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.
8/27/2005
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).
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