MTV Killed the Video Star
I am no longer a part of MTV’s continually shrinking target audience. I am neither 15-and a-half years old, nor am I a brain damaged monkey. Thus, I do not enjoy their programming.
When people talk about things they used to like or used to be a part of, they are prone to remember things fondly, even if it wasn’t always rainbows and kittens; likewise, I seem to remember MTV providing me with the entertainment I wanted in the six scant months between late puberty and my driver’s license. Before that I was too young to understand it, and after that I was too old to care about it.
And now, as I observe from the sideline, occasionally flipping past the channel, or stopping and yelling, “Damn! Who’s this hottie?” I’ve noticed that MTV has gone completely down the crapper.
But it’s not just my old age that has changed the quality of the channel. The powers that be have taken every opportunity to poop on the music that was once their backbone and bury it in the dirt of MTV original programming.
I could rant all day about the mind blowing idiocy of all their shows, but I’ll just drop one example for now:
I was flipping through channels the other day and I stopped on MTV; not because I wanted to, but because I dropped the remote. As I scurried out of my chair and reached into the dusty darkness beneath, into which the remote had bounced, I was subjected to a show called, “Next.” In “Next,” beautiful women who were emotionally hollow inside (essentially, blank human billboards for name brand clothing and cell phones), gathered together and began a competition to win the affection of one man, let’s call him, “Mr. Douchebag.” Mr. Douchebag himself was just as emotionally hollow as the women who followed him around, he wore unbuttoned designer clothes, construction-grade hair gel, and so much cologne that I could smell it through the television. To make matters worse, Mr. Douchebag was given the ability to decide that he wasn’t having fun trying to get into the pants of one girl, dismiss her, and replace her almost instantly with another girl who may not have buckled her belt so tightly.
In the time it took me to find the remote, dust it off, shove the batteries back in, and change the channel, he had dismissed one woman because of her choice in seafood, and one woman before they even spoke to each other.
This man, who was burning through the women like rolling paper, did not strike me as a man who had trouble finding a date. He did, however, strike me as a man who had trouble avoiding sexually transmitted diseases. I had no sympathy for him, or the breast-zombies following behind him.
Watching as much of the show as I did made me angry and nauseous. Unfortunately, that is the most favorable thing I can say about a show I’ve seen on MTV in the past six years.
12/17/2005
12/15/2005
I’ve just watched the Japanese horror film, “Dark Water.” I think it’s a testament to the movie’s mediocrity that five minutes after taking the DVD out of the player, the plot, characters, and details of the film had completely escaped my mind. This is also an indication of the similarities between all Japanese ghost movies that I’ve seen in the last four years.
Let’s see, Dark Water is about a dead girl with long hair in a well. No, wait, wrong movie. It’s about a dead girl with long hair in a house. No, a dead girl with long hair with a cell phone. Oh, I remember, a dead girl with long hair in an apartment. That’s it.
A desperate mother must save her child by confronting the menace. Wait, scratch that. A desperate girlfriend must save her boyfriend by confronting the menace. Crap, that’s not it. A desperate woman must save her friend’s daughter by confronting- Oh, wait, I was right the first time. It is a desperate mother who must save her child by confronting the menace. Mother, child, menace. Got it.
Seriously people! Are they, like, playing Mad Libs with one script?
How many times is long black hair going to come out of your faucet before you say, “Screw this, we’re moving to America!” How many times is some invisible phantom going to grab your hand before you decide to just pack up your shit and move?
Like all J-horror, there at least a few striking visuals and scares; but of the genre films I’ve seen lately (Ringu, Ju-On, Phone, etc.) Dark Water contains the fewest scares and the least interesting buildup. It is predictable (even without being a j-horror clone), unengaging, and slow. Do yourself a favor and ignore it.
I’ve heard that there’s an American remake. I might be curious to find out if America’s formula for remaking a foreign film (by adding explosions and titties), does anything to salvage this boring story.
Let’s see, Dark Water is about a dead girl with long hair in a well. No, wait, wrong movie. It’s about a dead girl with long hair in a house. No, a dead girl with long hair with a cell phone. Oh, I remember, a dead girl with long hair in an apartment. That’s it.
A desperate mother must save her child by confronting the menace. Wait, scratch that. A desperate girlfriend must save her boyfriend by confronting the menace. Crap, that’s not it. A desperate woman must save her friend’s daughter by confronting- Oh, wait, I was right the first time. It is a desperate mother who must save her child by confronting the menace. Mother, child, menace. Got it.
Seriously people! Are they, like, playing Mad Libs with one script?
How many times is long black hair going to come out of your faucet before you say, “Screw this, we’re moving to America!” How many times is some invisible phantom going to grab your hand before you decide to just pack up your shit and move?
Like all J-horror, there at least a few striking visuals and scares; but of the genre films I’ve seen lately (Ringu, Ju-On, Phone, etc.) Dark Water contains the fewest scares and the least interesting buildup. It is predictable (even without being a j-horror clone), unengaging, and slow. Do yourself a favor and ignore it.
I’ve heard that there’s an American remake. I might be curious to find out if America’s formula for remaking a foreign film (by adding explosions and titties), does anything to salvage this boring story.
11/30/2005
I have an idea for a new invention. Hear me out on this one.
We’ve all been put on hold. Many times, we’ve been put on hold before we’ve even had the chance to talk to a real person. “Your call is important to us, please stay on the line and our next available representative will help you,” says the recording. It’s frustrating, it’s annoying, it’s downright unethical.
If you’re like me, you’re prone to speaking to the recording. When it interrupts your crappy music every ten seconds to remind you how important you are, it’s difficult to suppress a “Fuck you,” or “Shut up, bitch!”
So here’s my invention: a recording that responds to verbal abuse.
It would be responses you’d want to hear, things like, “You’re right. We all suck at this company.” Or maybe, “Yes, I know. I’m sorry I’m a bitch. Would you like to spank me?”
Imagine yelling, “Fuck you!” into the phone and then hearing a sexy female voice respond, “Yes! Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me!”
Believe me, when that customer service representative picks up, you’ll ask to be put back on hold.
And thus, the world became a better place.
We’ve all been put on hold. Many times, we’ve been put on hold before we’ve even had the chance to talk to a real person. “Your call is important to us, please stay on the line and our next available representative will help you,” says the recording. It’s frustrating, it’s annoying, it’s downright unethical.
If you’re like me, you’re prone to speaking to the recording. When it interrupts your crappy music every ten seconds to remind you how important you are, it’s difficult to suppress a “Fuck you,” or “Shut up, bitch!”
So here’s my invention: a recording that responds to verbal abuse.
It would be responses you’d want to hear, things like, “You’re right. We all suck at this company.” Or maybe, “Yes, I know. I’m sorry I’m a bitch. Would you like to spank me?”
Imagine yelling, “Fuck you!” into the phone and then hearing a sexy female voice respond, “Yes! Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me!”
Believe me, when that customer service representative picks up, you’ll ask to be put back on hold.
And thus, the world became a better place.
11/20/2005
Though most people are in agreement, I’ve taken a bit of flak from some of my male friends regarding my blanket statement that Hugh Hefner’s “Girlfriends,” are unattractive.
Don’t get me wrong. I respect Hugh. He’s the definition of class, and we are using the plural “girlfriends” here. Who can do better than that? But I think his choice in mates is very blind-sighted.
It would be difficult to describe them without falling into cliché. They are the typical big-breasted, platinum blonde bimbos. Some guys like that kind of thing, I know this. And maybe they’re not bimbos; maybe one of them has got a PHD.
But the fact remains, looking at them makes you feel hollow inside. Why?
Imagine looking over the statues in the Louvre in Paris. Find a statue of a nude goddess in a provocative pose. Then take a belt sander and grind away the outer layer of this statue until it is one smooth, unblemished form. Sand thoroughly until all traces of tone or uniqueness are gone, and then polish the statue until it has a glimmering shine. Pour bleach on the statue and let it fill all the tiny pores and nooks that may someday grow to cause the statue to show age or maturity. Then, start attaching new rocks to the chest area. These rocks need not be the correct size or color to make them look like a natural part of the statue. Apply an extremely thick coat of colored varnish to the face.
Now look at that, and tell me you don’t feel hollow…
Don’t get me wrong. I respect Hugh. He’s the definition of class, and we are using the plural “girlfriends” here. Who can do better than that? But I think his choice in mates is very blind-sighted.
It would be difficult to describe them without falling into cliché. They are the typical big-breasted, platinum blonde bimbos. Some guys like that kind of thing, I know this. And maybe they’re not bimbos; maybe one of them has got a PHD.
But the fact remains, looking at them makes you feel hollow inside. Why?
Imagine looking over the statues in the Louvre in Paris. Find a statue of a nude goddess in a provocative pose. Then take a belt sander and grind away the outer layer of this statue until it is one smooth, unblemished form. Sand thoroughly until all traces of tone or uniqueness are gone, and then polish the statue until it has a glimmering shine. Pour bleach on the statue and let it fill all the tiny pores and nooks that may someday grow to cause the statue to show age or maturity. Then, start attaching new rocks to the chest area. These rocks need not be the correct size or color to make them look like a natural part of the statue. Apply an extremely thick coat of colored varnish to the face.
Now look at that, and tell me you don’t feel hollow…
11/15/2005
About a month and a half ago, my gym terminology changed.
When I say I “Go,” to the gym, what I mean is that I’m more of a “Silent Partner;” watching things from behind the scenes and occasionally sending in money to keep things running smoothly.
Occasionally, I’ll wander over to the facility, scope things out, and go back home, satisfied that they’re carrying on just fine without me.
When I say I “Go,” to the gym, what I mean is that I’m more of a “Silent Partner;” watching things from behind the scenes and occasionally sending in money to keep things running smoothly.
Occasionally, I’ll wander over to the facility, scope things out, and go back home, satisfied that they’re carrying on just fine without me.
11/10/2005
There really needs to be a hand signal that says, “I’m sorry that you are agitated and felt the need to blare your horn, but, as you can see, I am properly obeying the yield sign and giving the other driver the right of way.”
Unfortunately, the closest thing we have is the hand signal that says, “FUCK YOU!”
There’s kind of a huge leap in tone there. It certainly pissed the guy off. In fact, he dropped his cell phone so he could return the finger and still maintain control of his car.
Unfortunately, the closest thing we have is the hand signal that says, “FUCK YOU!”
There’s kind of a huge leap in tone there. It certainly pissed the guy off. In fact, he dropped his cell phone so he could return the finger and still maintain control of his car.
11/05/2005
10/31/2005
Muah Hah Hah Hah!
Welcome, welcome my children to Uncle Otto’s Federally Censored House of Horrors. I would ask that only the bravest and stoutest of you, only those who do not crumble in the face of fear, enter this house… but I won’t. In fact, due to government imposed regulations, this vile den of terrors is now safe for small children, pets, women who are pregnant, and those with heart conditions.
I now bid you to follow me, but ONLY if you think you are brave enough, and ONLY if you are wearing the assigned safety equipment and clothing that meets the Federal Halloween Decency Standards Act.
You, Miss! You may not enter this house of evil and death. The skirt of your naughty devil outfit is clearly higher than a half-inch above the knee. Run home, young lady. Run home and tell them of the horrors you saw here, and how those horrors told you to wear pants next time.
Now, step through this door and we will dive into the murky depths of hell! ::BZZT::
(When Uncle Otto says “Hell” he is shocked by an electric collar)
Ahem, where was I?
Oh yes, GAZE upon this vile creature here. This hairy beast is known throughout the world as a Werewolf. Don’t get too close, children! You can see that his mildly extended, yet rounded and blunt front teeth can be used to gnaw ravenously. And what’s that that drips from his dull fangs? Oh no, it’s… chocolate! Yes, yes, this is the curse that this man has wrought upon himself. He has eaten himself into a chocolatey, bestial state. Quickly, give him your chocolate so that you will not eat too much and become a hairy beast just like him. Hurry, relinquish your sweets so you may avoid his curse! All of you!
Hey, you in the Spider-Man outfit. I saw you hide that Nutrageous. Cough it up, kid. The government knows what’s good for you.
Let us move on quickly. Fear not, for the Werewolf cannot follow, he is bound by silver chains. Do not worry about him. He is allowed plenty of exercise, three proper meals per day, access to a TV room, a library, and regular subscription magazines. He is currently petitioning for conjugal visits and two phone calls per week, which I’m sure he’ll have by next Halloween.
Moving on. Do you smell that? Is that the musty, mulchy, potpourri smell of the undead? Why yes, that earthy yet pleasant odor can only be the smell of rotting flesh. And HERE THEY COME!
Do not fret, my guests. They seek only what all of the zombies seek; the single form of nourishment that will sustain their ghastly existence.
Volunteer Zombie Actor: “GREEEEEEEEENS!”
Yes, they will forage like animals for their daily dose of fruits and vegetables. Woe is the man who gets between these monsters and their nutrients.
Look into their eyes children, they were once like you. Then, they got jobs within a large corporation and became-
What’s that noise? Oh no, we are being stalked by the king of the undead himself! It’s the Vampire Who Is Not Dracula (For Copyright Reasons).
Avert your gaze, for if your eyes meet his, you will become his slave (BZZT, the collar shocks Uncle Otto again), um… servant (BZZT) uh… voluntary low income employee (no shock this time); yes, avoid his firey stare, lest you become a victim of his dark desires, with minimum wage and no benefits, but an option to leave with proper two weeks notice.
Volunteer Vampire Actor: “I want to suck your blood; but only if you consent and we both submit to a thorough medical screening!”
Oh the terror! Run children, for even without your consent, he has the proper paperwork and licenses to gnaw on your neck while wearing a protective mouth guard! Run!
Whew, that was close! We barely escaped with our… um… well, we weren’t in much danger, but oh, he is a fierce one, that Vampire Who Is Not Dracula (For Copyright Reasons)!
Do you feel it? That chill in the air? Could it be that the denizens of the afterlife are breathing down our necks? Do you hear their moans? They seek arbitration! Yes, they want to speak, in the presence of a court appointed official, to the one who killed them, seeking an agreeable settlement for both parties!
Look, there’s one now! It’s a ghost!
Volunteer Ghost: “Ahem, the term is “Flesh Challenged,” thank you.
And where you find the “Flesh Challenged,” you will find the ladies whose boiling potions and mystic incantations fill the air. Beware these Witches, for they may one day establish their spells and ceremonies as religious doctrine and seek reparations for persecution from the likes of you. Until then, cover your ears! They seek lull you with their chants and songs which, though lewd and mildly inappropriate, are protected as products of free speech.
This formerly rusty but recently re-coated gate marks the end of our terrifying journey. Please return your Spooky Safety Harnesses to this bin here, your Horrifying Helmets to this bin over here, and your Ghastly Safety Goggles to the bin with the picture of the skull on it. Please, do not approach within ten feet of the Jack O’ Lanterns on either side of the exit path as they are lit with light bulbs witch may have become warm.
And beware! Beware the things that go bump in the night, because you only have the legal right to shoot them if they are on your property!
Welcome, welcome my children to Uncle Otto’s Federally Censored House of Horrors. I would ask that only the bravest and stoutest of you, only those who do not crumble in the face of fear, enter this house… but I won’t. In fact, due to government imposed regulations, this vile den of terrors is now safe for small children, pets, women who are pregnant, and those with heart conditions.
I now bid you to follow me, but ONLY if you think you are brave enough, and ONLY if you are wearing the assigned safety equipment and clothing that meets the Federal Halloween Decency Standards Act.
You, Miss! You may not enter this house of evil and death. The skirt of your naughty devil outfit is clearly higher than a half-inch above the knee. Run home, young lady. Run home and tell them of the horrors you saw here, and how those horrors told you to wear pants next time.
Now, step through this door and we will dive into the murky depths of hell! ::BZZT::
(When Uncle Otto says “Hell” he is shocked by an electric collar)
Ahem, where was I?
Oh yes, GAZE upon this vile creature here. This hairy beast is known throughout the world as a Werewolf. Don’t get too close, children! You can see that his mildly extended, yet rounded and blunt front teeth can be used to gnaw ravenously. And what’s that that drips from his dull fangs? Oh no, it’s… chocolate! Yes, yes, this is the curse that this man has wrought upon himself. He has eaten himself into a chocolatey, bestial state. Quickly, give him your chocolate so that you will not eat too much and become a hairy beast just like him. Hurry, relinquish your sweets so you may avoid his curse! All of you!
Hey, you in the Spider-Man outfit. I saw you hide that Nutrageous. Cough it up, kid. The government knows what’s good for you.
Let us move on quickly. Fear not, for the Werewolf cannot follow, he is bound by silver chains. Do not worry about him. He is allowed plenty of exercise, three proper meals per day, access to a TV room, a library, and regular subscription magazines. He is currently petitioning for conjugal visits and two phone calls per week, which I’m sure he’ll have by next Halloween.
Moving on. Do you smell that? Is that the musty, mulchy, potpourri smell of the undead? Why yes, that earthy yet pleasant odor can only be the smell of rotting flesh. And HERE THEY COME!
Do not fret, my guests. They seek only what all of the zombies seek; the single form of nourishment that will sustain their ghastly existence.
Volunteer Zombie Actor: “GREEEEEEEEENS!”
Yes, they will forage like animals for their daily dose of fruits and vegetables. Woe is the man who gets between these monsters and their nutrients.
Look into their eyes children, they were once like you. Then, they got jobs within a large corporation and became-
What’s that noise? Oh no, we are being stalked by the king of the undead himself! It’s the Vampire Who Is Not Dracula (For Copyright Reasons).
Avert your gaze, for if your eyes meet his, you will become his slave (BZZT, the collar shocks Uncle Otto again), um… servant (BZZT) uh… voluntary low income employee (no shock this time); yes, avoid his firey stare, lest you become a victim of his dark desires, with minimum wage and no benefits, but an option to leave with proper two weeks notice.
Volunteer Vampire Actor: “I want to suck your blood; but only if you consent and we both submit to a thorough medical screening!”
Oh the terror! Run children, for even without your consent, he has the proper paperwork and licenses to gnaw on your neck while wearing a protective mouth guard! Run!
Whew, that was close! We barely escaped with our… um… well, we weren’t in much danger, but oh, he is a fierce one, that Vampire Who Is Not Dracula (For Copyright Reasons)!
Do you feel it? That chill in the air? Could it be that the denizens of the afterlife are breathing down our necks? Do you hear their moans? They seek arbitration! Yes, they want to speak, in the presence of a court appointed official, to the one who killed them, seeking an agreeable settlement for both parties!
