what I said when she told me she wanted one for Valentine’s Day. (And there’s a tip for you from inside a 10-year+ relationship: Ask what she wants. It’s the only way to be sure, and you’ll fuck it up if you try to wing it.)

So, yeah: Pashmina. You can’t even find a definition for it online. Trust me, I tried; I was going to provide a link. So let me give you the Chuck definition: A pashmina is a big-ass scarf. Or maybe a small-ass shawl. Picture a normal scarf, then dope it up on steroids so it’s two or three times as wide and half again as long. Now give it stupid little fringy ball thingies on the end. Now put traces of wool in it and charge an outrageous price. That’s a pashmina. And now Beth has one and is very happy. (10 years plus. I’m telling you, guys: ask.)

Beth’s gift to me was a wristwatch. It was the perfect gift because it’s what I told her I wanted. I even sent her the link. (10 year tip again: Tell her what you want. It’s the only way to be sure, and she’ll fuck it up if you don’t.) I’m wearing it now, and Beth has been very diligent in following my instructions to ask me throughout the day “What time is it?” so I can whip my wrist around and show her the fabulous face of my fabulous new watch. (We also spent a bit of time in bed last night huddled deep under the covers. No, not for that, you pervs! It was so we could admire the fabulous luminous hands and markers on the fabulous new watch in pitch darkness.)

So those are the romantic gifts we exchanged to demonstrate our love. And tonight we fulfilled the dinner requirement of the holiday by taking Zoe and her friend Katie out for barbeque. It was just what we wanted.

Ten years plus. It’s not about greeting card romance, it’s about just … being. Together. That’s what makes your Valentine last longer than a day … and happy.

Yay, I got my motorcycle back. Oh, did I forget to mention that it was gone? Oopsie.

Background: Right about the time I was getting ready to leave for Chicago, at about the same time I was putting the Land Cruiser (no name for it yet — I’m thinking of calling it The Chuckwagon) in the shop for revivoratory surgery, I learned that Yamaha was issuing a huge recall on my model of motorcycle, one that included me. Seems there was a little problem with the transmission that could cause it to sort of break while you were riding it and kinda lock up the rear wheel and maybe make you fall down and go boom-slide- ow-bleed-ow-crunch- ow-die.

Not good.

I immediately took my bike to the shop the next day and dropped it off for repair … and there it sat. For. Ever. Yamaha issued the recall, but didn’t quite get around to issuing parts to fix it. So my bike sat in the shop for nearly a month and my truck sat in the shop for nearly a month and I sat in my home in Van Nuys and wondered how the fuck I was going to get to my job 65 miles away in Aliso Viejo.

Enterprise Car Rental loves me now; I’m their neighborhood frequent flier. I rented a car for a few days before going to Chicago, then rented another one for a few more days when I got back. It kind of sucks to be a 2-car, 2-motorcycle family when you can’t use 75% of your rolling stock and you have to pay to use someone else’s micro-mini econo-beer can car.

But you already knew I got my truck back, and now I’ve got my bike back too. I’m back on 6 wheels again and it’s nice to have a choice when leaving for work in the morning. Because, you know, it’s been cold and rainy here lately. That’s truck weather — when you’ve got a truck. And the sunny weekends are motorcycle weather — when you’ve got a motorcycle.

Now I have both. Yay.