There's Your Karma, Ripe As Peaches

What Jerk is Pushing the Dollar Coin?

So I stopped at the post office over the weekend to mail a card. For some unknown reason, the last time I mailed anything, the cost of stamps was something like 29 cents, so I was woefully lacking in metal funds at the vending machine. Not wanting to walk the 40 feet back to my car for a dime, I popped in a $20.

This was a huge mistake.

The machine spat out 1 stamp and then blew up like I'd hit 3 cherries on the nickel slots on the senior gambling boat. At first, it didn't seem so bad. I saw a couple quarters, a nickel, a few pennies. But then came the gold coins and more gold coins and even more gold coins. 19 Thomas Jefferson dollars in all.

A little pissed that the post office had the nerve to give back gold doubloons as change, I tried to exchange them for dollar bills at the window. The woman all but put her hand in my face. So I stuffed them into my white trash, mini-Crown Royal bag that I use for change (I'm a classy broad, I know) and forgot about them until this morning when I went into the BP for some milk. While fishing a couple $1 coins out of my bag, the illiterate, illegal alien behind the counter stopped me:

"Miss we don't take no old coins."
"Oh no, these aren't old," I responded. "They say 2007."

I grabbed 2 Thomas Jefferson dollars and a quarter and handed them to BP Clerk, who then had the nerve to scoff at me. "Pfft. Miss, we don't take treasure."

"Excuse me?"
"No treasure alright?"
"This is legal US tender! Sanctioned by the government! It's MONEY! It says $1 on the back!"
"Credit card or dollars or coins please."

I asked for the manager. He scoffed again and then stared at me like I was the one with the problem. We had a non-lethal Mexican stand-off until some hilljack with hairs on his balls older than my parents told me to "run along to school." After I shouted at him, I was asked to leave.

Perhaps it had to be thus.

But what kind of bullshit is this?? First of all, if I thought somebody had a sack of treasure and I worked at the BP gas station, I'd smack them with a roll of lottery tickets, thieve the coins and try to buy my own island. I wouldn't stand around with my hands on my hips having melodramatic breathing fits behind the counter. That said, I'm still giving Paco a pass for our interaction. Though the experience left me a little heated, I did keep strange looking coins in a purple and yellow bag that looks like something pirates throw at the ruffians as payment for a kidnapping well done. That's my fault. But what dickbag clowns are pushing these things at the U.S. Mint? There is no logical reason for the government to issue money that looks like you can unwrap it and eat the chocolate inside. Something has to be done!

My Herd of Modern Day Promethei

So I live with three boys. I love them dearly but like most men, when they put their heads together, they turn into prehistoric idiots. Normally, this doesn't faze me but last night, I was left nothing short of lost.

For at least two weeks they've been talking about building a bonfire - not for a party or anything, which is completely legit, but because "that'd be cool." But with an inch of snow on the ground, what's the point, right? No. I got home to find a heap of wood in my backyard and the lads going to town on it with axes. They were wearing work gloves and hats and the whole deal. It was a ridiculous sight that I, sadly, let pass without comment. But when I happened upon 2 economy cans of Dinty Moore beef stew simmering on the stove, I poked my head back out to ask where they parked Babe the Blue Ox. They were not amused.

Eventually they called me back outside to join them in the supposed magic. Now, I was told a bonfire was in the making, which, to me, meant I'd see a free-wheeling beast made of anything and everything that would inspire drunkards and potheads to magically appear, hold hands and dance around in one of those scenes reminiscent of a Grateful Dead concert.

But this was no bonfire. Christ, it wasn't even a campfire. This looked more like the Dinty Moore flame from the kitchen. If I got a toothpick, I might have been able to roast a mini-marshmallow. So you know me - I couldn't help but point these things out and, yet again, they got indignant. To make amends, I offered to get some lighter fluid...

"Ugh! We don't need lighter fluid, Flash!" "Yeah! We can build a fire without all that, THANKS!" I don't know who they thought they were. This isn't Man vs. Wild, ya know? I didn't see flint and a bunch of rocks just laying around.

In any case, they stacked, steepled, prodded, poked, rearranged and stacked some more. After another 10 minutes of poking, a real fire began to sustain itself. It reached one foot in height and then two. And that's when they went crazy. Hooting, hollering, patting each other on the back. It was like watching the monkeys at the zoo. Somehow in this process, 5 more males arrived with a dog in tow, as if they sensed fire creation and were drawn to our house by primal instinct. Not surprisingly, the emoting continued and soon they were all heaping on more logs. After the fire reached 6 or so feet, the herd sat around it and watched in amazement.

"That's an incredible fire," commented one. "Yeah, that's reeeeeeally, really nice." Heads nodded in agreement. "We should throw on more logs and see how big it'll get." "No. Let it chill. Goood stuff." My mouth fell open. This shit was not that deep. But after four or five minutes passed without another word, I went in the house. Fucking weirdos.

Now, fires are a breathtaking and quite fun to look at - I get that. But what's the deal with the self-congratulatory bonding over building one? And why be so enamored with the quality of blaze? It took 3 hours to make it and in a quarter the time, a separate fire could have spontaneously erupted on its own and burned down half the block. To make matters worse, these goons were outside for God knows how long, doing little more, than staring at it, nodding to each other and randomly poking it with sticks. When I woke up this morning, it was gone. I'm not sure how they put it out but if they all peed on it, I wouldn't be remotely surprised.

About an hour ago one of them called me, "Hey, did you see the fire last night." "Uh, I was out there with you." "Yeah, well... it was a gooood fire."

??????????????????? 

Humiliated, Shamed and Mildly Vindicated at Wal-Mart

Due to some unfortunate events at work, my Nerf basketball caught fire and melted into this gooey heap of mess. The day was all but here and gone before I remembered that I needed a replacement but at nearly 9 pm, my only options were Meijer and Wal-Mart and Meijer's toy department is substandard.