Look, there’s one now! It’s a ghost!
Volunteer Ghost: “Ahem, the term is “Flesh Challenged,” thank you.
And where you find the “Flesh Challenged,” you will find the ladies whose boiling potions and mystic incantations fill the air. Beware these Witches, for they may one day establish their spells and ceremonies as religious doctrine and seek reparations for persecution from the likes of you. Until then, cover your ears! They seek lull you with their chants and songs which, though lewd and mildly inappropriate, are protected as products of free speech.
This formerly rusty but recently re-coated gate marks the end of our terrifying journey. Please return your Spooky Safety Harnesses to this bin here, your Horrifying Helmets to this bin over here, and your Ghastly Safety Goggles to the bin with the picture of the skull on it. Please, do not approach within ten feet of the Jack O’ Lanterns on either side of the exit path as they are lit with light bulbs witch may have become warm.
And beware! Beware the things that go bump in the night, because you only have the legal right to shoot them if they are on your property!
10/30/2005
A few minutes after the kids dressed as the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles had left, a pair of older kids, maybe 13 or 14 came up to the door. One simply wore basketball shorts and a Celtics jersey. The other wore jeans and a plain black t-shirt. Both held out pillow cases full of candy.
I reluctantly gave candy to the kid in the sports jersey; it may have been a costume, even if was also the exact same outfit he wore to basketball practice.
I turned to the plainclothes trick or treater.
“And what are you supposed to be?” I said.
There was a long pause as he tried to think of something clever. Not only had no one else asked him this question, he hadn’t even asked himself.
I interrupted his thought process. “That’s what I thought. Get the hell out of my yard.”
I closed the door, and the kid dressed as the mooching teenager walked away without any candy from me.
(Note: This is not how it really happened. Mainly because I hate cleaning egg off the siding of the house.)
I reluctantly gave candy to the kid in the sports jersey; it may have been a costume, even if was also the exact same outfit he wore to basketball practice.
I turned to the plainclothes trick or treater.
“And what are you supposed to be?” I said.
There was a long pause as he tried to think of something clever. Not only had no one else asked him this question, he hadn’t even asked himself.
I interrupted his thought process. “That’s what I thought. Get the hell out of my yard.”
I closed the door, and the kid dressed as the mooching teenager walked away without any candy from me.
(Note: This is not how it really happened. Mainly because I hate cleaning egg off the siding of the house.)
10/28/2005
This will likely be one of those periods in my life that I will look back on and say, “Did that really happen, or was it all the lighter fluid I was drinking at the time?”
We were nearing the end of our pre-designated trial period with Annie. It was time to decide if we were a compatible family for her and vice versa. We were also working against a kind of biological deadline. Let’s just say that Annie was looking out the window at all the boy dogs and barking, “Work it! Work it, baby!” If we were to keep her, she would have to be spayed. If she was going to return home, she would be allowed to breed. If I were in her place, I know what I’d want.
It had been apparent early on in the relationship that there was some strain between Annie and my parents.
There were the normal issues related to everyone adjusting to each other; the early morning dog-tongue-in-the-face alarm clock, the aggressive defensiveness of the house, the sudden dissolution of quiet time in the evening, and one of us, I won’t name any names, had a bladder control problem whenever new people visited the house.
This was normal doggie behavior, behavior that could be modified with time and patience. The fundamental problem was our different personalities. Annie was an excitable, high-energy dog. We are dull, low-energy people. I don’t mean “dull,” in a negative sense, I just mean that we are not really prone to running around the yard and wrestling in the living room unless we have to.
This discrepancy would have been apparent even before we took her in for a few weeks if we had done more reading beforehand. However, the opportunity presented itself so suddenly, and it all happened so quickly, I barely had time to buy a doggie dish and a pooper scooper before she came to our house.
Our biggest concern was that we could not provide Annie with the attention and exercise that she needed. Our respective schedules meant that she was alone for a sizable chunk of the day. Aside from that, even when we were home, we were each only capable of an hour or two of catch, chases, and walkies before A) it was time to go to bed, or B) we collapsed from exhaustion on the nearest piece of furniture.
Annie was not the type of dog to settle down your chair with you, or gnaw on a bone for a while. If one could somehow harness the energy of a Jack Russell Terrier, the world would find itself rich in clean energy that was almost pollution free (you know, aside from poopies). While she did settle down for a nap from time to time, she was capable of going from 0 to 60 in half a second when a car door slammed outside, or the heater turned on.
Natural behavior. I know. She’ll settle with time. I know.
As I mentioned, this was only our primary concern. There were a number of factors that led us to decide that we should bring her back to her brothers and sisters at the breeder’s home. Not an easy decision, because frankly, Annie was such a sweetheart.
I told my parents that I would support whatever decision they made. It had largely been their choice to try and adopt Annie, so I was going to let it be their choice to send her back home or not. But, by the end of the trial period, I feeling the same strain that so thoroughly effected them, and I began to support the, “We’re not the right family for her,” position.
In the end, everyone is still happy. Peace and quite has returned to the house, and Annie gets to go home to raise her own litter.
We were nearing the end of our pre-designated trial period with Annie. It was time to decide if we were a compatible family for her and vice versa. We were also working against a kind of biological deadline. Let’s just say that Annie was looking out the window at all the boy dogs and barking, “Work it! Work it, baby!” If we were to keep her, she would have to be spayed. If she was going to return home, she would be allowed to breed. If I were in her place, I know what I’d want.
It had been apparent early on in the relationship that there was some strain between Annie and my parents.
There were the normal issues related to everyone adjusting to each other; the early morning dog-tongue-in-the-face alarm clock, the aggressive defensiveness of the house, the sudden dissolution of quiet time in the evening, and one of us, I won’t name any names, had a bladder control problem whenever new people visited the house.
This was normal doggie behavior, behavior that could be modified with time and patience. The fundamental problem was our different personalities. Annie was an excitable, high-energy dog. We are dull, low-energy people. I don’t mean “dull,” in a negative sense, I just mean that we are not really prone to running around the yard and wrestling in the living room unless we have to.
This discrepancy would have been apparent even before we took her in for a few weeks if we had done more reading beforehand. However, the opportunity presented itself so suddenly, and it all happened so quickly, I barely had time to buy a doggie dish and a pooper scooper before she came to our house.
Our biggest concern was that we could not provide Annie with the attention and exercise that she needed. Our respective schedules meant that she was alone for a sizable chunk of the day. Aside from that, even when we were home, we were each only capable of an hour or two of catch, chases, and walkies before A) it was time to go to bed, or B) we collapsed from exhaustion on the nearest piece of furniture.
Annie was not the type of dog to settle down your chair with you, or gnaw on a bone for a while. If one could somehow harness the energy of a Jack Russell Terrier, the world would find itself rich in clean energy that was almost pollution free (you know, aside from poopies). While she did settle down for a nap from time to time, she was capable of going from 0 to 60 in half a second when a car door slammed outside, or the heater turned on.
Natural behavior. I know. She’ll settle with time. I know.
As I mentioned, this was only our primary concern. There were a number of factors that led us to decide that we should bring her back to her brothers and sisters at the breeder’s home. Not an easy decision, because frankly, Annie was such a sweetheart.
I told my parents that I would support whatever decision they made. It had largely been their choice to try and adopt Annie, so I was going to let it be their choice to send her back home or not. But, by the end of the trial period, I feeling the same strain that so thoroughly effected them, and I began to support the, “We’re not the right family for her,” position.
In the end, everyone is still happy. Peace and quite has returned to the house, and Annie gets to go home to raise her own litter.
10/10/2005
There’s a new girl in my life, and her name is Annie.
We’ve been spending a lot of time together, although we haven’t known each other long. We met for the first time last Sunday, though I’d been hearing about her for a while. My mother had known her, or at least known of her, for a while now through one of the other ladies at work. When we finally met, we hit it off right away. She’s spent the last few days hanging out with me at my house.
She seems to like me, and mom and dad. Though, she hasn’t quite warmed up to Jen yet, (they’ve only met briefly), but I’m absolutely certain Annie will love her too, given a little more time.
I think she loves me. I know that there’s a special place in her heart for me; she snuggles with me while we watch television, and when we’re alone, all she wants to do is lick my face.
Everything seems so wonderful. The hardest part is getting her to pee in the back yard.
Oh, did I forget to mention that Annie’s a dog? Sorry. Whoa, you must have been getting the wrong idea. Geez.
That's right, we got a dog. We. Got a dog. If you'd like some ice in your drink, try looking in hell.
(old joke, new reason to use it)
Annie is a three year old Jack Russell Terrier. She comes from a good home run by experienced former dog breeders. They were noticing that Annie, being completely non-aggressive, was being picked on by the other dogs, they’d been stealing her toys, nipping at her, etc. The owners finally decided that Annie would be happier in a one-dog household. My mother volunteered our household.
This is a huge leap for us, and it’s still going to take a lot of adjusting, but she seems to love it here. And we love her. So it's working out for everyone.
We’ve been spending a lot of time together, although we haven’t known each other long. We met for the first time last Sunday, though I’d been hearing about her for a while. My mother had known her, or at least known of her, for a while now through one of the other ladies at work. When we finally met, we hit it off right away. She’s spent the last few days hanging out with me at my house.
She seems to like me, and mom and dad. Though, she hasn’t quite warmed up to Jen yet, (they’ve only met briefly), but I’m absolutely certain Annie will love her too, given a little more time.
I think she loves me. I know that there’s a special place in her heart for me; she snuggles with me while we watch television, and when we’re alone, all she wants to do is lick my face.
Everything seems so wonderful. The hardest part is getting her to pee in the back yard.
Oh, did I forget to mention that Annie’s a dog? Sorry. Whoa, you must have been getting the wrong idea. Geez.
That's right, we got a dog. We. Got a dog. If you'd like some ice in your drink, try looking in hell.
(old joke, new reason to use it)
Annie is a three year old Jack Russell Terrier. She comes from a good home run by experienced former dog breeders. They were noticing that Annie, being completely non-aggressive, was being picked on by the other dogs, they’d been stealing her toys, nipping at her, etc. The owners finally decided that Annie would be happier in a one-dog household. My mother volunteered our household.
This is a huge leap for us, and it’s still going to take a lot of adjusting, but she seems to love it here. And we love her. So it's working out for everyone.
10/07/2005
Wizard World Boston. What else can I say? The premier magazine about comic books had been hosting their “Wizard World” parties all across the country for years. They had finally decided to come to Boston, and God bless them for that.
To be honest, I think they simply piggy backed on a normal large-scale comic book convention that makes its way to the area every year or so. I don’t mean that in a negative way, but I’ll just say that the show wasn’t anything that hadn’t been done before. It was still a fine and grand thing.
Of course, I have celebrity stories.
For filing under “brief brushes of fame,” I almost walked into Joe Quesada, Editor-In-Chief of Marvel Comics. I was bringing some things back out to my car when I nearly slammed into a gentleman at the door who was rushing to get in. It wasn’t anything major, in fact, it wasn’t until after I said, “Oh, sorry, excuse me,” and walked by that I realized that was Joe Quesada. I turned around to see him vanish into the crowd. I wanted to say something, something profound, something no fan boy had ever said before. Of course, I couldn’t think of anything. In retrospect, I can think of a million things I should have shouted out. “You RULE!” or “Keep up the good work!” or even, “Tell Kevin Smith to get off his ass and finish writing the comic books he started.” (Chris thought of that one, but if it had popped into my mind at the time, I would have said it right there).
Don’t you hate it when you’re in a long line, waiting to buy lunch at the only concession stand at the convention when you notice there’s one personal pan pizza left and you’re almost next in line, then, out of nowhere, Kane Hodder, who plays Jason Vorhees in all the Friday the 13th movies, steps in line and snatches up the last pizza? I hate when that happens. Seriously though, I wasn’t mad or anything. He was a celebrity guest, a V.I.P., and a genuinely cool guy (he did ask politely before he went ahead of us). Also, a genuinely big guy (the physical requirement for his role). I’m not saying I couldn’t have taken him, but he was probably packing a chainsaw somewhere.
That was about it. I can’t say I actually waited in line to see any of these celebrities. There are a lot of reasons why I didn’t. There is no doubt in my mind that all of the celebrities who attended were cool, friendly people. But, why would you want to line up to see them? Why would you pay $20 to have your picture taken with them? (What’s the matter Lou Farigno? Not making enough money from lifting things? Whoa there. That was uncalled for, Jon). Anyway, as I was saying, I think getting a picture taken with these celebrities would be cool, but not $20 of cool. In the end, it was probably very good that I did not wait in line to meet Eliza Dushku, I would have made an ass of myself.
Eliza: “OK, who’s next? Well, hello there. Hey, I like that t-shirt, “Chicks dig scrawny pale guys!” That’s awesome!
Jon: “Gaaaaaa…”
Aside from celebrities, there was a wide selection of artists. It was tough to muster up interest in most of what was on display. Granted, there was some incredible stuff, but I think I was on the lookout for artists who were different than your standard super-hero or mythic scenery works. I didn’t really find that there. Further drowning out the joy of visiting artists was the guilt I felt whenever I passed them by without looking at their stuff. I felt like I was neglecting a puppy, that is, in the cases where no one else was visiting them either. They’d just look at you with their big, sad eyes, holding out their portfolio for you to peruse. As I said, it was all stellar stuff, very enjoyable, but that particular day I was on the lookout for something new and fresh.
Though I picked up many a comic that day, the non-comic-related merchandise was just as juicy. Every action figure, like, ever made was on sale. Books full of spectacular artwork, even the kind I was looking for, stood on displays in booths next to lunchboxes, light saber toys, and Battlestar Galactica mugs. Bootleg videos were aplenty. Frankly, I think if the copyright police where in there, they’d arrest half the vendors; selling DVD’s of cheaply made television recordings, copied movies in cases with poor inkjet labels meant to represent the original cover, and obscure porn tapes by the boxful. In reality, most of the movies available were illegal and overpriced, not to mention hack versions of better commercial material and videos found free on the internet. There are always gems in the pile though, I’ve discovered those in years past. There’s always that obscure foreign film that you heard so much about, but never saw stateside, or that extended edition of a movie that was never released (of course, with DVD these days, they release every last crap of useless footage they have to begin with, so the bootlegs are nothing new). I can’t claim to be free of the vice of buying a bootleg, but I’ve made certain just to buy the stuff that I can’t get anywhere else.
In the end, I walked away with several good books at bargain prices, some posters and stickers, and, my prized purchase, an 18”x24” print of an Alex Ross painting of Super Grover. Those of you who know who Grover is probably think it’s ridiculous for a grown man to buy a poster like this. Those of you who know who both Grover and Alex Ross are will probably break into my house to steal it for themselves.
Oh, and I took this picture.
I managed to forget I had my camera for the rest of the day.
Overall, a great time was had.
To be honest, I think they simply piggy backed on a normal large-scale comic book convention that makes its way to the area every year or so. I don’t mean that in a negative way, but I’ll just say that the show wasn’t anything that hadn’t been done before. It was still a fine and grand thing.
Of course, I have celebrity stories.
For filing under “brief brushes of fame,” I almost walked into Joe Quesada, Editor-In-Chief of Marvel Comics. I was bringing some things back out to my car when I nearly slammed into a gentleman at the door who was rushing to get in. It wasn’t anything major, in fact, it wasn’t until after I said, “Oh, sorry, excuse me,” and walked by that I realized that was Joe Quesada. I turned around to see him vanish into the crowd. I wanted to say something, something profound, something no fan boy had ever said before. Of course, I couldn’t think of anything. In retrospect, I can think of a million things I should have shouted out. “You RULE!” or “Keep up the good work!” or even, “Tell Kevin Smith to get off his ass and finish writing the comic books he started.” (Chris thought of that one, but if it had popped into my mind at the time, I would have said it right there).
Don’t you hate it when you’re in a long line, waiting to buy lunch at the only concession stand at the convention when you notice there’s one personal pan pizza left and you’re almost next in line, then, out of nowhere, Kane Hodder, who plays Jason Vorhees in all the Friday the 13th movies, steps in line and snatches up the last pizza? I hate when that happens. Seriously though, I wasn’t mad or anything. He was a celebrity guest, a V.I.P., and a genuinely cool guy (he did ask politely before he went ahead of us). Also, a genuinely big guy (the physical requirement for his role). I’m not saying I couldn’t have taken him, but he was probably packing a chainsaw somewhere.
That was about it. I can’t say I actually waited in line to see any of these celebrities. There are a lot of reasons why I didn’t. There is no doubt in my mind that all of the celebrities who attended were cool, friendly people. But, why would you want to line up to see them? Why would you pay $20 to have your picture taken with them? (What’s the matter Lou Farigno? Not making enough money from lifting things? Whoa there. That was uncalled for, Jon). Anyway, as I was saying, I think getting a picture taken with these celebrities would be cool, but not $20 of cool. In the end, it was probably very good that I did not wait in line to meet Eliza Dushku, I would have made an ass of myself.
Eliza: “OK, who’s next? Well, hello there. Hey, I like that t-shirt, “Chicks dig scrawny pale guys!” That’s awesome!
Jon: “Gaaaaaa…”
Aside from celebrities, there was a wide selection of artists. It was tough to muster up interest in most of what was on display. Granted, there was some incredible stuff, but I think I was on the lookout for artists who were different than your standard super-hero or mythic scenery works. I didn’t really find that there. Further drowning out the joy of visiting artists was the guilt I felt whenever I passed them by without looking at their stuff. I felt like I was neglecting a puppy, that is, in the cases where no one else was visiting them either. They’d just look at you with their big, sad eyes, holding out their portfolio for you to peruse. As I said, it was all stellar stuff, very enjoyable, but that particular day I was on the lookout for something new and fresh.
Though I picked up many a comic that day, the non-comic-related merchandise was just as juicy. Every action figure, like, ever made was on sale. Books full of spectacular artwork, even the kind I was looking for, stood on displays in booths next to lunchboxes, light saber toys, and Battlestar Galactica mugs. Bootleg videos were aplenty. Frankly, I think if the copyright police where in there, they’d arrest half the vendors; selling DVD’s of cheaply made television recordings, copied movies in cases with poor inkjet labels meant to represent the original cover, and obscure porn tapes by the boxful. In reality, most of the movies available were illegal and overpriced, not to mention hack versions of better commercial material and videos found free on the internet. There are always gems in the pile though, I’ve discovered those in years past. There’s always that obscure foreign film that you heard so much about, but never saw stateside, or that extended edition of a movie that was never released (of course, with DVD these days, they release every last crap of useless footage they have to begin with, so the bootlegs are nothing new). I can’t claim to be free of the vice of buying a bootleg, but I’ve made certain just to buy the stuff that I can’t get anywhere else.