So I headed to Wal-Mart... There are times when my desperation knows no bounds.

<information tangent>Now, if you've read this blog for any length of time, you're well aware that I suffer from some serious personal problems, including but not limited to: debilitating OCD, germophobia and misanthropic malaise. And since I generally do my best to avoid human contact if I'm not a) at work, b) in a sports-related situation or c) on my 8th shot, the latter two issues, make trips to Wal-Mart, particularly troublesome.

Depending on your location, Wal-Mart is either a pretty decent store or a mecca for the unclean, uncouth and unsanitary of your town. If a sign hung outside mine that said: "Give me your barefoot, your trashy, your huddled unwashed masses yearning to breathe illness and stank, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore, send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp of slashed prices beside the golden, sliding door!," I would not be remotely surprised.

Seven of ten people at my local Wal-Mart are missing teeth, various items of clothing and immune systems. Their children are sticky, fat, snot-covered abominations that scream, fuss and whine. Maybe they're hungry, maybe they're cold, maybe they're just tired of staring at their mother's muffin top while she bends over to get another 24-pack of Natty Lite. It's anyone's guess. And if they're school age, they rip and run through the aisles, spreading colds, flu, SARs and funk, while their parent/guardian mindlessly scopes out Dog the Bounty Hunter on dvd and I cower near the wet wipes and hold my breath.

As such, I started bringing along a latex glove for my Wal-Mart visits. Crazy? Paranoid? I don't deny it. I pick up a lot of stuff while I'm at the store that I don't end up buying. I'd rather be crazy than come down with the plague because some "patron" coughed and snotted all over something before I happened along. </information tangent>

Armed with my latex glove, I grabbed the Nerf stuff pretty quickly and then meandered around the store looking for stuff I didn't need. I wound up in the empty automotive section and tested out some car freshener that I carried for 8 aisles until I saw a Jeep trademarked utility pack. It came with bits, blades and what looked like flares and only cost $30. So I switched air freshener for pack and kept going until I reached the express line. All in all, I made 10 product exchanges on my way to checkout before placing my final pickup - a 10 pack of Orbit gum - into a magazine rack.

While waiting on slow-as-molasses Glenda to check people out, a grim-looking man approached:

"Miss, please step out the line." I asked why. "We need to talk to you about your activities." I didn't see any "we." Just some an overweight tool in a black outfit. I refused to leave the line until I received an explanation on these supposed "activities" ... I should have left the line.

"Miss, we've been watching you in the store with one hand in your coat pocket and one hand exposed. Where is the Renuzit spray." "On a shelf." "And the tool package? "On a shelf." "Budweiser neon sign." "On a shelf... the only thing that isn't on a shelf is that pack of gum. It's in a rack." He stared at me with pure rent-a-cop malice until some dude came in over a radio. Apparently my "on a shelf" descriptions were too vague, prompting the wench in front of me to clutch her purse, as if there was anything in there beyond condoms and a pack of Nicorette.

Security guy began questioning me again, so I took off my coat, shook it and asked where I'd put all of these allegedly shoplifted items. "Are you saying you shoplifted?" "No, YOU are." "We haven't said anything. We're just trying to get to the bottom of this. Maybe you have a partner. Maybe you're leaving stuff behind... that would explain your glove. No prints." I was dumbfounded. "Look, I don't think you get it." "Explain it to me then."

But I couldn't. I couldn't out my own craziness and paranoia in front of the 30 people in the vicinity - 25 of them were the very reason why I was wearing the glove in the first place! But when he threatened to call the police, I came clean in as low a tone as possible. Like it mattered. Security guy's voice went up 450 decibels: "SO YOU DON'T WANT TO TOUCH ANYTHING IN WAL-MART BECAUSE YOU THINK ALL OF OUR SHOPPERS HAVE DISEASES AND YOU'RE AFRAID YOU'LL GET SICK?" "Well... see..."

Security guy got on the radio. "The girl isn't a suspect. She's just a lady Monk." "A what?" "You know that show on channel 51 with the crazy guy." "The blonde on that show is hot." Security guy walked away.

The rest of the shoppers stared at me with scorn. At least they didn't boo or hurl empties. About 4 seconds passed before the purse clencher - who was buying construction paper, cigarettes, balloons and Coke - called me a snobby brat and the lady behind me chimed in as well: "Hey little girl, just because I don't have a nice coat like you doesn't mean I'm not a good person. This is America. We're not out to hurt anybody." While I tried to figure out how that related to germs, she started coughing. And I mean really coughing. Wet, phlegmy, had pneumonia for 18 weeks coughing. When she finally stopped, she wiped her hands on her pants and put the People magazine back in the rack.

So appropriate.

Oops, I Spaced Out On You

Okay, here's the thing. I'm in J-Bay, South Africa on a surfing trip and am simply too chill to get be a malcontent right now.

Since this is the place where I have my routine rage-outs (as I like to call them), I'm sure you've noticed the cobwebs developing on the main page over the past days. For that, I apologise..
 
I'd log on to tell you about my days but they look a bit like this: fall out of bed, surf, eat, surf, drink, surf, surf, drink, surf, bed. Repeat. Somewhere in that daunting schedule, I've managed to drop my phone in the ocean, be grazed by a shark and get sucked into facebook by Cozmo from the AofG, the last of which possibly being the most shameful and ridiculous happening/admission of my recent life. Hopefully, I'll cut this shite out of my life once I'm back in the real world but all the same, go ahead and cue my temporary shame spiral.
 
In any case, fear not! I have a wedding next week and then I'll be back in your lives. Once I settle in and realize the horrible things that have occurred - like Thierry Henry turning into a dripping, foul cunt with legs and heading to Barca, thus leaving Arsenal in the goddamn lurch, I will have an overly emotional freakout for the ages and we'll be like peas and carrots once again.
 