In the end, I walked away with several good books at bargain prices, some posters and stickers, and, my prized purchase, an 18”x24” print of an Alex Ross painting of Super Grover. Those of you who know who Grover is probably think it’s ridiculous for a grown man to buy a poster like this. Those of you who know who both Grover and Alex Ross are will probably break into my house to steal it for themselves.
Oh, and I took this picture.
I managed to forget I had my camera for the rest of the day.
Overall, a great time was had.
9/25/2005
A spider, the largest I’ve seen around these parts in a while, has managed to spin a huge web in front of the picture window of our house. This means either:
1) He’s noticed that the moths and flies flock to the window at night, attracted by the light coming from inside…
or
2) He thinks he can capture the whole house.
Nature and logic tell me the answer is #1, but I’ve stocked up some grenades and a flame thrower just in case it’s #2 (And you would all do well not to ask me where I got them).
From the looks of it, he’s literally making a killing. I had only noticed the web today, but it’s starting to look like a Woodstock for flies (of course, one where the main performer would play the Star Spangled Banner and then drain you of your fluids… ew… nature is icky).
It may only be a matter of time before the web is deemed too gross, even for the sake of studying nature, and swept away by one of us. Until then, that spider’s got some prime real estate. Seriously. He could charge rent for other spiders. He could let the web get full of leaves and let strands break, but the other spiders wouldn’t complain because the web was in such a prime spot.
But then the other spiders would complain that they didn’t have enough electricity to run their blenders or their eight treadmills, and the first spider would say, “Why don’t I build a coal-burning power plant?” The other spiders would all bitch and moan that it would pollute their environment, so he’d say, “Alright, how about wind-based power plant, you know, the one with the giant pinwheel thingies?” And the other spiders would still moan, “But it’s such an eyesore! We pay too much rent to have to look at a bunch of pinwheels!” And then they’d reach some compromise that would involve kicking a bunch of younger spiders out of the lilac bush by the front door, and everyone would be happy for a while.
But then the really rich spiders would start having 30-odd kids each, and these kids would grow up without any real affection or parental supervision, and they’d become brats who cause fights and car accidents, wandering around the house looking for hair gel or money for drugs. The first spider would want to form a police force, an trained team of grasshoppers, charged with keeping the peace, each armed with a tiny can of bug spray. And the rich spiders would complain that they don’t want to be “kept in line,” by some “hard-nosed military force.” The yelling would continue for months until several of the spiders were robbed in the night, and then they start crying because the first spider didn’t do anything to prevent it.
Then they’d let the grasshoppers patrol the strands, but in an incident one night, the richest spider in the web will come stumbling out of a bar, naked, wielding eight big knives. He will threaten to kill anyone who walks by. The grasshopper/police force will show up, spend hours reasoning with the spider, but when he freaks out and attacks one the officers, he will be shot with a can of bug spray. He will be rushed to intensive care in the upper web, but will die shortly after. The neighborhood will be in an uproar. The spiders of the web will demand that the grasshopper that shot the spider be banned from the force and sentenced to life in a jar. The grasshopper, having done everything by the book, will be allowed to resign from the force, after which he will relocate to the mailbox area.
Or, you know, I’ll just get a broom and sweep it away tomorrow.
1) He’s noticed that the moths and flies flock to the window at night, attracted by the light coming from inside…
or
2) He thinks he can capture the whole house.
Nature and logic tell me the answer is #1, but I’ve stocked up some grenades and a flame thrower just in case it’s #2 (And you would all do well not to ask me where I got them).
From the looks of it, he’s literally making a killing. I had only noticed the web today, but it’s starting to look like a Woodstock for flies (of course, one where the main performer would play the Star Spangled Banner and then drain you of your fluids… ew… nature is icky).
It may only be a matter of time before the web is deemed too gross, even for the sake of studying nature, and swept away by one of us. Until then, that spider’s got some prime real estate. Seriously. He could charge rent for other spiders. He could let the web get full of leaves and let strands break, but the other spiders wouldn’t complain because the web was in such a prime spot.
But then the other spiders would complain that they didn’t have enough electricity to run their blenders or their eight treadmills, and the first spider would say, “Why don’t I build a coal-burning power plant?” The other spiders would all bitch and moan that it would pollute their environment, so he’d say, “Alright, how about wind-based power plant, you know, the one with the giant pinwheel thingies?” And the other spiders would still moan, “But it’s such an eyesore! We pay too much rent to have to look at a bunch of pinwheels!” And then they’d reach some compromise that would involve kicking a bunch of younger spiders out of the lilac bush by the front door, and everyone would be happy for a while.
But then the really rich spiders would start having 30-odd kids each, and these kids would grow up without any real affection or parental supervision, and they’d become brats who cause fights and car accidents, wandering around the house looking for hair gel or money for drugs. The first spider would want to form a police force, an trained team of grasshoppers, charged with keeping the peace, each armed with a tiny can of bug spray. And the rich spiders would complain that they don’t want to be “kept in line,” by some “hard-nosed military force.” The yelling would continue for months until several of the spiders were robbed in the night, and then they start crying because the first spider didn’t do anything to prevent it.
Then they’d let the grasshoppers patrol the strands, but in an incident one night, the richest spider in the web will come stumbling out of a bar, naked, wielding eight big knives. He will threaten to kill anyone who walks by. The grasshopper/police force will show up, spend hours reasoning with the spider, but when he freaks out and attacks one the officers, he will be shot with a can of bug spray. He will be rushed to intensive care in the upper web, but will die shortly after. The neighborhood will be in an uproar. The spiders of the web will demand that the grasshopper that shot the spider be banned from the force and sentenced to life in a jar. The grasshopper, having done everything by the book, will be allowed to resign from the force, after which he will relocate to the mailbox area.
Or, you know, I’ll just get a broom and sweep it away tomorrow.
9/21/2005
9/17/2005
I had the occasion to say something which, while totally justified, was going to make me sound like a jackass.
The plan was, “OK, have a good weekend. And paychecks are coming in on Monday, right?” With enough emphasis on “…right?” to state that I was displeased with my paycheck being two days late, and would thus not be getting to me until after the weekend now.
Aware that this might sound a bit petulant, I tried mixing it up and spinning it into a joke. I said, “Have a good weekend! I’ll see my money… er… you on Monday… he he.”
We both laughed, but I was acutely aware of how awful that sounded. “My money?” What the hell was I talking about? Was I going around breaking legs in lieu of interest on high-volume loans?
Objective: Jackass: Complete
Stupid? Yes.
Stupider than anything else I’ve said to my employer this week? Not really. It’s been a strange week.
I suppose the other major faux pas was when I sent an e-mail to the higher ups requesting, for the umpteenth time, that they send me a copy of this mythical employee handbook that they keep talking about: the one that outlines the policies on vacation time and sick days.
In desperation, related to certain misunderstandings and unpleasant revelations about the benefits package, I stated that if I did not have a copy of the employee manual by the end of the week, I would seriously consider looking for work elsewhere.
This was a mistake. Not because they called me on my bluff; they didn’t, whew. This was a mistake because I would never consider working anywhere else. I like this job very much. Considering what I went through in job hunting, this job was very hard to get. So long as they didn’t send ninjas to kill me in my sleep, I would not consider quitting this job.
Fortunately, they got me my manual, and they said how glad they are to have me and how they wouldn’t want to lose me. Whew x2!
That was stupid of me, but I kept learning things about the benefits package after the fact, and it would have been nice to have it outlined from the beginning.
I should have just kept my mouth shut this week.
The plan was, “OK, have a good weekend. And paychecks are coming in on Monday, right?” With enough emphasis on “…right?” to state that I was displeased with my paycheck being two days late, and would thus not be getting to me until after the weekend now.
Aware that this might sound a bit petulant, I tried mixing it up and spinning it into a joke. I said, “Have a good weekend! I’ll see my money… er… you on Monday… he he.”
We both laughed, but I was acutely aware of how awful that sounded. “My money?” What the hell was I talking about? Was I going around breaking legs in lieu of interest on high-volume loans?
Objective: Jackass: Complete
Stupid? Yes.
Stupider than anything else I’ve said to my employer this week? Not really. It’s been a strange week.
I suppose the other major faux pas was when I sent an e-mail to the higher ups requesting, for the umpteenth time, that they send me a copy of this mythical employee handbook that they keep talking about: the one that outlines the policies on vacation time and sick days.
In desperation, related to certain misunderstandings and unpleasant revelations about the benefits package, I stated that if I did not have a copy of the employee manual by the end of the week, I would seriously consider looking for work elsewhere.
This was a mistake. Not because they called me on my bluff; they didn’t, whew. This was a mistake because I would never consider working anywhere else. I like this job very much. Considering what I went through in job hunting, this job was very hard to get. So long as they didn’t send ninjas to kill me in my sleep, I would not consider quitting this job.
Fortunately, they got me my manual, and they said how glad they are to have me and how they wouldn’t want to lose me. Whew x2!
That was stupid of me, but I kept learning things about the benefits package after the fact, and it would have been nice to have it outlined from the beginning.
I should have just kept my mouth shut this week.
9/15/2005
8/27/2005
Lazy
Lazy
Lazy
Jon.
Doesn’t feel like writing,
when nothing special’s going on.
Not that lack of any life-changing events has kept me from writing before. I guess I’m just being lethargic. I apologize to those who have come here looking for their regular dose of chuckles lately, I’ve been naughty. I also apologize to my legion of regular readers (all four of whom I could afford to buy dinner for, if that makes it better).
Anyway, I was feeling the home improvement vibe a few weeks ago. Though, having finished staining the deck, the thought of more manual labor repulsed me to the point of physical pain. So, in the end, I just moved a bunch of posters on my wall. This fulfilled my urges enough so that I didn’t go out and buy potpourri or votive candles or other things that now remind me of prison for some reason.
One of the posters I finally managed to put up, though not at home, was the “Tomorrowland” poster, direct from Disney World. Ultimately, for complete lack of wall space in my room, I am now displaying this poster in my cubicle at work.
I found myself admiring it on my lunch break one day. It's a very skilled rendition of a theoretical scene in Tomorrowland. Actual landmarks like Space Mountain are brightly colored and surrounded by flying cars and patrons wearing jet packs and space suits circa 2000 via the year 1950. “The tomorrow that never was!”
Sometimes I wonder what people think of our technological progress of the last fifty years. We have no flying cars. We have not found better sources of fuel. We have not colonized the moon.
Instead, we have invented cars that consume fuel less efficiently, our identities can now be stolen via computer, and congress is busying itself banning virtual violence. Though it would be interesting, "Tomorrowland," would have been very different. Admission would be even more expensive, your wallet would be stolen, and every ride would just be a slow drive down an empty dark tunnel.
I’m pretty sure that the only thing we’ve got that looks like their vision of the future is Teletubbies. The bright colors and odd outfits would be right at home in a land that was supposed to have artificially intelligent trash cans.
But I digress. I love the poster, it is a work of art and adds well to the technologically-advanced yet subtly-wacky motif of my cube.
On the downside, when I first put the poster up, it reminded me of my last job. As I’ve mentioned a while ago, Disney World was my first paid vacation from that job. After I returned, I was let go, due to financial hardships of the company.
It was pretty crazy, it was like a reverse SuperBowl:
“Jonathan! You’ve just gone to Disney World! What are you going to do now?”
“I’m going to be laid-off!”
But as I looked at the poster, thinking about my old job, I remembered that it was all for the better. I wasn’t very good at it, and didn’t seem to be getting any better, and I was constantly stressing about that. Being let go for financial reasons was the non-defeat, non-surrender way out, and I’m fortunate that it happened that way.
Plus, that eventually led to my current job, which I really like, and where I just put up this snazzy poster.
Lazy
Lazy
Jon.
Doesn’t feel like writing,
when nothing special’s going on.
Not that lack of any life-changing events has kept me from writing before. I guess I’m just being lethargic. I apologize to those who have come here looking for their regular dose of chuckles lately, I’ve been naughty. I also apologize to my legion of regular readers (all four of whom I could afford to buy dinner for, if that makes it better).
Anyway, I was feeling the home improvement vibe a few weeks ago. Though, having finished staining the deck, the thought of more manual labor repulsed me to the point of physical pain. So, in the end, I just moved a bunch of posters on my wall. This fulfilled my urges enough so that I didn’t go out and buy potpourri or votive candles or other things that now remind me of prison for some reason.
One of the posters I finally managed to put up, though not at home, was the “Tomorrowland” poster, direct from Disney World. Ultimately, for complete lack of wall space in my room, I am now displaying this poster in my cubicle at work.
I found myself admiring it on my lunch break one day. It's a very skilled rendition of a theoretical scene in Tomorrowland. Actual landmarks like Space Mountain are brightly colored and surrounded by flying cars and patrons wearing jet packs and space suits circa 2000 via the year 1950. “The tomorrow that never was!”
Sometimes I wonder what people think of our technological progress of the last fifty years. We have no flying cars. We have not found better sources of fuel. We have not colonized the moon.
Instead, we have invented cars that consume fuel less efficiently, our identities can now be stolen via computer, and congress is busying itself banning virtual violence. Though it would be interesting, "Tomorrowland," would have been very different. Admission would be even more expensive, your wallet would be stolen, and every ride would just be a slow drive down an empty dark tunnel.
I’m pretty sure that the only thing we’ve got that looks like their vision of the future is Teletubbies. The bright colors and odd outfits would be right at home in a land that was supposed to have artificially intelligent trash cans.
But I digress. I love the poster, it is a work of art and adds well to the technologically-advanced yet subtly-wacky motif of my cube.
On the downside, when I first put the poster up, it reminded me of my last job. As I’ve mentioned a while ago, Disney World was my first paid vacation from that job. After I returned, I was let go, due to financial hardships of the company.
It was pretty crazy, it was like a reverse SuperBowl:
“Jonathan! You’ve just gone to Disney World! What are you going to do now?”
“I’m going to be laid-off!”
But as I looked at the poster, thinking about my old job, I remembered that it was all for the better. I wasn’t very good at it, and didn’t seem to be getting any better, and I was constantly stressing about that. Being let go for financial reasons was the non-defeat, non-surrender way out, and I’m fortunate that it happened that way.
Plus, that eventually led to my current job, which I really like, and where I just put up this snazzy poster.
8/07/2005
The rips and holes in my last remaining pair of vinyl gloves were letting in peanut butter as I continued to smear it, by hand, on the side of my neighbor's house. At that point I asked myself, "Has this gotten too weird?"
It all started about a year ago. Way back then, our neighbor from up the street, a kindly English widow who had been a friend of the family since before I was born, had asked if I could stain her deck. I accepted (yes, there was payment involved) and gathered two fellas’ from my New Hampshire posse (which, incidentally, consists entirely of two people) and we applied the stain to the deck on one hot Saturday afternoon. We then split the earnings between us. Pretty efficient if you ask me.
However, like a complete moron, I had followed directions found on the internet. The directions came from what seemed to be a legitimate home improvement site. It’s not like one day I got an e-mail saying, “Stain a deck and enlarge your penis!” However, their advice to “Apply thinly,” was not followed, as it should have been, by “…in several coats over a period of a few days.”
The end result, though not awful, was splotchy, runny, and began showing wear and tear even before the first snowfall.
Fast forward to Easter of this year. The question came up again. “Could you put another coat of stain on the deck this summer?” she asked. I thanked her for saying that without any hint of bitterness, which I wouldn’t have blamed her for. She said she wasn’t bitter at all, and coming from her, I believed it. But if anyone else had said it, I’m sure one of the words in that sentence would have been in italics.
“Could you put another coat of stain on the deck this summer?” (recognizing that I had done the job wrong)
“Could you put another coat of stain on the deck this summer?” (implying that I may have done the job right, but the product was of inferior quality)
“Could you put another coat of stain on the deck this summer?” (insinuating that I had missed the deck entirely)
Once the weather started getting nicer, I gave her a call and declared that on that weekend, we would once again stain the deck, and do it right.
Planning was a little harder this time, especially since two members of my posse were unable to help out that weekend (over the year, posse membership had expanded to three people. I had a huge posse!). In the long run, it didn’t really matter, as we were rained out.
For those of you who aren’t cool kids in the know, deck staining requires about 24-48 hours of dryness beforehand, and 24-48 hours of dryness afterwards. Well, New Hampshire was having a wet season. Plans were made and broken as spontaneous rainstorms broke out right before or right after staining was to take place. Weeks went by as the weather changed hourly, ultimately leading to rain every time. Coordinating things with my posse got awkward. Calling each friend every single weekend and asking them if they wanted to plan on spending a Saturday or Sunday working on staining a deck was wearing on my conscience. I couldn’t rightfully continue doing it; it was inconvenient for them, and I’m sure I was beginning to annoy the hell out of them. Had I been in their shoes, I would have punched me by now.
Ultimately, I would end up doing it on my own, but that wouldn’t be for several months yet. It was late July when my neighbor left for a weeklong vacation. I told her that I would stain the deck while she was gone (intending to work on it every night after work).
Getting anything done in the span of three hours each night before sundown was progressing slowly. I was getting tired and careless, missing spots and forgetting to put away equipment on some nights. And, of course, some nights it rained.
A day or two after she got back, the deck was roughly 80% finished. I came over one evening to continue my work when she mentioned the masking tape I had forgotten to remove from the siding near the wood planks. I peeled it off to discover that the heat had baked the adhesive onto the siding. We investigated various household solvents only to find that they were all bad for siding. In desperation, I called the Mr. Wizard of home repair, my father.
“Peanut butter,” he said. “That should do it.”
And that’s how I got to smearing peanut butter on the corners of my neighbor’s house. And for the record, it worked really well.
I managed to finish that day, and I must say that it looks remarkably better than last time. With any luck, it would stay that way for at least two more years. I felt happy with the end result, and having the hard work finally finished. The house’s owner came outside and told me she was very pleased with the job I did, while her dog began furiously licking the siding.
Wait... if the internet was wrong about this… what if it’s wrong about adding three to six inches to my penis? I’ve already ordered the kit! Oh no!
It all started about a year ago. Way back then, our neighbor from up the street, a kindly English widow who had been a friend of the family since before I was born, had asked if I could stain her deck. I accepted (yes, there was payment involved) and gathered two fellas’ from my New Hampshire posse (which, incidentally, consists entirely of two people) and we applied the stain to the deck on one hot Saturday afternoon. We then split the earnings between us. Pretty efficient if you ask me.
However, like a complete moron, I had followed directions found on the internet. The directions came from what seemed to be a legitimate home improvement site. It’s not like one day I got an e-mail saying, “Stain a deck and enlarge your penis!” However, their advice to “Apply thinly,” was not followed, as it should have been, by “…in several coats over a period of a few days.”
The end result, though not awful, was splotchy, runny, and began showing wear and tear even before the first snowfall.
Fast forward to Easter of this year. The question came up again. “Could you put another coat of stain on the deck this summer?” she asked. I thanked her for saying that without any hint of bitterness, which I wouldn’t have blamed her for. She said she wasn’t bitter at all, and coming from her, I believed it. But if anyone else had said it, I’m sure one of the words in that sentence would have been in italics.
“Could you put another coat of stain on the deck this summer?” (recognizing that I had done the job wrong)
“Could you put another coat of stain on the deck this summer?” (implying that I may have done the job right, but the product was of inferior quality)
“Could you put another coat of stain on the deck this summer?” (insinuating that I had missed the deck entirely)
Once the weather started getting nicer, I gave her a call and declared that on that weekend, we would once again stain the deck, and do it right.
Planning was a little harder this time, especially since two members of my posse were unable to help out that weekend (over the year, posse membership had expanded to three people. I had a huge posse!). In the long run, it didn’t really matter, as we were rained out.
For those of you who aren’t cool kids in the know, deck staining requires about 24-48 hours of dryness beforehand, and 24-48 hours of dryness afterwards. Well, New Hampshire was having a wet season. Plans were made and broken as spontaneous rainstorms broke out right before or right after staining was to take place. Weeks went by as the weather changed hourly, ultimately leading to rain every time. Coordinating things with my posse got awkward. Calling each friend every single weekend and asking them if they wanted to plan on spending a Saturday or Sunday working on staining a deck was wearing on my conscience. I couldn’t rightfully continue doing it; it was inconvenient for them, and I’m sure I was beginning to annoy the hell out of them. Had I been in their shoes, I would have punched me by now.
Ultimately, I would end up doing it on my own, but that wouldn’t be for several months yet. It was late July when my neighbor left for a weeklong vacation. I told her that I would stain the deck while she was gone (intending to work on it every night after work).
Getting anything done in the span of three hours each night before sundown was progressing slowly. I was getting tired and careless, missing spots and forgetting to put away equipment on some nights. And, of course, some nights it rained.
A day or two after she got back, the deck was roughly 80% finished. I came over one evening to continue my work when she mentioned the masking tape I had forgotten to remove from the siding near the wood planks. I peeled it off to discover that the heat had baked the adhesive onto the siding. We investigated various household solvents only to find that they were all bad for siding. In desperation, I called the Mr. Wizard of home repair, my father.
“Peanut butter,” he said. “That should do it.”
And that’s how I got to smearing peanut butter on the corners of my neighbor’s house. And for the record, it worked really well.
I managed to finish that day, and I must say that it looks remarkably better than last time. With any luck, it would stay that way for at least two more years. I felt happy with the end result, and having the hard work finally finished. The house’s owner came outside and told me she was very pleased with the job I did, while her dog began furiously licking the siding.
Wait... if the internet was wrong about this… what if it’s wrong about adding three to six inches to my penis? I’ve already ordered the kit! Oh no!
8/04/2005
7/24/2005
I’ve been having, or may still be in, one of those long periods where I can’t work up the ambition to write. I suppose it could be the result of a number of things; hours of deck staining (finally), working late a few days, and increased gym attendance (well… sort of... not really). The single greatest motivation to be writing now is to not let my blog become stagnant (assuming most of you haven’t already given up hoping for updates).
Highlights of the past two weeks include:
I went to an Asian restaurant with some other people for a friend’s birthday celebration. Even though the atmosphere of the place needed plenty of work, the food was great.
To be honest, I’m not entirely certain what it was that I ordered. First of all, I can’t properly recall the name. Moo Poo Chow Mein, Gai Poo Lo Mein… There was definitely “Poo,” in it somewhere. Don’t get me wrong, it was great tasting, but it had a name that, even a few years ago, I would have read and said, “Huh huh… This says ‘Poo’.”
Other items on the menu were equally ambiguous. That seems to be characteristic of proper Asian food places; they like to use words like “Ancient,” or “Mysterious,” instead of, like, naming ingredients. In describing the breaded shrimp, they even said it was smothered in “Romantic Sauce.” I kid you not. Maybe it’s just my American Skepticism, but I’d feel safer avoiding the “Romantic Sauce.”
The most notable items on the menu were, of course, the drinks. The regulars were present, Rum and Coke, Mai Tai, Bombay Sling. The more exotic drinks were matched with more appropriate names; The Zombie, Dr. Funk, Suffering Bastard. Being ignorant of the ancient Asian method of mixing a drink using 97% alcohol and 3% juice, I decided to be adventurous and ordered a Zombie... I think it was a Zombie, my memory of it is a little fuzzy. It may have been called a "Kick Jon In the Face."
By the end of the evening, my glass of… Zombie, was half empty (or half full, depending on what kind of person you are) and my head was buzzing quite a bit. I had the foresight to stop right there and not drink any more, seeing as how I had to drive home. Had I not been driving, I might have finished the whole glass and discovered the next morning why they called it “The Zombie.” I felt a little bit of it when I woke up; that acidic burning and queasiness that makes you stumble around, groaning like the undead. I had dodged the bullet that time.
I have respect for the courage of the birthday boy, who ordered the “Suffering Bastard,” which was served in an evil tiki mug that looked like it wanted you dead. I would guess that he has more of a drinking threshold than I do, but halfway into his “Suffering Bastard,” he was fully cocked. He’s not the kind of guy to act that way just for show; at least, I don’t think he is, so I think it’s safe to say that Suffering Bastard was some strong shit. He managed to finish the drink, which I think was a feat worthy of a prize… like the demonic cup it came in, but there was no such fanfare.
All things considered, it was a good time.
And speaking of good times, the next day, I saw Grease… oh, sorry… GREASE! (Copyright law states that I need to use appropriate exclamation).
G’s fiancée was in the stage production of the show being held in the park. It was a three night affair over the weekend, and G and I caught the Sunday show. Thought the weather looked threatening, it managed not to rain until the second to last song, when Sandra D. came out dressed in the form fitting black outfit which, depending on the actress playing the part, was created by God himself. Even then, the rain was short and it moved few, if any people from their seats.
Of course, the fun began before the show with a demonstration of various dance maneuvers by students of a local dance studio. At the end of their demonstration they invited audience members up front to try some dancing of their own. When not a single audience member volunteered, they began the draft. G and I had made the mistake of placing our lawn chairs near the center isle; a very visible spot. When the dancers came off stage to abduct audience members, one dancer zeroed in on me like a guided missile. She took me by the hand and we went up front where we began initiating “The Twist.” She was an attractive lady, much older than me, but a seasoned dancer, and she had me dancing in no time. Granted, there isn’t much to “The Twist.” You twist… that’s about it. My instructor left to draft more dancers, and I continued “The Twist,” in front of an audience which, after the show had started, would be counted as nearly 1,000 people.
I laughed and pointed a vengeful finger at G, who also laughed, and took multiple pictures of me using his cell phone. My laughing and pointing got him in trouble when my “dance instructor” recruited him up front as well.
I can’t really say I loved it, but I wasn’t ashamed. I guess I’m just used to making an ass of myself.
Of course, after we had taken our seats, they did the same thing again, but this time with a more complicated dance. A different dancer dragged me from my seat this time. What the hell?! Was there a fucking sign on my back?! I couldn’t protest; what would I say?
“Damnit, I came here to see “Grease!” without feeling the beat or getting funky. I fully intended to watch this production without any toe tapping or otherwise having a good time. Let go of my hand.”
We engaged in a group dance called the “Wander,” or the “Traveler,” or some name that implied movement that I could not master. I kept seeing myself as Steve Martin in “The Jerk,” born without a sense of rhythm, trying to clap his hands to the beat with disastrous and comedic results.
Eventually the show started or, as I like to call it, “The Time When The Dancers Started Leaving Me The Hell Alone.”
I can’t say I was ever a fan of “Grease!”, but seeing it performed live on stage was entertaining enough in itself. All told, I enjoyed the whole thing. The acting was fine and the singing was amazing. Everyone handled their own part beautifully, but what surprised me was how professionally the ensemble sang together in the full-cast bits. Not that I was expecting amateur hour, but I think “Grease!” was this particular company’s first performance, and yet the seemed like old pros together.
Of course, what do I know about theater? The only live performances I’ve seen have involved a mosh pit. (Which I always watch from the back of the venue).
They certainly deserved the wild success they saw that weekend in attendance and critical reviews. My hat’s off to them.
So those are the highlights, otherwise it’s been work and play as usual.
See you back here soon... I promise.
Highlights of the past two weeks include:
I went to an Asian restaurant with some other people for a friend’s birthday celebration. Even though the atmosphere of the place needed plenty of work, the food was great.
To be honest, I’m not entirely certain what it was that I ordered. First of all, I can’t properly recall the name. Moo Poo Chow Mein, Gai Poo Lo Mein… There was definitely “Poo,” in it somewhere. Don’t get me wrong, it was great tasting, but it had a name that, even a few years ago, I would have read and said, “Huh huh… This says ‘Poo’.”
Other items on the menu were equally ambiguous. That seems to be characteristic of proper Asian food places; they like to use words like “Ancient,” or “Mysterious,” instead of, like, naming ingredients. In describing the breaded shrimp, they even said it was smothered in “Romantic Sauce.” I kid you not. Maybe it’s just my American Skepticism, but I’d feel safer avoiding the “Romantic Sauce.”
The most notable items on the menu were, of course, the drinks. The regulars were present, Rum and Coke, Mai Tai, Bombay Sling. The more exotic drinks were matched with more appropriate names; The Zombie, Dr. Funk, Suffering Bastard. Being ignorant of the ancient Asian method of mixing a drink using 97% alcohol and 3% juice, I decided to be adventurous and ordered a Zombie... I think it was a Zombie, my memory of it is a little fuzzy. It may have been called a "Kick Jon In the Face."
By the end of the evening, my glass of… Zombie, was half empty (or half full, depending on what kind of person you are) and my head was buzzing quite a bit. I had the foresight to stop right there and not drink any more, seeing as how I had to drive home. Had I not been driving, I might have finished the whole glass and discovered the next morning why they called it “The Zombie.” I felt a little bit of it when I woke up; that acidic burning and queasiness that makes you stumble around, groaning like the undead. I had dodged the bullet that time.
I have respect for the courage of the birthday boy, who ordered the “Suffering Bastard,” which was served in an evil tiki mug that looked like it wanted you dead. I would guess that he has more of a drinking threshold than I do, but halfway into his “Suffering Bastard,” he was fully cocked. He’s not the kind of guy to act that way just for show; at least, I don’t think he is, so I think it’s safe to say that Suffering Bastard was some strong shit. He managed to finish the drink, which I think was a feat worthy of a prize… like the demonic cup it came in, but there was no such fanfare.
All things considered, it was a good time.
And speaking of good times, the next day, I saw Grease… oh, sorry… GREASE! (Copyright law states that I need to use appropriate exclamation).
G’s fiancée was in the stage production of the show being held in the park. It was a three night affair over the weekend, and G and I caught the Sunday show. Thought the weather looked threatening, it managed not to rain until the second to last song, when Sandra D. came out dressed in the form fitting black outfit which, depending on the actress playing the part, was created by God himself. Even then, the rain was short and it moved few, if any people from their seats.
Of course, the fun began before the show with a demonstration of various dance maneuvers by students of a local dance studio. At the end of their demonstration they invited audience members up front to try some dancing of their own. When not a single audience member volunteered, they began the draft. G and I had made the mistake of placing our lawn chairs near the center isle; a very visible spot. When the dancers came off stage to abduct audience members, one dancer zeroed in on me like a guided missile. She took me by the hand and we went up front where we began initiating “The Twist.” She was an attractive lady, much older than me, but a seasoned dancer, and she had me dancing in no time. Granted, there isn’t much to “The Twist.” You twist… that’s about it. My instructor left to draft more dancers, and I continued “The Twist,” in front of an audience which, after the show had started, would be counted as nearly 1,000 people.
I laughed and pointed a vengeful finger at G, who also laughed, and took multiple pictures of me using his cell phone. My laughing and pointing got him in trouble when my “dance instructor” recruited him up front as well.
I can’t really say I loved it, but I wasn’t ashamed. I guess I’m just used to making an ass of myself.
Of course, after we had taken our seats, they did the same thing again, but this time with a more complicated dance. A different dancer dragged me from my seat this time. What the hell?! Was there a fucking sign on my back?! I couldn’t protest; what would I say?
“Damnit, I came here to see “Grease!” without feeling the beat or getting funky. I fully intended to watch this production without any toe tapping or otherwise having a good time. Let go of my hand.”
We engaged in a group dance called the “Wander,” or the “Traveler,” or some name that implied movement that I could not master. I kept seeing myself as Steve Martin in “The Jerk,” born without a sense of rhythm, trying to clap his hands to the beat with disastrous and comedic results.
Eventually the show started or, as I like to call it, “The Time When The Dancers Started Leaving Me The Hell Alone.”
I can’t say I was ever a fan of “Grease!”, but seeing it performed live on stage was entertaining enough in itself. All told, I enjoyed the whole thing. The acting was fine and the singing was amazing. Everyone handled their own part beautifully, but what surprised me was how professionally the ensemble sang together in the full-cast bits. Not that I was expecting amateur hour, but I think “Grease!” was this particular company’s first performance, and yet the seemed like old pros together.
Of course, what do I know about theater? The only live performances I’ve seen have involved a mosh pit. (Which I always watch from the back of the venue).
They certainly deserved the wild success they saw that weekend in attendance and critical reviews. My hat’s off to them.
So those are the highlights, otherwise it’s been work and play as usual.
See you back here soon... I promise.
7/22/2005
Other driver (not me):
"Gee, I have to quickly cross three lanes of traffic at once for some reason. Those drivers in the other lanes are going to be surprised. If only there were some way to signal my intent, some way to let them know that I will be changing lanes in front of them very quickly. Maybe a blinking light of some kind...
Oh well, here I go anyway."
SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEECH!
"Gee, I have to quickly cross three lanes of traffic at once for some reason. Those drivers in the other lanes are going to be surprised. If only there were some way to signal my intent, some way to let them know that I will be changing lanes in front of them very quickly. Maybe a blinking light of some kind...
Oh well, here I go anyway."
SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEECH!
7/20/2005
7/06/2005
Bored on the 4th of July
Well, I wasn’t really bored. But, I’ve been waiting forever to use that title, and I’m just gonna go ahead and use it.
I don’t recall being at a mall to shop on a day when it was virtually empty. You certainly get the brunt of everyone’s fake enthusiasm for whatever product they happen to be selling. Cell phone sellers have always been bad, the people at the Chinese food place in the food court tried to stuff me with samples (even though I was already next in line at Sbarro’s), even the slackers at the t-shirt store tried to sell me an extra keychain and a bumper sticker that said, “Fuck Off!”
However, the most intrusive sellers were the foreign people at their respective kiosks. I don’t want to make generalizations or sound racist, but everyone who stopped me that wasn’t selling a cell phone had a thick foreign accent. This might just be a selling tool, perhaps it helps sell the product on a sub-conscious level. Or maybe it helps when you try to tell them they short-changed you and they suddenly forget the language.
“Excuse me, miss. Thank you for the demonstration and telling me about the product, but I believe you owe me another $5 in change.”
“Que?”
To my credit, I was able to resist the lures of all the sellers involved. I went in, got what I needed, grabbed dinner and got out. Done.
I was even able to resist the charms of the, “Buy this product or they will send me back to my homeland and we will never be together!” girl. She approached me as I passed by and said, “Excuse me sir, do you have a lady in your life?”
I knew right away that she was selling something. No woman has EVER asked me that and not been selling something.
“No.” I said.
She seemed shocked. She must not have originally gotten a good look at me.
“How about a mother or sister?”
“Um… yea.” Arg! Stupid! I should have known from experience not to say that. I should have said they all died in a go-kart accident or something.
She took me by the hand and said, “Well, come here, I know they will love you for this!”
I let her take me. It was more contact than I’ve had with a woman than lately, so I just went with it. I was experiencing a weird sense of déjà vu. (I wrote about a very similar experience in Dec 2003).
She then proceeded to buff the fingernail on my middle finger with a block featuring various fabrics on each side.
“Feel that?” she said. “That buffs the nail and gets the blood flowing. Doesn’t that feel good?”
I agreed, but for some reason, it was also making me feel lonely.
“OK,” she said, getting ready to reveal my fingernail. “Are you ready to see this? One… Two…” There was a long pause after two. I began to wonder if she was waiting for me to say “Three.” I, wanting to show as little enthusiasm as possible, waited for her to say it.
“Three!” And there it was. My fingernail. Shinier than it was before. Probably shinier than it had ever been.
I realized at that moment, that despite the attractiveness of the girl buffing my nail, or the unprecedented shininess of said nail, I just didn’t give a fuck. No one I knew needed this, much less me. I said what I should have said from the start, “Thank you, but I’m just not interested.”
She abruptly dropped my hand and let me go without so much as a, “Goodbye,” or “Remember all the good times we had!”
So yes, it was just like last time, except I managed not to buy anything.
Anyway, the rest of the weekend was just hanging out with friends and family, and then getting a few things done, like waxing the car and checking the tires (you know, that they’re not about to fall off).
Monday night we had a blackout. There was no storm, no wind, no rain, the power just done gone away. It went out at about quarter of ten.
After everything went dark, I decided to go to be early. I picked out my clothes for the next day and took a shower by candlelight (which was so romantic that I had to cuddle with myself afterwards). I then went to bed.
Somewhere around 10:30 our neighbor, diagonally to the rear of our house, thought to himself, “Well, I got all these extra fireworks, I might as well be a dick and fire them all off while it’s so dark and all, and while people who have to go to work are getting to sleep.”
That lasted until about 11:15. I didn’t want to be a party pooper and tell him to shut up. It was still July 4th after all.
Then, just as I was drifting off at about midnight, the power came back on. That, of course, is when you have to get up and reset all the clocks and turn off all the lights you accidentally left on. I crawled back into bed at about 12:15.