Cheers, kids. See ya in a week.

Reconnecting with the Ocean

I'm back in Costa Rica on a surfing trip.

If I updated this blog with any regularity, that would mean my posting would be suspended for a couple weeks, or, at the very least, become very erratic.

I just wanted to comfort you all with the news that my posting will continue to be painfully erratic...

On the plus side, I got one in today, so I'm already ahead of the game!

Cheers :)

Picking Up A Hater Card (for Christians)

So it's Passover, which means that I've swapped Coca-Cola and Cheez-Its for kosher Coke and matzo crackers... it's a bland existence. While grabbing a napkin out of the office kitchen yesterday, Beano approached - he was snarfing on what he referred to as a "naked BLT" except that he was missing the L and the T. While staring at his grubby, sausage fingers, I asked what happened - "Oh, well it's not necessarily a sandwich since I'm cutting carbs. So I'm going to have the lettuce and tomato at lunch." "So, really, you're just two-fisting a pound of bacon." "No. It's a BLT."

For the uninformed, Beano is a maddening co-worker that has not only called me a fascist but has also tried to convert me to Christianity. He is sitting at #3 on my list of people to curb with my mighty boot of justice.

"My pastor says it's Passover and that means that you, as a Jew, eat different food from Christians."
"Not exactly. I think your pastor may be conf--"
"I'd like to share in that with you... as a Christian man."

Everything about this situation told me to turn around slowly and walk away and that's exactly what I did. He followed me back to my office.

"What's that you've got?"
"It's a bagel with cream cheese, tomato, and lox."
"Is that significant to the Exodus or the Angel of Death?"
"Neither. It's just yumtastic. However, I contend that the Angel of Death wouldn't have been so destructive had he enjoyed a bagel and lox from time to time."

This complex scenario sent Beano into deep thought until, without warning, he got up and walked away. I didn't see him again until a few minutes before practice when I spotted him putting a package of salmon steaks, bagels, and cream cheese in the refrigerator.

"What are you doing?"
"I googled your breakfast, so I picked up a lox for a sandwich."
"That's a 5-pound piece of salmon!"
"No, it's a lox."

That's when I kinda lost myself. It's not that I wanted to be mean (well, part of me did) but he's just so fucking irritating. He never understands anything and is about a stroke of common sense away from truly believing that I'm a baby-eating shape shifter. Just looking at him makes my brain throb with pain. It's horrible. Anyway, all he did was stand there staring at me as if I was the one that needed help.

"I would like you to come to my church."
"Are you trying to convert me again?"
"No. I want Jesus to see you in His house and while you're there you can speak to our congregation about your experiences." I was baffled. "It would be great for you to come and tell us what you're facing and maybe say some Hebrew words."

I grew lightheaded.

"You're turning red, Warner. You know, a little bit of the Lord and Savior Jesus Christ will calm you right down." He then handed me a green Gideon Bible...

Witness to me and I will bust you in the face. Beano just fucked it up for everybody.

Sabotaged by the Heating/Cooling Service Man

So a couple years ago, my best friend Julius and I went into business together. We bought 12 houses to rent to students and another five to fix up and rent out on game weekends. Thus far, things have gone smoothly. We have pretty agreeable tenants, all things considered, and the homes are in good shape, so there's usually little about which to worry. But the heater in one of the houses went on the fritz last weekend and the four jackasses that live there were drunk for the better part of a day, so no one noticed a problem until the house temperature dropped to about 55 degrees. They showed up at my front door shivering violently and clutching a handle of Jack..

"The house is cold! You have to help us! We'll freeze and die."
"You won't freeze and die."
"But we will! And then we can't pay rent!"

Smart kids. I told them to drink a little more, called a heating/cooling place, and met the serviceman out there. Like most mechanics turn out to be, his name was Rick. Why are a lot of mechanics named Rick anyway? It's like the name Pam. Whose family doesn't have an Aunt Pam? Well... mine doesn't, actually,  but you know what I mean. Anyway, Rick fiddled around for ten minutes and then tried to sell me a new part. The heater was five years old; I didn't see how it was due for new parts. And after listening to his spiel, my suspicions were confirmed -- having it would serve no bigger advantage than replacing a 5 year old nail with a clean, shiny one. Rick continued to make noise about improved efficiency, so I told him I'd get a second opinion before proceeding. He spent another five minutes on the furnace and left in a bit of a huff.

So yesterday, the four showed up at my door again:

"The house is going to explode!" "Yeah, the furnace is like a jet engine!" "It'll kill us." "You have to fix it right now!"

I don't know what the hell they expected me to do. I'm not Schneider from One Day at a Time. There's no tool belt for me to throw on and just make everything okay. Besides, I wasn't keen on going to the house that, in their opinion, was teetering on the verge of explosion. Sure, they're a melodramatic, drunk bunch but still.

In the interest of not being a slum lord, I went over anyway and found that they were right. I could hear the heater churning while still in the driveway. By the time I reached the basement, it was standing next to a 747... plus there were sparks. I turned everything off, took a look, and saw 8 or 9 random nuts and bolts on the ground beneath the unit.

I don't know a lot about heater/a-c units.. actually, I don't know a thing.. but I know enough about parts and machinery to recognize that tightly fastened nuts and bolts don't work themselves completely loose over the course of three days, least of all when they are responsible for keeping the fan attached to the freaking engine.

Foul play, anyone?

I called Sawyer for the name of the business in hopes of getting a second opinion before taking further action and he gave me the wrong one - namely, the company that had just screwed me over. So I called them and they sent two service men over to check things out. They took one look at the unit and said, 
"Ma'am, you've been sabotaged for lack of a better word and it's ruined your furnace."