The next day, I dozed off for a moment at my desk and dreamed about trying to get to sleep with a black bag over my head while someone was shooting at me.
Well, I wasn’t really bored. But, I’ve been waiting forever to use that title, and I’m just gonna go ahead and use it.
I don’t recall being at a mall to shop on a day when it was virtually empty. You certainly get the brunt of everyone’s fake enthusiasm for whatever product they happen to be selling. Cell phone sellers have always been bad, the people at the Chinese food place in the food court tried to stuff me with samples (even though I was already next in line at Sbarro’s), even the slackers at the t-shirt store tried to sell me an extra keychain and a bumper sticker that said, “Fuck Off!”
However, the most intrusive sellers were the foreign people at their respective kiosks. I don’t want to make generalizations or sound racist, but everyone who stopped me that wasn’t selling a cell phone had a thick foreign accent. This might just be a selling tool, perhaps it helps sell the product on a sub-conscious level. Or maybe it helps when you try to tell them they short-changed you and they suddenly forget the language.
“Excuse me, miss. Thank you for the demonstration and telling me about the product, but I believe you owe me another $5 in change.”
“Que?”
To my credit, I was able to resist the lures of all the sellers involved. I went in, got what I needed, grabbed dinner and got out. Done.
I was even able to resist the charms of the, “Buy this product or they will send me back to my homeland and we will never be together!” girl. She approached me as I passed by and said, “Excuse me sir, do you have a lady in your life?”
I knew right away that she was selling something. No woman has EVER asked me that and not been selling something.
“No.” I said.
She seemed shocked. She must not have originally gotten a good look at me.
“How about a mother or sister?”
“Um… yea.” Arg! Stupid! I should have known from experience not to say that. I should have said they all died in a go-kart accident or something.
She took me by the hand and said, “Well, come here, I know they will love you for this!”
I let her take me. It was more contact than I’ve had with a woman than lately, so I just went with it. I was experiencing a weird sense of déjà vu. (I wrote about a very similar experience in Dec 2003).
She then proceeded to buff the fingernail on my middle finger with a block featuring various fabrics on each side.
“Feel that?” she said. “That buffs the nail and gets the blood flowing. Doesn’t that feel good?”
I agreed, but for some reason, it was also making me feel lonely.
“OK,” she said, getting ready to reveal my fingernail. “Are you ready to see this? One… Two…” There was a long pause after two. I began to wonder if she was waiting for me to say “Three.” I, wanting to show as little enthusiasm as possible, waited for her to say it.
“Three!” And there it was. My fingernail. Shinier than it was before. Probably shinier than it had ever been.
I realized at that moment, that despite the attractiveness of the girl buffing my nail, or the unprecedented shininess of said nail, I just didn’t give a fuck. No one I knew needed this, much less me. I said what I should have said from the start, “Thank you, but I’m just not interested.”
She abruptly dropped my hand and let me go without so much as a, “Goodbye,” or “Remember all the good times we had!”
So yes, it was just like last time, except I managed not to buy anything.
Anyway, the rest of the weekend was just hanging out with friends and family, and then getting a few things done, like waxing the car and checking the tires (you know, that they’re not about to fall off).
Monday night we had a blackout. There was no storm, no wind, no rain, the power just done gone away. It went out at about quarter of ten.
After everything went dark, I decided to go to be early. I picked out my clothes for the next day and took a shower by candlelight (which was so romantic that I had to cuddle with myself afterwards). I then went to bed.
Somewhere around 10:30 our neighbor, diagonally to the rear of our house, thought to himself, “Well, I got all these extra fireworks, I might as well be a dick and fire them all off while it’s so dark and all, and while people who have to go to work are getting to sleep.”
That lasted until about 11:15. I didn’t want to be a party pooper and tell him to shut up. It was still July 4th after all.
Then, just as I was drifting off at about midnight, the power came back on. That, of course, is when you have to get up and reset all the clocks and turn off all the lights you accidentally left on. I crawled back into bed at about 12:15.
The next day, I dozed off for a moment at my desk and dreamed about trying to get to sleep with a black bag over my head while someone was shooting at me.
6/29/2005
There’s something about a big storm that brings out the child-like wonder in me. I think it’s that way for a lot of people.
In that respect, it’s tough being in an office and trying not to act excited when the sky goes black, thunder and lightning start to roll, and the rain comes down in buckets. I try to maintain a certain level of professionalism, when all I want to do is point out the window and yell, “Look at that! IT’S SO COOOOOOOL!”
So when the rain rolls in, we make comments about the downpour; casual remarks about putting up the windows in our cars and driving home later. I try to keep my voice at a normal volume and regard the biblical-level storm with a seemingly passing interest. I also try not to break out too many rain-related jokes, of which I seem to have a large stock. I suppose when I think of a joke about rain, I’m forced to hold it in until a rainy day; which is why I have to try so hard not to let them all out at once… like a downpour.
Today I managed to keep myself composed. If I can manage not to sound like a fool, not to jump up and down, and not to shout with excitment at each passing storm, I might be able to convince myself, and everyone else, that I'm more mature.
But that storm today was sooooo coooool!
In that respect, it’s tough being in an office and trying not to act excited when the sky goes black, thunder and lightning start to roll, and the rain comes down in buckets. I try to maintain a certain level of professionalism, when all I want to do is point out the window and yell, “Look at that! IT’S SO COOOOOOOL!”
So when the rain rolls in, we make comments about the downpour; casual remarks about putting up the windows in our cars and driving home later. I try to keep my voice at a normal volume and regard the biblical-level storm with a seemingly passing interest. I also try not to break out too many rain-related jokes, of which I seem to have a large stock. I suppose when I think of a joke about rain, I’m forced to hold it in until a rainy day; which is why I have to try so hard not to let them all out at once… like a downpour.
Today I managed to keep myself composed. If I can manage not to sound like a fool, not to jump up and down, and not to shout with excitment at each passing storm, I might be able to convince myself, and everyone else, that I'm more mature.
But that storm today was sooooo coooool!
6/27/2005
I wrote this last Saturday but never posted it. I just forgot. It was funny at the time:
New England Central News
Home of the most accurate professional weather radar system on the east coast!
Tom: Good evening folks. Tonight, "Baby Dangling," officially a crime, says superior courts!
But first, here's Chuck with the weather. Chuck?
Chuck: ... (Chuck shrugs)
Fucked if I know, Tom!
Have you people been outside lately? It's insane! The sun is out, it's 48 degrees and it's raining. It's mid June. It was 90 degrees two days ago.
I'm not a religious man, Tom, but this is some Apocalyptic shit.
Our “mighty” radar system has short circuited. Currently, all consoles are locked up and all printers are printing, “Fuck this, I quit!” on all available paper.
The last satellite picture before the crash showed a warm front with more thunder storms coming in from the west, but we didn’t get a really good look at it, so it could be anything. I’m putting my money on locusts.
Back to you, Tom.
New England Central News
Home of the most accurate professional weather radar system on the east coast!
Tom: Good evening folks. Tonight, "Baby Dangling," officially a crime, says superior courts!
But first, here's Chuck with the weather. Chuck?
Chuck: ... (Chuck shrugs)
Fucked if I know, Tom!
Have you people been outside lately? It's insane! The sun is out, it's 48 degrees and it's raining. It's mid June. It was 90 degrees two days ago.
I'm not a religious man, Tom, but this is some Apocalyptic shit.
Our “mighty” radar system has short circuited. Currently, all consoles are locked up and all printers are printing, “Fuck this, I quit!” on all available paper.
The last satellite picture before the crash showed a warm front with more thunder storms coming in from the west, but we didn’t get a really good look at it, so it could be anything. I’m putting my money on locusts.
Back to you, Tom.
6/21/2005
My weekend kind of started on Thursday night when my dad and I went to see Batman Beyond… no, Returns… no, Forever… no, wait, Batman Befuddled. Oh, wait, I remember, Batman Begins (Or, as I like to call it, “Batman Begins Again and Does a Good Job of Apologizing For the Last Few Movies”).
To give credit where credit is due, Tim Burton’s Batman and, to a much smaller degree, Batman Returns were good movies. I can’t say the same for the sequels, “Batman Sucks,” and “Batman Blows,” or, you know, whatever their names were.
Batman Begins was excellent. Christian Bale is a fantastic actor and I think he makes a kick-ass Batman/Bruce Wayne. Christopher Nolan is a good director in my book and, apparently, he is a fan of the realism that makes Batman such a good character. Cillian Murphy was really good as the Scarecrow (I’m inclined to seek out other films he’s been in, besides this and 28 Days Later). Michael Caine, Liam Neeson, Gary Oldman, and Morgan Freeman comprise a great all-star cast. Katie Holmes is hot.
Anyway, Friday was pretty mellow, which is always good after a long day at work.
Saturday was game day as my mom, dad, and I attended our first Fisher Cats game.
For those of you who don’t have your fingers on the pulse of the animal community, a fisher cat is small yet surly member of the weasel family. It looks like a cross between two different animals, like a ferret and a badger were out drinking one night, and things got a little carried away; next thing you know the badger’s all like, “I’m having your baby,” and the ferret’s all like, “It couldn’t be my baby, I’m… um… sterile,” (ferrets will say anything), and the badger’s all like, “Fine, I’ll raise him on my own and teach him the ways of the wild. You just walk away and go make your stupid little movie!” because, you know, the ferret was working on Beastmaster at the time. And thus was born the Fisher Cat. (Technically the “Fisher,” no one really knows where that “Cat” crap came from).
But, despite the complicated name, the Fisher Cats seemed to do pretty well against the Trenton New Jersey… well, I guess they were just “Trenton.” Not the “Trenton Wildcats,” or the “New Jersey Wolverines,” they were just… “Trenton” (like in El Dorado, James Caan was just “Mississippi,”).
The new stadium was nice, and small enough so that very few seats could be considered “Cheap Seats.” Of course, we got great seats behind home base, and we paid only $9 per ticket, so technically speaking, they’re all cheap seats.
For all the niceties of the newly constructed field, the only major drawback was the food. Not only was the food service sloooooow, but the quality of the food was lackluster. I know what you’re thinking, “Hello, Ballpark.” But, even the hot dogs failed to please me. And the chili cheese fries might have been good, had I found more than ten fries forcefully drowned at the bottom of my bowl of chili. It was horrible, like those ten fries had double-crossed the mob and they’d all been sent to sleep with the beans.
Not a bad experience overall though. I’ll give it an 8. I’d give it a 9, but there were virtually no hot chicks in my age range there.
A quick call from “S,” led me to the Hog’s Trough Saloon later that evening. Formerly a biker bar known as “Stepping Out,” (Which I assume referred to “Stepping Outside For A Beating.”), The Hog’s Trough is now actually a decent, all audience, rock club. Although, I still hesitated when ordering my drink, hoping I could order something light without getting my ass kicked.
“S” was there because a friend of a friend played bass in one of the featured bands. The music was good, but suffered from a small-ass venue / big-ass speaker problem. Otherwise, it was pretty good rock. The band with which friend’s friend played was particularly good. What caught me off guard was the name. The band’s name was “37 Seconds Left,” which, the first few times the singer said it, made me think, “Wow, that was a short set.” After the third time I realized he was saying “We are '37 Seconds Left'.” Oh.
Sunday was a mish-mash of various weather patterns that made me hesitant to stain my neighbor’s deck, as I had promised. I made the vow to do it over two months ago, but those of you who live near me know that it’s been raining like a bastard for two months. We’ve had our random sunny days, but when you need one clear weekend day for staining, followed by 48 hours without rain for drying, well, you’re pretty much fucked. And thus, I was fucked. Again. This will be remembered as the year that April winds and May and June showers brought forth flowers sometime in early August (I’ve no hope for July). We should be in full bloom by Halloween.
And so on Sunday I relaxed, I gave dad his father’s day gift (An nVidia 6600 OC AGP computer video card with 256MB of DDRAM, Ooga Ooga! …that may not make any sense to you, but trust me, he loves it), and I sat around reading articles on men’s health and attracting the right woman. (Which reminds me, “GQ” is completely full of shit).
To give credit where credit is due, Tim Burton’s Batman and, to a much smaller degree, Batman Returns were good movies. I can’t say the same for the sequels, “Batman Sucks,” and “Batman Blows,” or, you know, whatever their names were.
Batman Begins was excellent. Christian Bale is a fantastic actor and I think he makes a kick-ass Batman/Bruce Wayne. Christopher Nolan is a good director in my book and, apparently, he is a fan of the realism that makes Batman such a good character. Cillian Murphy was really good as the Scarecrow (I’m inclined to seek out other films he’s been in, besides this and 28 Days Later). Michael Caine, Liam Neeson, Gary Oldman, and Morgan Freeman comprise a great all-star cast. Katie Holmes is hot.
Anyway, Friday was pretty mellow, which is always good after a long day at work.
Saturday was game day as my mom, dad, and I attended our first Fisher Cats game.
For those of you who don’t have your fingers on the pulse of the animal community, a fisher cat is small yet surly member of the weasel family. It looks like a cross between two different animals, like a ferret and a badger were out drinking one night, and things got a little carried away; next thing you know the badger’s all like, “I’m having your baby,” and the ferret’s all like, “It couldn’t be my baby, I’m… um… sterile,” (ferrets will say anything), and the badger’s all like, “Fine, I’ll raise him on my own and teach him the ways of the wild. You just walk away and go make your stupid little movie!” because, you know, the ferret was working on Beastmaster at the time. And thus was born the Fisher Cat. (Technically the “Fisher,” no one really knows where that “Cat” crap came from).
But, despite the complicated name, the Fisher Cats seemed to do pretty well against the Trenton New Jersey… well, I guess they were just “Trenton.” Not the “Trenton Wildcats,” or the “New Jersey Wolverines,” they were just… “Trenton” (like in El Dorado, James Caan was just “Mississippi,”).
The new stadium was nice, and small enough so that very few seats could be considered “Cheap Seats.” Of course, we got great seats behind home base, and we paid only $9 per ticket, so technically speaking, they’re all cheap seats.
For all the niceties of the newly constructed field, the only major drawback was the food. Not only was the food service sloooooow, but the quality of the food was lackluster. I know what you’re thinking, “Hello, Ballpark.” But, even the hot dogs failed to please me. And the chili cheese fries might have been good, had I found more than ten fries forcefully drowned at the bottom of my bowl of chili. It was horrible, like those ten fries had double-crossed the mob and they’d all been sent to sleep with the beans.
Not a bad experience overall though. I’ll give it an 8. I’d give it a 9, but there were virtually no hot chicks in my age range there.
A quick call from “S,” led me to the Hog’s Trough Saloon later that evening. Formerly a biker bar known as “Stepping Out,” (Which I assume referred to “Stepping Outside For A Beating.”), The Hog’s Trough is now actually a decent, all audience, rock club. Although, I still hesitated when ordering my drink, hoping I could order something light without getting my ass kicked.
“S” was there because a friend of a friend played bass in one of the featured bands. The music was good, but suffered from a small-ass venue / big-ass speaker problem. Otherwise, it was pretty good rock. The band with which friend’s friend played was particularly good. What caught me off guard was the name. The band’s name was “37 Seconds Left,” which, the first few times the singer said it, made me think, “Wow, that was a short set.” After the third time I realized he was saying “We are '37 Seconds Left'.” Oh.
Sunday was a mish-mash of various weather patterns that made me hesitant to stain my neighbor’s deck, as I had promised. I made the vow to do it over two months ago, but those of you who live near me know that it’s been raining like a bastard for two months. We’ve had our random sunny days, but when you need one clear weekend day for staining, followed by 48 hours without rain for drying, well, you’re pretty much fucked. And thus, I was fucked. Again. This will be remembered as the year that April winds and May and June showers brought forth flowers sometime in early August (I’ve no hope for July). We should be in full bloom by Halloween.
And so on Sunday I relaxed, I gave dad his father’s day gift (An nVidia 6600 OC AGP computer video card with 256MB of DDRAM, Ooga Ooga! …that may not make any sense to you, but trust me, he loves it), and I sat around reading articles on men’s health and attracting the right woman. (Which reminds me, “GQ” is completely full of shit).
6/13/2005
So Michael Jackson’s innocent. As little as I care, I can’t help but know that because it’s everywhere. It’s on the internet, the TV, and the radio. Co-workers are telling each other and even my mom told me when she got back from work.
I pride myself in generally not giving a shit about celebrity trials. In fact, I usually go out of my way to not read the articles, not watch the TV specials, and not listen to the gossip around the cooler. Even if there's some chance I might care about the verdict (like if some hot young starlet is on trial and, if found guilty, her punishment would be to date me), I know that the trial itself will be long, drawn out, heavily examined, dissected, reenacted, and over publicized, turning it into a media circus where the main attractions are watching paint dry and a side show game called, "Make A Mockery of American Justice." And the end result is always the same. The jury emerges from their seemingly endless deliberations, and announces the verdict that, without fail, shocks and baffles people all across the globe. Nine times out of ten, that verdict is “Innocent.”
To Michael Jackson’s credit, it’s not really his fault he’s screwed up. He has been pushed to the limits of sanity from birth. His parents ruined him, but the world loved him. He grew up being beaten and manipulated, and we gave him a crown and the world’s biggest paycheck. Is the end result really that surprising?
My opinion of him changed today. While some of the world breathed a sigh of relief, and some of the world screamed for a retrial or a hanging, I stopped hating him as much as I had before. My hate had been replaced by pity. I pity him because, had he been found guilty, he might have gotten some help. Regardless of whether or not he crossed the line, his actions are not that of a healthy, sane man. He might have been brought down to earth by a prison stay or time in an institution with a good shrink. But now he’s going back home, same as always, nothing has changed. I pity him because the best thing in the world he can do right now is disappear from the public eye for a while, and I know he’s not capable of that. I believe that in his mind he could never conceive of not being the center of attention.
So he’ll go on making a spectacle of himself. He’ll get in and out of trouble again and again. He’ll be an idol for some and a whipping boy for others.
What does all this mean to me? Nothing. Like I said, I don’t give a shit.
I pride myself in generally not giving a shit about celebrity trials. In fact, I usually go out of my way to not read the articles, not watch the TV specials, and not listen to the gossip around the cooler. Even if there's some chance I might care about the verdict (like if some hot young starlet is on trial and, if found guilty, her punishment would be to date me), I know that the trial itself will be long, drawn out, heavily examined, dissected, reenacted, and over publicized, turning it into a media circus where the main attractions are watching paint dry and a side show game called, "Make A Mockery of American Justice." And the end result is always the same. The jury emerges from their seemingly endless deliberations, and announces the verdict that, without fail, shocks and baffles people all across the globe. Nine times out of ten, that verdict is “Innocent.”
To Michael Jackson’s credit, it’s not really his fault he’s screwed up. He has been pushed to the limits of sanity from birth. His parents ruined him, but the world loved him. He grew up being beaten and manipulated, and we gave him a crown and the world’s biggest paycheck. Is the end result really that surprising?
My opinion of him changed today. While some of the world breathed a sigh of relief, and some of the world screamed for a retrial or a hanging, I stopped hating him as much as I had before. My hate had been replaced by pity. I pity him because, had he been found guilty, he might have gotten some help. Regardless of whether or not he crossed the line, his actions are not that of a healthy, sane man. He might have been brought down to earth by a prison stay or time in an institution with a good shrink. But now he’s going back home, same as always, nothing has changed. I pity him because the best thing in the world he can do right now is disappear from the public eye for a while, and I know he’s not capable of that. I believe that in his mind he could never conceive of not being the center of attention.
So he’ll go on making a spectacle of himself. He’ll get in and out of trouble again and again. He’ll be an idol for some and a whipping boy for others.
What does all this mean to me? Nothing. Like I said, I don’t give a shit.
6/11/2005
It seems as though the last few times I've gone to see the dentist, they've made some ridiculous recommendation about how I could improve my dental health.
For the record, my dental health is fine. I go for my regular checkups and I brush, rinse, and sometimes even floss (note to self, need to floss more) every morning and night.
This time I had a minor cavity, which has been a rarity since I was 12. The cavity was so minor, I was given the option to make an appointment to have it drilled, or see where it goes and worry about it at my next cleaning. Though convenient, the danger of waiting meant that the cavity, though small, might go deeper, impacting the nerve. I was faced with the choice of being punched in the face now, or kicked in the balls later. I opted for the punch in the face.
It's on my annual checkup/cleanings that they suggest changing certain things in my life to benefit my teeth. We're not talking about little things either. Example: Last year, I was told I shouldn't ever drink soda. No soda. Ever. Like I'm not a big enough wuss when it comes to alcohol, now they want me to ask the host of the party if they have any sugar free juice or sports drinks. I said, "Fuck that!" Well, not to the dentist. I said it long after I got home.
Last week they discovered some wear and tear on my teeth attributed to minor grinding or clenching I was probably doing in my sleep. Their recommendation? Don't sleep on your side at all. Not on your side. Ever. Sure, I'll just strap myself down to the mattress so I don't unconsciously do something abnormal, like roll over. I said, "Fuck that!" Again, not to the dentist.
The only other option was to get a night guard to put in my mouth at night... to guard my teeth. The dentist showed me an example of a custom fitted night guard; a small piece of plastic, remarkably similar to the retainer I had just finished wearing. Though as much as I disliked the retainer, and have enough nightly rituals to worry about, if it would save my teeth and alleviate my phantom jaw pain, then I would do it. Then they told me the price. $300. Three hundred dollars. DOLLARS! I said, "Fuck that!" This time to the dentist (well, under my breath, with my mouth closed).
I went home that night and did some research. Generic night guards were available at the drug store for $25. This was much more acceptable. I picked one up yesterday, a "boil-and-bite" mouth guard that you heat up then mold to your teeth, much like the one I would wear in Tae Kwon Do so I didn't get my teeth kicked out of my head.
I can tell it's going to take a while to get used to it. Putting it in my mouth is like biting down on a balled up sock. I've trimmed it a little to cut down on the size, but it's still uncomfortable. The instructions say I don't heave to wear it every night, and it might eventually "train" my mouth not to grind, so I'm going to keep at it as long as it takes to get used to it. The only other option is $300 dollars worth of custom fitting, and well, Fuck That.
For the record, my dental health is fine. I go for my regular checkups and I brush, rinse, and sometimes even floss (note to self, need to floss more) every morning and night.
This time I had a minor cavity, which has been a rarity since I was 12. The cavity was so minor, I was given the option to make an appointment to have it drilled, or see where it goes and worry about it at my next cleaning. Though convenient, the danger of waiting meant that the cavity, though small, might go deeper, impacting the nerve. I was faced with the choice of being punched in the face now, or kicked in the balls later. I opted for the punch in the face.
It's on my annual checkup/cleanings that they suggest changing certain things in my life to benefit my teeth. We're not talking about little things either. Example: Last year, I was told I shouldn't ever drink soda. No soda. Ever. Like I'm not a big enough wuss when it comes to alcohol, now they want me to ask the host of the party if they have any sugar free juice or sports drinks. I said, "Fuck that!" Well, not to the dentist. I said it long after I got home.
Last week they discovered some wear and tear on my teeth attributed to minor grinding or clenching I was probably doing in my sleep. Their recommendation? Don't sleep on your side at all. Not on your side. Ever. Sure, I'll just strap myself down to the mattress so I don't unconsciously do something abnormal, like roll over. I said, "Fuck that!" Again, not to the dentist.
The only other option was to get a night guard to put in my mouth at night... to guard my teeth. The dentist showed me an example of a custom fitted night guard; a small piece of plastic, remarkably similar to the retainer I had just finished wearing. Though as much as I disliked the retainer, and have enough nightly rituals to worry about, if it would save my teeth and alleviate my phantom jaw pain, then I would do it. Then they told me the price. $300. Three hundred dollars. DOLLARS! I said, "Fuck that!" This time to the dentist (well, under my breath, with my mouth closed).
I went home that night and did some research. Generic night guards were available at the drug store for $25. This was much more acceptable. I picked one up yesterday, a "boil-and-bite" mouth guard that you heat up then mold to your teeth, much like the one I would wear in Tae Kwon Do so I didn't get my teeth kicked out of my head.
I can tell it's going to take a while to get used to it. Putting it in my mouth is like biting down on a balled up sock. I've trimmed it a little to cut down on the size, but it's still uncomfortable. The instructions say I don't heave to wear it every night, and it might eventually "train" my mouth not to grind, so I'm going to keep at it as long as it takes to get used to it. The only other option is $300 dollars worth of custom fitting, and well, Fuck That.
6/02/2005
I've come to face the fact that I have an addiction.
I'm addicted to not going to the gym.
Granted, this is infinitely less harmful than most addictions, it's still a pretty serious problem. Any delusions I had about being energetic and physically fit have washed away as, time after time, I find reasons not to go to the gym.
For weeks I'd been fooling myself. "Hey!" I'd say, "I can stop not going to the gym whenever I want! I don't 'need' to not go to the gym."
But as the weeks went on, I invented lame excuses like, "I've got bad gas today," or "I just forgot... that my gym bag was sitting in the car seat next to me."
The gym bag itself became a kind of string around my finger. Every time I saw it, I thought, "Oh yea, Scrubs is on tonight!"
Even when I manage to go to the gym, all I can think about is being at home doing something else. At its worst, the feeling leaves me angry and sad, curled up on the ab bench, mumbling things like, "Daddy needs his medicine!"
It would seem, even after months of regular three-day-a-week gym attendance when I first joined, that I don't feel the same about exercise as everyone else. I've never tapped into that feeling of accomplishment or that "Runner's High." It's as if there was a terrible endorphin accident in my body that left no survivors. All that's left are the chemicals that make me crave chocolate and television.
But my resolve, what little there is, has not failed. I will not quit the gym and I will not stop bringing my gym bag to work two to three days a week. I will keep telling myself to go, and I will keep feeling guilty if I don't. I won't give up, for the sake of my personal betterment...or for the cute girls in short shorts on the cardio trainer.
I'm addicted to not going to the gym.
Granted, this is infinitely less harmful than most addictions, it's still a pretty serious problem. Any delusions I had about being energetic and physically fit have washed away as, time after time, I find reasons not to go to the gym.
For weeks I'd been fooling myself. "Hey!" I'd say, "I can stop not going to the gym whenever I want! I don't 'need' to not go to the gym."
But as the weeks went on, I invented lame excuses like, "I've got bad gas today," or "I just forgot... that my gym bag was sitting in the car seat next to me."
The gym bag itself became a kind of string around my finger. Every time I saw it, I thought, "Oh yea, Scrubs is on tonight!"
Even when I manage to go to the gym, all I can think about is being at home doing something else. At its worst, the feeling leaves me angry and sad, curled up on the ab bench, mumbling things like, "Daddy needs his medicine!"
It would seem, even after months of regular three-day-a-week gym attendance when I first joined, that I don't feel the same about exercise as everyone else. I've never tapped into that feeling of accomplishment or that "Runner's High." It's as if there was a terrible endorphin accident in my body that left no survivors. All that's left are the chemicals that make me crave chocolate and television.
But my resolve, what little there is, has not failed. I will not quit the gym and I will not stop bringing my gym bag to work two to three days a week. I will keep telling myself to go, and I will keep feeling guilty if I don't. I won't give up, for the sake of my personal betterment...or for the cute girls in short shorts on the cardio trainer.
5/29/2005
I finally saw Episode III, so you can all stop hounding me. The Star Wars law states that I could have gone another week without seeing it and I wouldn't be arrested, so relax.
Overall? Good, a pleasant, even definitive movie-going experience. I had my usual Star Wars-related nitpicks, the kind that I've had since seeing Episode I. Great action, but the dialog was written by soap-opera addicted chimps. I think this has always been the case with the Star Wars movies, but it is painfully obvious in the prequels because Lucas is trying to emulate this Victorian stiffness that, in the end, translates to bad acting. That's my theory anyway.
Nonetheless, it was easily the most enjoyable of the three, although it did not make up for the sins of the past (Jar Jar, Midiclorians).
I'm left to wonder what technology will come up in the next few decades that will allow George Lucas to further alter, and otherwise mess with, the movies he's just made.
STAR WARS! Episode 1 through 3, un-mastered from the digital source so as to be re-mastered to different quality digital format and re-re-mastered to optimum Dolby 12.6 internal sound. Now in SMELL-O-VISION!
Overall? Good, a pleasant, even definitive movie-going experience. I had my usual Star Wars-related nitpicks, the kind that I've had since seeing Episode I. Great action, but the dialog was written by soap-opera addicted chimps. I think this has always been the case with the Star Wars movies, but it is painfully obvious in the prequels because Lucas is trying to emulate this Victorian stiffness that, in the end, translates to bad acting. That's my theory anyway.
Nonetheless, it was easily the most enjoyable of the three, although it did not make up for the sins of the past (Jar Jar, Midiclorians).
I'm left to wonder what technology will come up in the next few decades that will allow George Lucas to further alter, and otherwise mess with, the movies he's just made.
STAR WARS! Episode 1 through 3, un-mastered from the digital source so as to be re-mastered to different quality digital format and re-re-mastered to optimum Dolby 12.6 internal sound. Now in SMELL-O-VISION!
5/16/2005
I am a regular reader of “The Onion.” I hope most of you are too. If you haven’t read it, or if you haven’t read it recently, I suggest you click that link to your right and check in on it. These people are putting out the funniest content on the internet today.
I mention it today because I was reading my favorite section, the horoscopes, and I came across one of the best yet:
Sagittarius:
"You believed being stranded on that desert island put an end to your run of lousy luck, but the natives will soon become strangely inspired and fashion a crude bus to hit you with."
How do they come up with this stuff? After all these years of publication, how do they keep producing gems like this?
My role models, ladies and gentlemen.
I mention it today because I was reading my favorite section, the horoscopes, and I came across one of the best yet:
Sagittarius:
"You believed being stranded on that desert island put an end to your run of lousy luck, but the natives will soon become strangely inspired and fashion a crude bus to hit you with."
How do they come up with this stuff? After all these years of publication, how do they keep producing gems like this?
My role models, ladies and gentlemen.
5/15/2005
I apologize for the dry spell between posts. I’ve been preoccupied with this kind of “Spring Cleaning” mood. During the last week, in whatever after-work time that I actually feel productive, I’ve been going through the clutter in my room, getting rid of what I don’t want, rediscovering the joy of forgotten possessions, and often finding things that are, in one way or another, grossly overdue.
Also in the news this week, my parents went away to Niagara Falls for a few days.
When the parents are away, a child, of any age, is usually prone to taking certain liberties. Those liberties stereotypically involve beer and excessively loud music. Since I like neither of these things, I’d taken the liberty of walking around the house in my underwear, whenever the opportunity presented itself.
I found the experience somewhat freeing. It reminded me of my independent, though financially castrated days in my first apartment, when I could walk anywhere wearing whatever I wanted; towel, underwear, clown pants.
Well, the magic kind of being semi-nude at home died out on Tuesday after I walked down stairs, clad in my well-traveled briefs, and threw aside the curtains of the sliding glass door to have a quick look at the weather outside. I found myself nearly face to face with the ChemLawn man who was treating our yard that morning. It was from across the deck, but he saw me. He saw me so clearly, it would have been rude not to wave hello, which I did, before closing the blinds and scrambling back upstairs into the reassuring comfort of my pants.
Aside from the accidental yet intimate encounter with the ChemLawn guy, my week has been pretty routine. I only found further humor in the random things I think about when I’m driving to or from work. Random things like:
*
Have you ever noticed that “accidentally released,” sex tapes are always from the celebrities you would expect them from? Think about it. Paris Hilton? Big shock, an attention whore “loses track” of a very “personal video.” “Right.” Chyna? Well, what can I say, Animal Planet does offer $100 and a free t-shirt for videos like that. Pamela Anderson? C’mon. Her whole life is a sex tape!
*
I think there comes a point when you should stop going to the gym.
Do you find yourself bench pressing more weights than they have at any one station? Are you asking the guy at the leg press if you can borrow his “50?” Take a break.
Do you need more than one person to spot you? Get up and go home.
Are your waist size and neck size within three inches of each other? Sit down, eat some Ho Ho’s.
*
I have discovered that I, as a normal man, can only eat so much quiche. I find that very few foods let you know you’ve eaten too much WHILE you’re eating them. Most of the time, you finish a meal and say, “Wow, I had waaay too much.” Quiche, on the other hand, let’s you know about halfway through your second small slice. There just comes a point, mid-forkful, that you say, “Ohhh, no more quiche for a month.”
*
If you’re going to design a washing machine that doesn’t have a “Normal,” “Medium,” or “Just always use this,” setting, expect complaints.
*
I am a member of an online personals site. So as not to incriminate myself, I won’t tell you the service’s name (let’s just say it’s a synonym for “Weeeee!”).
Anyway, I’m browsing the ads, as I occasionally do every once in an hour, and I notice something strange. Upon entering certain search criteria (“Female,” “Non-Smoker,” “Outgoing,” “Not Anna Nichole Smith,”) I came across three profiles that looked equally appealing. That’s when I realized they were all the same, to the letter, even the “About me,” paragraph; yet the girls pictured in each profile were all different.
During my time on this service, I’ve gotten many of responses to my personal ad. Unfortunately, they were all ads for porn. I know this because they were all the same, the response says something like, “I saw that you responded to my personal, you seem very sweet, I’d love to talk to you. Please don’t respond to this e-mail address, I’ve put my contact info on this page //LINK// .” Only to click on the link and: “PORN PORN, Undersexed Grannies Want Your Cock!”
It’s a travesty; porn sellers preying on innocent lonely men. It’s like a Lifetime movie of the week, only, they would have to show it on Spike TV.
So anyway, I decide to send a letter to the supervisor of the site saying, “Hey, I could be wrong, but these profiles are identical, but have different pictures. Something in my gut tells me, “Porn.”
I got a quaint, impersonal, automated reply, thanking me for submitting my concern.
A week later I got the usual, “Your matches this week!” e-mail from the service. All three of the previously identical profiles were at the top of my list. The personal information on all three was still completely identical. The photos of all three had not changed. The “About me” paragraph on all three were now different.
“Right.”
Also in the news this week, my parents went away to Niagara Falls for a few days.
When the parents are away, a child, of any age, is usually prone to taking certain liberties. Those liberties stereotypically involve beer and excessively loud music. Since I like neither of these things, I’d taken the liberty of walking around the house in my underwear, whenever the opportunity presented itself.
I found the experience somewhat freeing. It reminded me of my independent, though financially castrated days in my first apartment, when I could walk anywhere wearing whatever I wanted; towel, underwear, clown pants.
Well, the magic kind of being semi-nude at home died out on Tuesday after I walked down stairs, clad in my well-traveled briefs, and threw aside the curtains of the sliding glass door to have a quick look at the weather outside. I found myself nearly face to face with the ChemLawn man who was treating our yard that morning. It was from across the deck, but he saw me. He saw me so clearly, it would have been rude not to wave hello, which I did, before closing the blinds and scrambling back upstairs into the reassuring comfort of my pants.
Aside from the accidental yet intimate encounter with the ChemLawn guy, my week has been pretty routine. I only found further humor in the random things I think about when I’m driving to or from work. Random things like:
*
Have you ever noticed that “accidentally released,” sex tapes are always from the celebrities you would expect them from? Think about it. Paris Hilton? Big shock, an attention whore “loses track” of a very “personal video.” “Right.” Chyna? Well, what can I say, Animal Planet does offer $100 and a free t-shirt for videos like that. Pamela Anderson? C’mon. Her whole life is a sex tape!
*
I think there comes a point when you should stop going to the gym.
Do you find yourself bench pressing more weights than they have at any one station? Are you asking the guy at the leg press if you can borrow his “50?” Take a break.
Do you need more than one person to spot you? Get up and go home.
Are your waist size and neck size within three inches of each other? Sit down, eat some Ho Ho’s.
*
I have discovered that I, as a normal man, can only eat so much quiche. I find that very few foods let you know you’ve eaten too much WHILE you’re eating them. Most of the time, you finish a meal and say, “Wow, I had waaay too much.” Quiche, on the other hand, let’s you know about halfway through your second small slice. There just comes a point, mid-forkful, that you say, “Ohhh, no more quiche for a month.”
*
If you’re going to design a washing machine that doesn’t have a “Normal,” “Medium,” or “Just always use this,” setting, expect complaints.
*
I am a member of an online personals site. So as not to incriminate myself, I won’t tell you the service’s name (let’s just say it’s a synonym for “Weeeee!”).
Anyway, I’m browsing the ads, as I occasionally do every once in an hour, and I notice something strange. Upon entering certain search criteria (“Female,” “Non-Smoker,” “Outgoing,” “Not Anna Nichole Smith,”) I came across three profiles that looked equally appealing. That’s when I realized they were all the same, to the letter, even the “About me,” paragraph; yet the girls pictured in each profile were all different.