After they left, I called the one person in the world that's more vengeful than myself - my father. He gave me a list of threats to make and I hopped in my car to track down the fuck that caused this mess. While en route, I got a call -- "Ms. Warner, we checked our records and WE are the company that serviced your furnace. We understand what happened now, we want to make this work out for you."

This just pissed me off more. Didn't they know I was on my way over to go ballistic?? I hung up on the man and kept driving. No one was going to take the wind out of my sails with an apologetic phone call! I finally got there, took out my contacts [harsh words are always more effective when I remove my fake irises] and marched inside. There I completely lost my head, delivering each threat with spiteful, litigious conviction. I'm kinda sad my dad wasn't there to see it... Fifteen minutes later, I had everything I could have wanted and more: a new furnace, free maintenance for the life of the unit, and the firing of Rick the service man. In exchange, I won't be suing them, calling news outlets, or contacting the police. I'm not really sure if anything criminal actually occurred (fraud? theft?) but I thew it out anyway.

As it turns out, Rick sabotaged the thing, assuming that after a few hours of hearing it rumble, my renters would call me and I'd order his stupid part. He didn't bank on them being so oblivious to anything other than their liquor supply and Gears of War, that it would take three days for the issue to come to my attention. By that time, the unit was all but destroyed.

Anyway, I'm not so much angry about this situation as I am confused. These guys don't work on commission and the part only cost $85. So it's not like this guy was going to make money or even raise the boss's eyebrows with a huge sale. What other motivations am I missing? No one benefits from him returning a week later to install a part that, for all intents and purposes, I don't need.

No Snow Days?

So like the rest of the Midwest, we're knee deep in snow emergency, below zero wind chills, and disaster. I woke up at 5 in eager anticipation of the "It's rough out there!" phone call from Boss's secretary but it never came, so I reached the office around 5:30 and prepared to run my first batch of punks.

Naturally, all they did was bitch about the weather, so I decided to run them outside for a half hour or so just to stick it to them. Trouble was, the sidewalk mysteriously disappeared before we ever really got going, causing me to trip and go nose first into a snow drift that was bigger than I am. Those of you that know me are already aware of my height challenges, so falling into a 6 foot drift was like being thrown into a cave.

So with two feet of cold, stinging snow lodged in my bra and knickers, I decided it was best to go inside... that's when some joker from across the street yelled, "Hey Warner! I love how you can run with a ball at your feet but can't run without one! Nice fall!" With laughs all around, I completely lost hand. I put them through ten 20-100s and let them go about an hour early. I know they're getting the short end of the stick on that one but how could I go on after getting clowned in the snow?

I likened it to the feeling a man gets when he can't perform in the bedroom. The silver lining to this is I now realize that the old "Don't worry about it-It happens to everyone-It's not a big deal" responses are pretty uncool and useless.

The next time that happens to a man in my life, I'll just shrug and leave the room.

On another front of total humiliation (this time, not my own), it's Valentine's Day, the biggest sham on the calendar. Arbor Day is less fraudulent than this contrived garbage.

If you're using Valentine's Day as a barometer for your relationship, there's something wrong with you. If your man can't do right by you on the other 364 days in the year and you allow V-Day to be his Get Out of Jail Free card, there's something wrong with you. And if you use this day in your self-validation process, you need to kill yourself. 

A man worth having is one that treats you right when he's not under orders from Hallmark. I don't like flowers and I have a general disdain for chocolate (unless it's on a Snickers) but the man in my life will know what makes me feel loved and appreciated and he'll have enough sense to come correct without the aid of a calendar.

If I've had any problem with Valentine's Day it's that boys can't quite absorb my feelings on the matter. They've been brainwashed for so long that they think the "I don't want to celebrate Valentine's Day" thing is crazy female trickery. I'm not playing mind games with you. I'm not trying to catch you in a trap. Do not buy me flowers. Do not buy me chocolate. Christ, don't buy me anything! Frankly, if you show up with a large pizza, a case of Coke, and a smile you'll get your just desserts. 

Sadly, "J" - a girl at the workplace didn't share my attitude. After going on and on this morning about how great her boyfriend was, J said she'd be disappointed if this wasn't "the greatest Valentine's EVAR!!" I made my "Valentine's is a Sham" argument to her and she responded by calling me a shrew. I would have hit her back with other lingo from the 17th century but I didn't have a Brit Lit textbook on hand. J went on to say that if I had a boyfriend that really loved me, we'd do more tonight than watch American Idol and Lost.

An hour later, the florist arrived. Fifteen or twenty people gathered in anticipation of what this dumb bitch's boyfriend was about to drop on her. Was it the 3 dozen red roses? Nope. That went to Pam, the 54 year old with the husband that has gout. What about the decorative bouquet of lilies? Wrong again - those went to Shawn, whose lack of embarrassment raised more questions than the bouquet itself. Finally, the delivery man asked for J. She clapped like only a former sorority girl can and scrambled to the front. There, she received this brilliant display of affection:

One black rose tied to a bag of licorice with a note that said, "You drive me fucking nuts with all of this."

She dropped everything on the floor and walked out. No coat, no purse, just gone. We haven't seen her since. But at least she got her flower and candy, which is what Valentine's is really all about. I do need to find this now ex-boyfriend of hers though... he's a man that deserves a drink.

It's Time for the Jew-lympics!

I've accomplished a lot in my athletic career. Though I have no Olympic or World Cup medals to call my own, I'll put my collection of hardware and honors up against just about anyone. But my achievements thus far in life pale in comparison to what I could pull off operating not only as an athlete but as a flag-waving Jew as well!

That's right! It's about to be my time to shine! Applications are currently being accepted for Jewish athletes wanting to represent at the 11th Pan-American Maccabi Games - known from now on around here as the Jewlympics.