During my time on this service, I’ve gotten many of responses to my personal ad. Unfortunately, they were all ads for porn. I know this because they were all the same, the response says something like, “I saw that you responded to my personal, you seem very sweet, I’d love to talk to you. Please don’t respond to this e-mail address, I’ve put my contact info on this page //LINK// .” Only to click on the link and: “PORN PORN, Undersexed Grannies Want Your Cock!”
It’s a travesty; porn sellers preying on innocent lonely men. It’s like a Lifetime movie of the week, only, they would have to show it on Spike TV.
So anyway, I decide to send a letter to the supervisor of the site saying, “Hey, I could be wrong, but these profiles are identical, but have different pictures. Something in my gut tells me, “Porn.”
I got a quaint, impersonal, automated reply, thanking me for submitting my concern.
A week later I got the usual, “Your matches this week!” e-mail from the service. All three of the previously identical profiles were at the top of my list. The personal information on all three was still completely identical. The photos of all three had not changed. The “About me” paragraph on all three were now different.
“Right.”
5/03/2005
The following are excerpts I took from a REAL newspaper article in the Union Leader today:
School locked down in recipe for disaster
Clovis, N.M.
A 911 call about a possible weapon at a middle school prompted police to put armed officers on rooftops, close nearby streets and lock down the school.
Someone called authorities Thursday after seeing a boy carrying something long and wrapped up into Marshall Junior High School.
The drama ended two hours later when the suspicious item was identified as a 30-inch burrito filled with steak, guacamole, lettuce, salsa and jalapenos. It was wrapped inside tin foil and a white T-shirt.
Principal Diana Russell said the mystery was solved after she brought everyone in the school together in the auditorium to explain what was going on. Afterward, eighth-grader Michael Morrissey approached her and said, “I think I’m the person they saw,”
The burrito was part of Morrissey’s extra-credit assignment to create commercial advertising for a product. “We had to make up a product, and it could have been anything. I made up a restaurant that specialized in oddly large burritos,” Morrissey said.
“I have a new nickname now. It’s Burrito Boy,” Morrisey said.
*****
I mean, holy shit. No one’s taking any chances these days, are they? In case you haven’t realized it, this is the world we live in now.
I suppose that we have all the reason in the world to be paranoid, and it is always better to be safe than to be sorry; these people are responsible for the wellbeing of their students. But, it’s incidents like this that tend to make a person think, “Are we being a little too quick to call in the S.W.A.T. team?”
I found the story funny, not because of all the commotion caused for nothing, but all the little things, the things they didn’t mention in the article, the things I like to imagine happening.
Like, when the eighth grader pulled out the burrito to show everyone, did they yell, “GOD HELP US!!!” and dive behind their desks?
What went through the principal’s head when she first realized that she would have to tell the armed officers, “False alarm, it’s just a gigantic burrito!”
Was the student arrested for possession of a weapon of “gas” destruction? (sorry)
What ultimately happened to the burrito? Was it consumed, or booked as evidence? Was it preserved and put on display as a cautionary tale about how we shouldn't jump to conclusions, or as a reminder about how bat-shit loco we, as a nation, have gone?
When will we take action in our communities and pass a law requiring our schools to install burrito sensors next to the metal detectors?
Is the student the least bit bitter about being labeled by the school, nay, the entire nation, as “Burrito Boy,” for an incident that was entirely not his fault? Is there a chance he could salvage his reputation by spinning the name into something cooler, like “El Gigante!” (A big hit with the ladies.)
Why wasn’t there any cheese in this burrito?
Wouldn’t it be even funnier and more ironic if it was later revealed that the burrito was stuffed with drugs?
Feel free to add your own musings about what may have happened behind the scenes of this incident. I know I'll get a laugh out of it.
School locked down in recipe for disaster
Clovis, N.M.
A 911 call about a possible weapon at a middle school prompted police to put armed officers on rooftops, close nearby streets and lock down the school.
Someone called authorities Thursday after seeing a boy carrying something long and wrapped up into Marshall Junior High School.
The drama ended two hours later when the suspicious item was identified as a 30-inch burrito filled with steak, guacamole, lettuce, salsa and jalapenos. It was wrapped inside tin foil and a white T-shirt.
Principal Diana Russell said the mystery was solved after she brought everyone in the school together in the auditorium to explain what was going on. Afterward, eighth-grader Michael Morrissey approached her and said, “I think I’m the person they saw,”
The burrito was part of Morrissey’s extra-credit assignment to create commercial advertising for a product. “We had to make up a product, and it could have been anything. I made up a restaurant that specialized in oddly large burritos,” Morrissey said.
“I have a new nickname now. It’s Burrito Boy,” Morrisey said.
*****
I mean, holy shit. No one’s taking any chances these days, are they? In case you haven’t realized it, this is the world we live in now.
I suppose that we have all the reason in the world to be paranoid, and it is always better to be safe than to be sorry; these people are responsible for the wellbeing of their students. But, it’s incidents like this that tend to make a person think, “Are we being a little too quick to call in the S.W.A.T. team?”
I found the story funny, not because of all the commotion caused for nothing, but all the little things, the things they didn’t mention in the article, the things I like to imagine happening.
Like, when the eighth grader pulled out the burrito to show everyone, did they yell, “GOD HELP US!!!” and dive behind their desks?
What went through the principal’s head when she first realized that she would have to tell the armed officers, “False alarm, it’s just a gigantic burrito!”
Was the student arrested for possession of a weapon of “gas” destruction? (sorry)
What ultimately happened to the burrito? Was it consumed, or booked as evidence? Was it preserved and put on display as a cautionary tale about how we shouldn't jump to conclusions, or as a reminder about how bat-shit loco we, as a nation, have gone?
When will we take action in our communities and pass a law requiring our schools to install burrito sensors next to the metal detectors?
Is the student the least bit bitter about being labeled by the school, nay, the entire nation, as “Burrito Boy,” for an incident that was entirely not his fault? Is there a chance he could salvage his reputation by spinning the name into something cooler, like “El Gigante!” (A big hit with the ladies.)
Why wasn’t there any cheese in this burrito?
Wouldn’t it be even funnier and more ironic if it was later revealed that the burrito was stuffed with drugs?
Feel free to add your own musings about what may have happened behind the scenes of this incident. I know I'll get a laugh out of it.
4/26/2005
I’ve been thinking about my school days ever since I had that weird dream (let’s call it a nightmare) about the nudist colony.
Mostly I think about the things I should have said or done that I didn’t say or do.
That’s an awful thing; obsessing over the past like that. It can ruin a person, worrying about the things you can’t ever change. We cannot re-record or erase what has happened; we can only learn to live with it, learn from it, and use it to make us better people. That’s my theory anyway. I could be a complete crackpot.
But still, when my mind wanders, I’ve been thinking about classes I wish I’d paid more attention in. Things I wish I’d said to those girls I’d had crushes on. People that needed a solid punch in the face. That comes up a lot. I wish I’d stood up for myself more often. For every time someone made fun of me or called me names, I’ve come up with a great comeback; but usually long afterwards, sometimes years (Just yesterday, I came up with the world’s greatest retort to a name someone called me in 6th grade. I really want to use it. I’m thinking of looking that guy up and giving him a call).
In the absence of a quick response, I kind of wish I just kicked a few people in the balls. But, I’m not that kind of person, never was.
I think people are hard-wired to see the bad in things, at first anyway. I think that’s why, when I started thinking about school again, I focused only on my regrets. I’ve begun to think more about the things that went right and the things I accomplished. In retrospect, I think they outweigh my regrets by a HUGE margin. The fact of the matter is that I’m here today; I haven’t resorted to a life of crime, I have my friends (that’s you), and I like to think of myself as a very open-minded person.
I think that’s a good outcome, especially considering that time I got nailed in the nuts by a kickball.
P.S. - Kate, please read my last comment on the post below.
Mostly I think about the things I should have said or done that I didn’t say or do.
That’s an awful thing; obsessing over the past like that. It can ruin a person, worrying about the things you can’t ever change. We cannot re-record or erase what has happened; we can only learn to live with it, learn from it, and use it to make us better people. That’s my theory anyway. I could be a complete crackpot.
But still, when my mind wanders, I’ve been thinking about classes I wish I’d paid more attention in. Things I wish I’d said to those girls I’d had crushes on. People that needed a solid punch in the face. That comes up a lot. I wish I’d stood up for myself more often. For every time someone made fun of me or called me names, I’ve come up with a great comeback; but usually long afterwards, sometimes years (Just yesterday, I came up with the world’s greatest retort to a name someone called me in 6th grade. I really want to use it. I’m thinking of looking that guy up and giving him a call).
In the absence of a quick response, I kind of wish I just kicked a few people in the balls. But, I’m not that kind of person, never was.
I think people are hard-wired to see the bad in things, at first anyway. I think that’s why, when I started thinking about school again, I focused only on my regrets. I’ve begun to think more about the things that went right and the things I accomplished. In retrospect, I think they outweigh my regrets by a HUGE margin. The fact of the matter is that I’m here today; I haven’t resorted to a life of crime, I have my friends (that’s you), and I like to think of myself as a very open-minded person.
I think that’s a good outcome, especially considering that time I got nailed in the nuts by a kickball.
P.S. - Kate, please read my last comment on the post below.
4/21/2005
Things have been pretty good as a status quo. I have a few rants. These are just the things I think about during the week:
A lifetime ago I applied for a job at Home Depot, but was rejected because I failed the entry exam. I guess that’s what I get for giving my honest opinion and responding with a “No,” to the question, “Do you enjoy when customers and co-workers kick you in the balls?” Now, when I go to Home Depot, I can’t imagine how any of the people working there managed to pass that test. Frankly, they’re all idiots. I won’t generalize though, I’m sure there are plenty of good people working for Home Depot, I just haven’t met any (except Greg, ex-employee). I usually get the assholes.
My car has a thermostat that tells me the outside temperature. However, the reading is skewed by the metal that surrounds it and the temperature of the engine. So basically, it only gives you a vague idea of the temperature; the kind of vague idea of temperature you’d get from, say, walking from your house to your car.
Our new refrigerator dispenses lukewarm water. You’d think that water coming from a fridge would be colder. The water is warmer than bottles of water in the fridge. What the hell kind of design flaw is that? They have a cooling unit that dispenses water that isn’t cooled.
When disposing of our old fridge, we forgot to clean out the bottom drawer. Now we have no cold cuts or cheese.
Someone at work bought a new car that looks remarkably similar to mine. I didn’t notice it until I was standing in front of it mashing the “unlock” button on my keychain wondering why it wasn’t working. My car was actually parked behind me. It wouldn’t have been so bad, but my car is a Toyota. The car I confused with mine was a Honda.
The other night I had a dream that I was hanging out with everyone I ever went to school with. We were all at a nudist colony, but for some reason I was the only one doing anything in the nude. What the hell does that mean?
Kung Fu Hustle was quite good. Much better than Shaolin Soccer, which ended up being like a sub-par Disney comedy featuring a sports team that (instead of having, like, a dog or a monkey on the team) had kung fu masters. Anyway, Kung Fu Hustle was riotous, enjoyable, violent (sometimes brutally so), and generally a good time. I think in order to really enjoy it though, you have to be willing to laugh at everything, there’s a lot of subtle humor in it that you have to embrace right away.
A lifetime ago I applied for a job at Home Depot, but was rejected because I failed the entry exam. I guess that’s what I get for giving my honest opinion and responding with a “No,” to the question, “Do you enjoy when customers and co-workers kick you in the balls?” Now, when I go to Home Depot, I can’t imagine how any of the people working there managed to pass that test. Frankly, they’re all idiots. I won’t generalize though, I’m sure there are plenty of good people working for Home Depot, I just haven’t met any (except Greg, ex-employee). I usually get the assholes.
My car has a thermostat that tells me the outside temperature. However, the reading is skewed by the metal that surrounds it and the temperature of the engine. So basically, it only gives you a vague idea of the temperature; the kind of vague idea of temperature you’d get from, say, walking from your house to your car.
Our new refrigerator dispenses lukewarm water. You’d think that water coming from a fridge would be colder. The water is warmer than bottles of water in the fridge. What the hell kind of design flaw is that? They have a cooling unit that dispenses water that isn’t cooled.
When disposing of our old fridge, we forgot to clean out the bottom drawer. Now we have no cold cuts or cheese.
Someone at work bought a new car that looks remarkably similar to mine. I didn’t notice it until I was standing in front of it mashing the “unlock” button on my keychain wondering why it wasn’t working. My car was actually parked behind me. It wouldn’t have been so bad, but my car is a Toyota. The car I confused with mine was a Honda.
The other night I had a dream that I was hanging out with everyone I ever went to school with. We were all at a nudist colony, but for some reason I was the only one doing anything in the nude. What the hell does that mean?
Kung Fu Hustle was quite good. Much better than Shaolin Soccer, which ended up being like a sub-par Disney comedy featuring a sports team that (instead of having, like, a dog or a monkey on the team) had kung fu masters. Anyway, Kung Fu Hustle was riotous, enjoyable, violent (sometimes brutally so), and generally a good time. I think in order to really enjoy it though, you have to be willing to laugh at everything, there’s a lot of subtle humor in it that you have to embrace right away.
4/14/2005
I think there’s a higher power keeping me from going to the gym. Well, that’s not really true, I’m just a lazy ass. Although, the deciding factor this evening was diarrhea, which, when you have Irritable Bowel Syndrome, a lot like an act of God (especially at first, when you’re walking along (or, in my case, driving) minding your own business, then suddenly you have a religious experience, “HOLY SHIT LORD ALMIGHTY GREAT BALLS OF FIRE!!!” and start looking for the nearest gas station). Unfortunately, the last two nights were just pure unbridled lethargy.
What kept me from going Tuesday? A haircut. I’m one of those short-haired guys who likes to keep his coiffure neat. Not to say I’m obsessive, but when I notice that my hair is becoming unruly, I begin a quest to get a haircut. Why did I notice this on Tuesday and not Monday? I don’t have an easy answer. If you didn’t know of all the circumstances and events, you might say I was just looking for an excuse to not go to the gym… In fact, if you knew all the circumstances and events, you’d still say I was looking for excuses to not go to the gym. Who knows?
By not going Tuesday, I made a vow to go Wednesday. Well, Wednesday rolled around and I was ready. I had my gym bag in the car and everything (well, it was still there from yesterday). But, for some reason, at exactly 4:12p.m., I began feeling tired and worn out beyond belief. It hadn’t been a stressful day or anything, I was just bushed. I don’t know why (::cough:: doesn’t exercise ::cough::). I barely made it home before falling into a television induced coma before dinner. It was weird.
What happened to my resolve? Not two months ago I was at the gym religiously. Granted, two months ago I didn’t have a job, and before that, I worked at a place that was closer to the gym than my house. But still, I want to be a better person, so I still want to go to the gym at least three days per week. Except this week because, well, there’s only two days left in the week.
What kept me from going Tuesday? A haircut. I’m one of those short-haired guys who likes to keep his coiffure neat. Not to say I’m obsessive, but when I notice that my hair is becoming unruly, I begin a quest to get a haircut. Why did I notice this on Tuesday and not Monday? I don’t have an easy answer. If you didn’t know of all the circumstances and events, you might say I was just looking for an excuse to not go to the gym… In fact, if you knew all the circumstances and events, you’d still say I was looking for excuses to not go to the gym. Who knows?
By not going Tuesday, I made a vow to go Wednesday. Well, Wednesday rolled around and I was ready. I had my gym bag in the car and everything (well, it was still there from yesterday). But, for some reason, at exactly 4:12p.m., I began feeling tired and worn out beyond belief. It hadn’t been a stressful day or anything, I was just bushed. I don’t know why (::cough:: doesn’t exercise ::cough::). I barely made it home before falling into a television induced coma before dinner. It was weird.
What happened to my resolve? Not two months ago I was at the gym religiously. Granted, two months ago I didn’t have a job, and before that, I worked at a place that was closer to the gym than my house. But still, I want to be a better person, so I still want to go to the gym at least three days per week. Except this week because, well, there’s only two days left in the week.
4/10/2005
Yesterday was a pleasant multimedia kind of day. I saw a good movie, picked up some good music, I’m pleased overall.
First off, a special thanks to the beautiful Stephanie, who guided me by phone to Davis Square from a place that was… um… not Davis Square. Her original directions, which I had written down, were simple enough, but I, inevitably, missed the proper exit, so I was forced to use the Mapquest directions that I was carrying as backup. Where as her directions where a simple left, right, and left, the Mapquest directions formed a series of lines that, when viewed from a distance, looked like a hand giving you the finger. Somewhere around the second knuckle, I took a wrong turn. To my credit, nothing seemed to be labeled properly. Anyway, I ended up somewhere that I can only describe as, “Probably North of Boston.” It looked like a lawless town, ruled by bitter law men and brothel owners, in a time before the laws of the New America would take over.
The movie we saw was Sideways. Quite a good film. Lots of subtle humor as well as balls-out laughs. As far as the two main leads go, Paul Giamatti delivers a brilliant performance as usual and Thomas Haden Church sort of breaks out of the usual disposable performances I had associated with him, although just barely. Frankly, I would love to see him in a strictly dramatic role, just to see how that goes.
The music I picked up afterwards were Nick Drake and Jack Johnson. I had discovered Nick Drake on the Garden State soundtrack (“One of These Things First”) and was entranced by his classical mellow style. Plus, because he was big in the 60s British folk-rock era, so now I feel like a more cultured music listener. Stephanie recommended Jack Johnson, which I was surprised to discover, had a lot in common, stylistically, with Nick Drake, though it would be very easy to say that Jack Johnson was more upbeat. I dug it, and I’m liking it more and more with each listen.
I feel more grown up sophisticated today having, in one evening, seen an award winning independent film, and purchasing classy music ranging from 60’s folk-rock to modern mellow.
To offset that feeling, I paid 8 bucks for an Chinese DVD about a secret agent that kicks everyone’s ass with crazy kung fu.
HEEEEEEEEEEE YAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
First off, a special thanks to the beautiful Stephanie, who guided me by phone to Davis Square from a place that was… um… not Davis Square. Her original directions, which I had written down, were simple enough, but I, inevitably, missed the proper exit, so I was forced to use the Mapquest directions that I was carrying as backup. Where as her directions where a simple left, right, and left, the Mapquest directions formed a series of lines that, when viewed from a distance, looked like a hand giving you the finger. Somewhere around the second knuckle, I took a wrong turn. To my credit, nothing seemed to be labeled properly. Anyway, I ended up somewhere that I can only describe as, “Probably North of Boston.” It looked like a lawless town, ruled by bitter law men and brothel owners, in a time before the laws of the New America would take over.