The Jewlympics will be held in Buenos Aires, Argentina, from Dec. 26, 2007, through Jan. 2, 2008. Now, I'll admit, I'm not completely sold on the destination. Argentina is great and all but it was also a safe haven for Nazi officials and party members looking to flee Europe before they could be subjected to the noose... so someone on the Jewlympics committee is either really clever or really stupid. My hope is that it's the former and that this will function as a slap in the face to old school anti-Semites who are now too old and senile to wipe their own arses. 

In any case, the age range is 18-34 and athletes will compete in basketball, beach volleyball, bridge, field hockey (women only), golf, half marathon, judo, karate, rowing, rugby (men only), soccer, softball, squash, swimming, table tennis, tae kwon do, tennis, ten-pin bowling, track and field, triathalon, volleyball, and water polo (men only). There is also a Masters Sports Competition in many of the same categories for athletes over 35.

I'm gonna DESTROY this competition and a year from now, you'll be calling me Jewlympic Champion! From there, I'll be using my fame and notoriety to sponsor THIS car on the Nextel circuit:

A Falling Out With Pudding Pants

I have a co-worker that I've heard more about than seen this past month, so I was surprised to spot him skulking about the office this morning. This bloke - let's call him Tubbs - is pretty decent away from the work front but in it, his only accomplishment seems to be his standing as reigning Madden 06 and 07 office champion. Well.. he has more going for him than that but I wouldn't call those things accomplishments of note.

So it happens that I returned from lunch today to find my office door ajar. Burglars? Terrorists? Ninjas? It was anyone's guess but it was certainly someone who had masterminded our swipe card security system. I peered in... Tubbs. Blah. That is, until I spotted a serious problem -- my toys, all originals from my youth, were strewn across my desk and all over the floor. And there was Tubbs, sitting joyfully amidst Spider-Man, Superman, Flash, Batman, Optimus Prime, Lion-O, Cheetara, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, She-Ra, He-Man, and even my GI Joe Jeep that carried Sgt. Slaughter, Jinx, Storm Shadow, and Destro (I know, he needs his own mode of transportation). He'd also messed with my dart board and left my skateboard in the middle of the floor.

Now, I'm not one to prevent a person from enjoying great figurines. All one has to do is ask. But to sneak in my office when I'm not around? God only knows how long he waited for me to leave so he could steal some playtime with Raphael and Michaelangelo... he'd probably been doing it for months, maybe longer! Who could know? I keep my toys (for display purposes) on a book case behind my desk. Every once in a while, I'll come in to find things out of place but I've always blamed the maintenance staff.. they come in to vacuum, hit the case, things fall.. no big deal, right?... So much for that.

"So...can I help you?"
"Oh hey, love these figurines. These are totally the cartoons I watched in junior high and high school, ya know?" As he said it, Superman took flight. Had I not been standing there, I'm sure the sounds of the crisp wind ripping through the cape would have escaped Tubs' lips. All the same, I stood there for a moment in hopes that he'd feel my impending wrath and call it a day. He either failed to notice or failed to care. I'm still not sure.

"Can I have these?"
"Uh..." I swiped Flash and Green Lantern off the desk. "These are my toys." I sounded like a petulant 8-year-old but I didn't care. Who does this type of thing? I know your sorry ass got shit-canned but that doesn't mean you can disrespect my personal space and play with my stuff.

"It's not like you can't buy more."
"First of all, I actually can't buy some of those anymore but that's not the point! Did I ever go in your office and mess with your things?"
"No but you ate the last brownie before Thanksgiving even though you knew I wanted one."

Well ya fuckin got me there! How do you react to that? It was like being yelled at by a sixth grader. What I wanted to do, at that point, was head butt him in the nose but that's not good for the workplace. Luckily, he shifted focus.

"What do you want for that comic on your wall?"
"That's not for sale."
"Why not?"
"That's Amazing Fantasy #15"
"So?"
"This isn't a goddamn garage sale, Tubs!"

And that's when he went off, ragging on me for everything from my gender to my job to the fact that I can't go without sunglasses when outside. He even threw in something about Title IX before adding that I didn't know anything about his job (which made no sense nor any bit of difference). And when I said "that makes two of us," things got even worse.

When he made another comment about my appearance, I fired back. I had to. And after busting on his job performance, I stooped to his level and cracked on his waste line. I brought up how he's the last person to arrive at morning meetings because he's too busy stuffing his face with biscuits and gravy in the kitchen. And that his face begins to glisten after we've been there for ten minutes or so. To the untrained eye, it might look like sweating.. it certainly gets warm in the conference room. But I know the truth - that's fat seeping out of his pores like melted Crisco. Then I brought up his two daily lunches and the fact that he eats enough secretary-made pastries each day to feed a starving family of four. How dare he have the nerve to talk to me about brownies? Or anything, for that matter?! Fucking clown. Eventually, however, I called him "pudding pants" and that was all she wrote. It was low and unnecessary and I knew it but Christ, he started it! Problem was, he also ended it by scrunching up his face and trudging away. 

I'm not quite sure what happened but I feel like the biggest bitch... I want to think that I wasn't out of line.. that all I really did was match his level of immaturity but I feel like I've done something dreadfully wrong that needs to be corrected... feelings like this are totally unfamiliar to me and I don't like it! Hopefully, it will be cured by some stiff drinks later this evening.

As a side note, I found this picture on CNNSi to be absolutely delightful:

The Psychology of Perspectives

Sometime last week, a friend asked if I'd consent to an interview with a boy writing a paper about the psychology of perspectives. Now, I like to think that I'm reasonably intelligent, so I can surmise a definition for the phrase but who knows what, if anything, it actually means.

Truth be told, the psychology of perspectives sounds like a phrase one dreams up when hoping to earn an "A" based on the strength of the paper's title. And with one look at "Bret with one T," my suspicions were confirmed.

He made his presence known by knocking out "shave and a haircut" on my office door. Our building is bursting at the seams with testosterone and masculinity. Floating in like with musical tunes doesn't fly too well in a place like ours but I doubt he'd taken that into consideration.

Actually, I'm certain of it.

"Bret with one T" wore a navy Oxford and a Mogador Stripe tie under a lambswool argyle vest and well-pressed charcoal wool pants. His shoes were even shined.

I sensed a touch of the fabulous in him.

BWOT: You're of mixed racial, ethnic, and non-American heritage, which must be pretty crazy to deal with on its on, let alone stuff like this.
Me: Excuse me?
BWOT: So what will you do on Thursday?

I said something about protesting the obesity epidemic. But instead of sharing in the laughter, BWOT nodded his bloody head, wrote it down, and asked if the rest of my family had plans. When my mouth fell open, he launched into a detailed narrative of his family's magical Thanksgiving experiences. Apparently, mine had none of its own.

If you ask "Bret with one T," we savage, un-American beasts known as the Family Warner, spend Thanksgivings huddled around a kerosene heater in an abandoned shack. While we fight to stay warm and keep our wits about us by thinking back to the days when our people roamed the American Southwest or of the good times had across the pond, the rest of the country merrily feasts on turkey, dressing, cranberry sauce, and pumpkin pie (with Cool Whip) in celebration of the New World.

After a few minutes, he asked, "As a Native American with a mother who is not even American, how does that make you and your family feel?"

At that point, the psychology of perspective was officially mocking me.

I did my best to calmly explain that despite its origins, my family, like most, treats the day as one of gratitude; we leave the rah-rah Pilgrim routine for the Macy's Parade.

Well this pissed him off and he got indignant with me. By failing to be offended by the celebration of Thanksgiving as the beginning of white dominance, I was betraying my bloodline. All the pain and struggle and death and this is how I repay them. "You know you could be on a reservation and here you are in this incredible place!" 

... 

Have you ever gotten so angry, so unbelievably enraged that you became paralyzed by your emotions? Your neck burns, your hands shake, your heart is beating out of your chest. And yet, you're motionless. It's not that you've grown into an angered calm that often rears its head in cases of coldly calculated violence. In a situation like this, you simply haven't the ability to move.

That was me. Ten minutes or ten seconds, who knows how long it lasted. And ya know, I could have handled the questions. No matter who you are or where you come from, you have to suffer this from time to time. So it's no surprise that a sheltered buffoon whose sole expertise lies in matching knits and patterns would have such absurd ideas.

But to bash me with PC bullshit because I don't feel guilty about giving thanks for blessings while enjoying a good turkey, baked mac and cheese, and rolls with heaping piles of butter?

I went a little crazy.

We exchanged words before he backed out of my office and left. But this experience has left me curious about something -- Are some of you wondering the same types of things he was? Am I naive in assuming most people have half a clue? If I am and overreacted, please, please let me know.

Two Thumbs Down for Productivity

(Asher Sarlin)

So... maybe I'll catch you guys tomorrow.  

I'm Driving a Lesbian Car

So I was in line at Subway last night when I noticed some random woman eyeballing me. Initially, I didn't think anything of it. People stare at others for a myriad of reasons... you could have something on your face or look familiar or just happen to be standing in a line of unfocused sight. 

All was well until she caught my eye again, winked at me, and mouthed out a "hi there." I thought I smiled back or tried to anyway. Whether it actually happened is anyone's guess. What I know for certain is that the nutritional information of the Honey Oat and Monterrey Cheddar breads had never been so intriguing.

I stared straight ahead and sidestepped my way down the line. I'd just paid when I heard, "Roasted chicken breast, huh? I've never tried that. I really like this new cajun steak they've got goin."

It was the woman. And she was a lot more scary than the first time I tried to ignore her.

As a lot of you know, I'm a bit of a runt with a serious Napoleon complex and a lot of pent up aggression. I'm just aching for any perceived slight, any comment that will send me off the deep end. But when I get hit on by a 5'11, 220-pound, woman that's sporting a mullet, a Harley Davidson sweatshirt, and a box of Camels in her hand, I get intimidated and shut down.

What's bizarre is that this doesn't happen with men. Save one, every man in my life has exceeded 6'3 and 200 pounds because, frankly, I like a guy with the ability to throw me around. So size wasn't an issue. And if I'm getting eyeballed by some chump, I either have fun with or ignore it altogether. So it's not like I clam up and struggle to function when things like that occur. But when a woman enters the picture, I come up woefully short in avoidance management and have no explanation for it.

"You're a doll. A blonde with dimples. What's your name?"It felt very Joey "How you doin" Tribiani. And I'll admit, the flattery was nice but her intensity made me uncomfortable and I wanted to respond like this:

Instead, I muttered a thank you and hung my head, already defeated and completely vexed by her inability to notice my extreme state of discomfort. She started in on the small talk. I don't know how long it lasted but eventually, she mentioned Sawyer & AJ. "Are either of those guys a.. boyfriend?" "Roommates." A boyfriend claim would've ended this situation but I'm braindead and screwed myself.

"Ohhh, right. I used to have a guy roommate too. So I was noticing your hair! You've got that cheerleader ponytail. Are you a cheerleader for ND or something?"

Suddenly, things changed. It was time to get aggressive. If you're gonna hit on me and make me feel small, fine. You're a gigantic woman who might throw me over your shoulder and take me to the cave if I don't tread lightly and I acknowledge your ability to do that. But don't think that you can insult me with comments like that and get away with it! I'll have to die fighting!

"Well I don't know what you expect. You came in that Jeep and that's as much a sign as anything! You look about 16 anyway. Go home to your mommy. Brat!"

I am a brat, so no offense was taken but what did the sign talk mean? To the best of my knowledge, lesbians drive Subarus, Hondas, and pickups. I wasn't aware that Jeeps were in the mix.