The movie we saw was Sideways. Quite a good film. Lots of subtle humor as well as balls-out laughs. As far as the two main leads go, Paul Giamatti delivers a brilliant performance as usual and Thomas Haden Church sort of breaks out of the usual disposable performances I had associated with him, although just barely. Frankly, I would love to see him in a strictly dramatic role, just to see how that goes.
The music I picked up afterwards were Nick Drake and Jack Johnson. I had discovered Nick Drake on the Garden State soundtrack (“One of These Things First”) and was entranced by his classical mellow style. Plus, because he was big in the 60s British folk-rock era, so now I feel like a more cultured music listener. Stephanie recommended Jack Johnson, which I was surprised to discover, had a lot in common, stylistically, with Nick Drake, though it would be very easy to say that Jack Johnson was more upbeat. I dug it, and I’m liking it more and more with each listen.
I feel more grown up sophisticated today having, in one evening, seen an award winning independent film, and purchasing classy music ranging from 60’s folk-rock to modern mellow.
To offset that feeling, I paid 8 bucks for an Chinese DVD about a secret agent that kicks everyone’s ass with crazy kung fu.
HEEEEEEEEEEE YAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
4/08/2005
After a year and a half of parking in the same spot, yesterday I got a ticket.
I was angry about it, but it was early and my brain wasn’t on, so I used “Fuck” in the wrong context. “What’s up with this piece of fuck?”
Who gives you a ticket outside your own house? I mean, it’s not like I living in Boston, where parking is a strictly regulated premium. I live on the north end of Manchester (the biggest ant in a tiny little ant hill), pretty much in a picture perfect suburban setting. I don’t even know where the nearest fire hydrant is in my neighborhood. As long as you’re not blocking someone’s driveway, usually you’re fine.
But, apparently that’s not the case, as I was fined $15 for parking on the even side of the street on an odd numbered night. For those of you who don’t live in a state that’s insane, the winter parking ban states that no car may be parked on the street unless it is on the side of the street with the even numbered houses on even days and odd houses on odd days. This is so they can plow your neighborhood… eventually (in my case, usually 24 to 48 hours after the snow has stopped falling). This winter parking ban lasts from November 15th (OK), to May 15th (huh!? I know it’s New Hampshire, but… MAY?!)
I’ve been parking in the exact same spot for a year and a half, ever since I moved back from MA. Somehow, I went ALL winter without getting a ticket for violating this rule. Yet now, a good two weeks since there has been any snow on the ground, some rogue meter maid, no doubt drunkenly joy riding around the neighborhood, has lashed out and fined me, just for shits and giggles.
Well, I hope you’re laughing meter lady. If I ever see you again… well… I guess I owe you $15.
I was angry about it, but it was early and my brain wasn’t on, so I used “Fuck” in the wrong context. “What’s up with this piece of fuck?”
Who gives you a ticket outside your own house? I mean, it’s not like I living in Boston, where parking is a strictly regulated premium. I live on the north end of Manchester (the biggest ant in a tiny little ant hill), pretty much in a picture perfect suburban setting. I don’t even know where the nearest fire hydrant is in my neighborhood. As long as you’re not blocking someone’s driveway, usually you’re fine.
But, apparently that’s not the case, as I was fined $15 for parking on the even side of the street on an odd numbered night. For those of you who don’t live in a state that’s insane, the winter parking ban states that no car may be parked on the street unless it is on the side of the street with the even numbered houses on even days and odd houses on odd days. This is so they can plow your neighborhood… eventually (in my case, usually 24 to 48 hours after the snow has stopped falling). This winter parking ban lasts from November 15th (OK), to May 15th (huh!? I know it’s New Hampshire, but… MAY?!)
I’ve been parking in the exact same spot for a year and a half, ever since I moved back from MA. Somehow, I went ALL winter without getting a ticket for violating this rule. Yet now, a good two weeks since there has been any snow on the ground, some rogue meter maid, no doubt drunkenly joy riding around the neighborhood, has lashed out and fined me, just for shits and giggles.
Well, I hope you’re laughing meter lady. If I ever see you again… well… I guess I owe you $15.
4/05/2005
I woke up late for work today, which sucked. I hate waking up late, then I have to rush out the door, and when I rush out the door I always feel like I’m forgetting something. You know, I’ll get in my car, and I’m almost ready to drive off, when I think, “Oh crap. Well, I guess I better go back in the house and put on some pants.”
My alarm clock malfunctioned, it was my fault though. The radio went on at the right time, and in a half slumber I listened to the drivel of the morning show hosts. I hit the snooze button, but then decided I wanted to continue listening to the ranting. So I hit the timer button, which turns on the radio for an hour, supposedly so you can drift off to sleep listening to it. I only listened another minute or so when I realized I’d rather be unconscious. So I hit the snooze button again. The alarm never came back on. I woke up on my own about twenty minutes after I should have been on the road. In a perfect world, I might have naturally woken up sooner, but my body’s still yelling, “Hey! What the hell happened to that extra hour? What’s this ‘fall back’ shit?”
Personally, I think we should always add an hour at every daylight savings time. It’ll be cool, everyone would have three or four extra days in their lifetime. Granted, within a few years we’ll be taking our lunch breaks at midnight, but we can deal with that when we get to it.
My alarm clock malfunctioned, it was my fault though. The radio went on at the right time, and in a half slumber I listened to the drivel of the morning show hosts. I hit the snooze button, but then decided I wanted to continue listening to the ranting. So I hit the timer button, which turns on the radio for an hour, supposedly so you can drift off to sleep listening to it. I only listened another minute or so when I realized I’d rather be unconscious. So I hit the snooze button again. The alarm never came back on. I woke up on my own about twenty minutes after I should have been on the road. In a perfect world, I might have naturally woken up sooner, but my body’s still yelling, “Hey! What the hell happened to that extra hour? What’s this ‘fall back’ shit?”
Personally, I think we should always add an hour at every daylight savings time. It’ll be cool, everyone would have three or four extra days in their lifetime. Granted, within a few years we’ll be taking our lunch breaks at midnight, but we can deal with that when we get to it.
4/03/2005
My education came full circle on Friday.
This week I was given the task to write an article on the partnership of our company with another company and the technology behind our corresponding products. Knowing nothing about any topic mentioned when I started (well, I knew about our company, duh), I hit the books and produced a well constructed piece. It brought me right back to the days of school reports, which I hated back then, but actually enjoyed doing this time. I guess it had something to do with not having to write an outline, or present a thesis, or deal with that old moldy lady at the library.
My supervisor told me that the article was great, but she had a few very sensible changes. However, it was her first suggestion that rocked my world. She said that, although the article was good, it read too much like a college essay… I’ll let that sink in a little… The first problem with my article was that it sounded too much like a college essay!
So what the hell was I doing in college?
At that moment I wanted to gather up every essay and report I’ve ever written and bring them back to my professors, dump them on the floor, and say, “Here, you can have these back, the real world doesn’t want them.”
I wasn’t mad at anyone. I just found it funny that my style of formal writing was popular among teachers, but had no use now that I finally had a actual job to use it in.
Oh, and on another note, I’m trying to link to the recording of my performance last week. I recommend that you right click it and download it to your computer for best listening quality. Even with that though, the quality is the downstairs neighbor of Ass. It's already pretty loud, but this was the best I could do. If anyone has any suggestions that might help in cleaning it up more (techniques or inexpensive programs), then I’ll repost it.
Emerald Isle 3/23/05
Also be warned, it's a pretty big file, about 5.something Megs. If you don't have broadband it could take a few minutes to download.
One last warning. Please do not listen to this recording if you are offended by the word "Fuck." ... Oh shit, I just said "Fuck!"
This week I was given the task to write an article on the partnership of our company with another company and the technology behind our corresponding products. Knowing nothing about any topic mentioned when I started (well, I knew about our company, duh), I hit the books and produced a well constructed piece. It brought me right back to the days of school reports, which I hated back then, but actually enjoyed doing this time. I guess it had something to do with not having to write an outline, or present a thesis, or deal with that old moldy lady at the library.
My supervisor told me that the article was great, but she had a few very sensible changes. However, it was her first suggestion that rocked my world. She said that, although the article was good, it read too much like a college essay… I’ll let that sink in a little… The first problem with my article was that it sounded too much like a college essay!
So what the hell was I doing in college?
At that moment I wanted to gather up every essay and report I’ve ever written and bring them back to my professors, dump them on the floor, and say, “Here, you can have these back, the real world doesn’t want them.”
I wasn’t mad at anyone. I just found it funny that my style of formal writing was popular among teachers, but had no use now that I finally had a actual job to use it in.
Oh, and on another note, I’m trying to link to the recording of my performance last week. I recommend that you right click it and download it to your computer for best listening quality. Even with that though, the quality is the downstairs neighbor of Ass. It's already pretty loud, but this was the best I could do. If anyone has any suggestions that might help in cleaning it up more (techniques or inexpensive programs), then I’ll repost it.
Emerald Isle 3/23/05
Also be warned, it's a pretty big file, about 5.something Megs. If you don't have broadband it could take a few minutes to download.
One last warning. Please do not listen to this recording if you are offended by the word "Fuck." ... Oh shit, I just said "Fuck!"
3/26/2005
Well, I’ve just arrived home after a week of watching G’s cats. Towards the end, I allowed them to hang out in the bedroom, but not while I was sleeping, I still put them out of the bedroom at night (or “pretended to go to the kitchen”). I wouldn’t have let them in at all, but they kept pawing at the door, whether I was in there or not. If I didn’t know better, I’d say they had a secret stash of cat nip hidden in there somewhere.
I think one of them had finally caught on to my “I’m going to the kitchen,” trick. The moment I got up to go to the kitchen, either for pretend or for real, he’d run into the bedroom.
G is going to be really confused by the way his cats are acting when he gets back.
I think one of them had finally caught on to my “I’m going to the kitchen,” trick. The moment I got up to go to the kitchen, either for pretend or for real, he’d run into the bedroom.
G is going to be really confused by the way his cats are acting when he gets back.
3/24/2005
P.S. - Jen is referring to the awesome birthday cake she makes for me every year for the past few years. She always makes a great tasting cake, but her presentation skills need work. Sometimes it's lopsided, sometimes she forgets a not-so-crucial ingredient. This year, she tried to write "Happy Birthday!" on the cake with frosting. It came out so sloppy, I took one look at it and said, "Who's 'Hally Boofdong?'" My sister rocks.
Sorry I haven't updated this week, I'm watching G's cats again and other than work I've kind of taken the opportunity to be a total bum. I've just been watching movies and playing video games.
You know what's funny. Telling your friend you'll stay at his place and watch his cats, and then finding out on the first day that you're having an allergic reaction to his cats. Ha ha! That just tickles me. At least, I think that's why I keep scratching.
Last time I cat sat, I had a little bit of irritation, but for some reason this time my head exploded. I kid you not, I bent down to pet one of the cats and my head shattered into a million itchy, burning, runny pieces.
Since then I've been breaking out in itchy patches, I've had bloodshot eyes, and my nose has been running constantly. I'd be absolutely amazed if my co workers didn't suspect that I was hooked on blow.
I've done my best to avoid prolonged contact with the cats. I think that it may be damaging their self-esteem though, especially the black-haired one. She's a little ho, she needs attention. I've brushed them thoroughly, I've attacked all the furniture with a lint-brush, and I've forbid them from entering the bedroom (which is where I think they usually sleep. If you're reading this, G, I'm sorry if your cats are all confused now). This has made living here for the rest of the week bearable. It's also been pretty easy to avoid dealing with them when they come up to me begging to be petted or whatnot. I just stand up and say, "Well, I guess I'll go to the kitchen now," At which point they'll FLY out of the room and wait by their bowl. (I've been keeping the bowls filled with dry food, like G does, and I've given them wet food every day at about 6 pm, just like G does. As far as I know, it's been this way for years. Yet, if you even THINK of going to the kitchen, they expect more food. Typical cats). Once again, if you're reading this, G, I apologize if your cats are starved for attention when you get back. It was either that or shave them both, and I'm sure you would have been shocked to come home to find a couple of shaved pussies running around your apartment. I know I would.
Yesterday, since I was in the area, I called my old comedy buddy and asked if he had any room for an extra comedian at amateur night on Wednesday. Next thing I know, I'm up on stage and I did a pretty good set (of course, the only people in the audience that weren't comedians were my friends, so the laughing might have been a little rigged. I did have some great material though, so I think most of the laughs were genuine). I finally managed to get a decent recording this time, so when I get home I'll put it on the computer and upload it her for everyone to enjoy.
That's about it. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to pretend to go to the kitchen.
You know what's funny. Telling your friend you'll stay at his place and watch his cats, and then finding out on the first day that you're having an allergic reaction to his cats. Ha ha! That just tickles me. At least, I think that's why I keep scratching.
Last time I cat sat, I had a little bit of irritation, but for some reason this time my head exploded. I kid you not, I bent down to pet one of the cats and my head shattered into a million itchy, burning, runny pieces.
Since then I've been breaking out in itchy patches, I've had bloodshot eyes, and my nose has been running constantly. I'd be absolutely amazed if my co workers didn't suspect that I was hooked on blow.
I've done my best to avoid prolonged contact with the cats. I think that it may be damaging their self-esteem though, especially the black-haired one. She's a little ho, she needs attention. I've brushed them thoroughly, I've attacked all the furniture with a lint-brush, and I've forbid them from entering the bedroom (which is where I think they usually sleep. If you're reading this, G, I'm sorry if your cats are all confused now). This has made living here for the rest of the week bearable. It's also been pretty easy to avoid dealing with them when they come up to me begging to be petted or whatnot. I just stand up and say, "Well, I guess I'll go to the kitchen now," At which point they'll FLY out of the room and wait by their bowl. (I've been keeping the bowls filled with dry food, like G does, and I've given them wet food every day at about 6 pm, just like G does. As far as I know, it's been this way for years. Yet, if you even THINK of going to the kitchen, they expect more food. Typical cats). Once again, if you're reading this, G, I apologize if your cats are starved for attention when you get back. It was either that or shave them both, and I'm sure you would have been shocked to come home to find a couple of shaved pussies running around your apartment. I know I would.
Yesterday, since I was in the area, I called my old comedy buddy and asked if he had any room for an extra comedian at amateur night on Wednesday. Next thing I know, I'm up on stage and I did a pretty good set (of course, the only people in the audience that weren't comedians were my friends, so the laughing might have been a little rigged. I did have some great material though, so I think most of the laughs were genuine). I finally managed to get a decent recording this time, so when I get home I'll put it on the computer and upload it her for everyone to enjoy.
That's about it. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to pretend to go to the kitchen.
3/19/2005
Things are going good lately. I know that life is not much different than before I got the new car, but my mood has been good, and I’m doing my best to maintain that feeling. I wish I could bottle it up for life’s inevitable “downs,” that are always preceded and then followed by life’s “ups.” You know how it is, ups and downs, strikes and gutters. (So sayeth The Dude). All I know is that I feel good now, and I like it, so I’ll stick with it. However, that won’t stop me from complaining now and then (especially when I think I can get a laugh)…
My mother had a neighborly chat today with the people next door. They’re nice people.
After shooting the breeze for a while, she tactfully brought up the topic of their spastic barking hell-beast of a dog. She was just as upset as I was by his high pitched, constant, machine-gun-like barking episodes.
Our neighbors acknowledged the problem and apologized profusely. Like I said, they’re nice people.
They’ve been trying. Apparently, the dog in question wears a special collar designed to humanely treat dogs with excessive barking issues. As I’m told, the collar emits a small shock to the dog every time he barks. It seems like a fantastic idea to me; however, this has failed to teach him to stop barking.
Allow me to restate that. I think it bears repeating. HE IS BEING ELECTROCUTED EVERY TIME HE BARKS, AND YET HE CONTINUES TO BARK!! He is generating enough electricity to jump start a car, yet he refuses to shut the hell up.
Allow me to demonstrate what is apparently going on in this dog’s mind:
BARK!...OW!...BARK…OW! BARK!...OW!...BARK…OW! BARK!...OW!...BARK…OW! BARK!...OW!...BARK…OW! BARK!...OW!...BARK…OW! BARK!...OW!...BARK…OW! BARK!...OW!...BARK…OW! BARK!...OW!...BARK…OW! BARK!...OW!...BARK…OW! BARK!...OW!...BARK…OW! BARK!...OW!...BARK…OW! BARK!...OW!...BARK…OW! BARK!...OW!...BARK…OW! BARK!...OW!...BARK…OW!...
I’m a humane person. I care about the wellbeing of animals big and small. I’m pro-animal, I think they’re cool. But there can be exceptions.
My mother had a neighborly chat today with the people next door. They’re nice people.
After shooting the breeze for a while, she tactfully brought up the topic of their spastic barking hell-beast of a dog. She was just as upset as I was by his high pitched, constant, machine-gun-like barking episodes.
Our neighbors acknowledged the problem and apologized profusely. Like I said, they’re nice people.
They’ve been trying. Apparently, the dog in question wears a special collar designed to humanely treat dogs with excessive barking issues. As I’m told, the collar emits a small shock to the dog every time he barks. It seems like a fantastic idea to me; however, this has failed to teach him to stop barking.
Allow me to restate that. I think it bears repeating. HE IS BEING ELECTROCUTED EVERY TIME HE BARKS, AND YET HE CONTINUES TO BARK!! He is generating enough electricity to jump start a car, yet he refuses to shut the hell up.
Allow me to demonstrate what is apparently going on in this dog’s mind:
BARK!...OW!...BARK…OW! BARK!...OW!...BARK…OW! BARK!...OW!...BARK…OW! BARK!...OW!...BARK…OW! BARK!...OW!...BARK…OW! BARK!...OW!...BARK…OW! BARK!...OW!...BARK…OW! BARK!...OW!...BARK…OW! BARK!...OW!...BARK…OW! BARK!...OW!...BARK…OW! BARK!...OW!...BARK…OW! BARK!...OW!...BARK…OW! BARK!...OW!...BARK…OW! BARK!...OW!...BARK…OW!...
I’m a humane person. I care about the wellbeing of animals big and small. I’m pro-animal, I think they’re cool. But there can be exceptions.
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