When I got home, I hit The Google and sure enough, on the Ultimate Gay & Lesbian Cars list:  

#3 (lesbian): Jeep Wrangler. Sure, the Subaru has more gas mileage but the Wrangler is decidedly more butch."  

Comments from Cartalk and Lesbian Life readers:

• Every lesbian wants a Jeep
• The typical lesbian car... especially white with black leather accessories and round headlights.
• It's not the most comfortable ride in town, but pull up to the lesbian bar with the top down and the girls will know right away you're a good-time gal.

Even more astonishing is that my car shows up on the gay male list as well!

#4: Jeep Wrangler. A veritable boy magnet. Red is a must and no mud please. Go for the long romantic drive before dinner, however, or you'll lose your creme brulee on the ride home.

• It's a regular boy-magnet!
• The ultimate male homobile seems lately to be the Jeep Wrangler. It easily converts from topless cruiser to butch 4x4 to match your mood (and your outfit!). Hey, I've got one!
• Jeep Wrangler: It just swooshes with hyper-masculinity, without requiring the owner to ACTUALLY FIX SOMETHING till the warranty is up! Ooh, then sell it, honey!
  
• I would have to say it's the Jeep Wrangler. All of that open air, open space, party beads hanging from the rearview mirror. And not to mention showing off the tan you got while waiting in traffic. Did I mention the dance music blaring from the Jeep?? It's so gay!

Ya know, I don't care that gays and lesbians are big on the Jeep Wrangler. As far as I'm concerned, it's a great car that should be enjoyed by many.

But why does it come with such an extreme stereotype? Further, why didn't I hear about it prior to last night?

If I drove a Subaru Outback to WNBA games, I'd pull out the Jump to Conclusions Mat myself, so the lot of you could leap all over it. But I drive a Jeep Wrangler with two non-factory accessories - a Doors sticker and a chrome decal. That shouldn't be an indictment on my sexual orientation... should it?

L'Shanah Tovah!

Well boys and girls, I'm back from the dead. Many thanks for the cards, messages, flowers, and even singing telegrams - they were all highly appreciated. 

Though I'm not 100%, I'm pretty functional and things should be getting back to normal around here starting, oh, sometime tomorrow. But until then, here's a little useless information about my Saturday and a great video...

Since I'm actually a good Jew and manage to attend temple on Saturdays (most in the fall excluded, of course) that don't fall within the High Holidays, I was hoping the Almighty wouldn't mind if I rode out the New Year in bed. It's not like I didn't have a good excuse.

But I quickly realized that though I may have been able to escape judgement from our Creator, I could never escape the wrath of my mother, who advised that my soul would not only rot but it would also not be recorded in the Book of Life if I dared not examine my past wrongful deeds and ask for forgiveness for my sins. It sounds silly but she managed to scare me enough that I dragged myself to the synagogue even though I was loaded up on Percocet. I love this religion.

 In honor of me being the coolest Jewess that you know (and also because I need to take a nap), have a video and please, don't feel bad about laughing... it won't make you an anti-Semite.

At the Spa, Massage Actually Means Orgasm

So I'm out shakin it last night when I'm approached by some clown in a striped polo shirt with a popped collar. He offered to buy me a drink and I accepted --not because I'm interested in jerks who look like the Banana Republic Avenger but because I like getting drunk for free. For the next three drinks, I spaced out while he yammered on and eventually made my way back to my group. For some reason, he followed. But after three drinks, I imagine he was expecting at least a number. My mistake.

"You move free and easy." He said it four times, each utterance louder than the one before. "Is that because you got a Brazilian wax on Wednesday?" It was a bizarre question to ask.. but was made even more bizarre by the fact that I actually got one that afternoon. When I looked at him with a bit of puzzlement, he smirked, popped his collar extra, moved his hand to his mouth, and brought his index finger and thumb over his frat boy chin pubes. This annoyed me so much that I nearly forgot to be unnerved by his comments.

"I work there. I saw you come in. I give (cue airquotes) 'massages to ladies.'"

It took a second for this to register but the look on his face said it all... It seems that I've been getting my Brazilian done at some type of backwards handjob parlor for women. What vexed me is that this is a high-end place with ridiculous prices and a pretty affluent clientele... how could anything so tacky be happening? Further, how did I never clue in?!

I mean, they always ask me if I want the massage package but why accept?
- I'm not some soccer mom with no job and 4 rambunctious kids whose depressed husband would rather download free porn in the middle of the night than take 20 minutes to fuck me.
- I don't have a stressful job. Sure, the hours suck balls but I exercise for a living and when I'm done running all those goons around, I get my STIM, rehab, and massages from the PTs for free. They don't use sweet-smelling oils and Zen techniques but they get the job done.
- I do have sports-induced rage. This blog is confirmation of that. But no one ever said to me, hey, now that you're done being traumatized with hair removal and you're all tense, you wanna get off?!?! Aaaaaahhhhhhhh!

I'm running through all of this in my head and kinda losing it when he says: "I looked at your client card and you're wax only! Why don't you get the massage?" I didn't go into the long mental rant that I'd just had and instead said that I don't pay for anything that my boyfriend would do for free. I thought the smart ass delivery and the mention of a boyfriend would pack the right punch.

It didn't.

"Well... I can give you a discount when he's out of town and maybe a freebie tonight?" He did the smirk and collar pop again. ... I immediately gathered our crew and left the club. Any place where Captain Fingers was hanging out was no place for us.

So now I'm not only looking for a new Raiders jersey, but I'm also in search of a new place for my monthly Brazilian that does not offer digital insertion perks for an extra $50 per session. If you know a good spot (or if your girlfriend/wife does), let me know. I have about 30 days to figure it out.

Now Is the Time on Sprockets When We Dance

I've somehow developed an obsession with Christina Aguilera's "Ain't No Other Man." The good thing is that the majority of you are men and have no idea what I'm talking about. The bad thing is that you know who Christina Aguilera is and have lost complete respect for me (if you hadn't already). The worse thing is this song results in involuntary butt shaking. [It's a horrible, ridiculous song but it's so goddamn catchy! My ass can't help it] ...

So it goes that when the hip-shaking beats of 'Ain't No Other Man" started up on the radio this morning, I sprung out of my chair and rocked out. Hard. My office door was shut, so I thought I was safe but then Boss walked in and watched silently with a couple others until the song's completion.

"Well goddamn Little Warner, you move your ass as fast as you run! I felt a breeze! I'll call in some more of the staff and you can put on a show for the whole group!"

I spun around to see a trio of 50-somethings in hysterics...

I am shamed.

One of our idiot grad assistants immediately found the song on the internet and now tries to play it whenever he spots me out of my office. It's usually not difficult operating in this testosterone-laden work environment but when I get caught shaking my ass while on top of a chair and desk and then around the room, it makes things awfully hard. I should live this down, oh, around January.

+

In other news, the Raiders are presently headed to Ohio for the Hall of Fame Game on Sunday, which reminds me of something... Jerry Porter can eat a dick!!

I've refrained from commenting on the Porter problem because I was far too angry to comment rationally. Though you'd argue that I'm always too angry to comment rationally, my feelings on this matter were far more extreme than what I have about anything else... save, of course, the existence of Tottenham Hotspur.

Some of you will remember that I chose a new target of Raiders devotion and jerseyship around this time last year. Having worn various Tim Brown jerseys since the age of 5, I was forced to move on to another player once he retired. Randy Moss and Warren Sapp weren't possibilities because I didn't want to nauseate myself when looking in the mirror. Charles Woodson was also out, as I still wanted to strangle him for lulling us into a false sense of security with a great rookie season and subsequent diva brand of suck. So I went with Porter. Sure, he's an annoying git with some serious personality problems, but I was willing to overlook these negatives because I mistakenly believed he'd make up one half of the most fearsome duo in the NFL.

I should have known better.

Porter sleepwalked through 2005 courtesy of more than $10M in guaranteed money from a pre-season signing bonus. He posted just two 100-yard games, a seven-reception game high, and a 12.4 yards-per-catch average. In six NFL seasons, he's caught 239 passes for 24 touchdowns and 3,215 yards. He has led the Raiders in receiving yards only once, in 2004, with 998 yards, and has never been to the Pro Bowl. So it makes perfect sense that he believes he has the right to be disgruntled with the way Art Shell is running the Raider Ship.

Art Shell has demanded effort, commitment, and discipline, particularly from stars like Moss and Porter. He wants them to work out at the Raiders facility and set a positive tone for the rest of the team. He wants them to be examples. But that's far too much for Porter to handle. When WR Coach Fred Biletnikoff asked Porter if he was staying around for the off-season program, Porter said he'd prefer to practice in Florida. I don't know if Porter is aware of it but he went to West Virginia, not The U. He's not Edgerrin James or Clinton Portis. Try that bullshit excuse once you've been to a Pro Bowl or two.

In response to this news, Biletnikoff said, "What's the matter, stud, you're not gonna stay here for the program?"

And that's when the madness started. It didn't end until Art Shell entered the room and asked, "Who the f--- do you think you are? Who do you think you're talking to?"

I know the answer to that, Art! Jerry thinks he's TO in an argument with Andy Reid. But what he doesn't understand is that one can't act like TO and then produce like Jerry Porter. Being a diva is not permitted when you're the #2 receiver for a franchise that death-spiraled to 13-35 while you were on the roster.

As a result of this incident, Porter wants out of Oakland and on to a team that either has Mike Martz or an offense that isn't "dusted off from a bed and breakfast in God knows where." Hopefully, he won't be given the pleasure. This horse's arse needs a swift kick to the chin and a warm place on the bench where he can reflect until he learns how to behave. I'm not sure what the actual penalty will be but I know Art Shell will be all over it. I was incredibly annoyed at the Shell hiring and openly hoped for Al Davis to die... multiple times... [That had more to do with the state of the Raiders as a whole than just the head coach situation] but I hope to be proven wrong. Hardass or not, Shell was a mediocre coach the first time around; I'm not confident in his ability to lead us to the promised land in his second attempt. But I am overjoyed at the way he handles this organization. The inmates run the asylum no longer and that's a great start. If it costs us a receiver like Jerry Porter, so be it.

In any case, it's time I start looking at new jerseys. I can't support an obnoxious cockbag like this. Any suggestions? Given that it's the Raiders, I suppose there are none. Maybe I'll put the Tim Brown back on and take on the role of the chick that just can't let go.

In A Land Far, Far Away

Be back on Monday or Tuesday.

Cheers!

Happy Birthday, Mum!

That feather-haired, Wham!-loving vision to your immediate right is my mum on July 8, 1985. She turned 26 the day before and it looks like she was making a proper time of it.

A few years before this picture, she attended Oxford where she captained the varsity rowing and field hockey teams. She graduated with a degree in economics and immediately put that to use by marrying my father and quickly bearing three rambunctious children - the last and most special of which being yours truly... am I her greatest accomplishment to date? There is no question.

Less than a year following this photo, Mum would forever change my outlook on life when she showed me the nature of English sorrow and despair by letting loose a deluge of tears following the "Hand of God" tragedy at the 1986 World Cup. After the second Maradona goal, she said "the god of football hates us." She also noted that we were his play things... I still don't know if she was talking about Maradona or the football god. 

Disappointments like this, though commonplace for her, were new to my siblings and I, so she gathered us together at the match's conclusion and told us to remain strong and faithful for the "Three Lions will rise and conquer the world when the Cup returns in 1990." I had no concept of time in those days and when it was clear that 1990 wasn't coming after the morning's breakfast, I immediately felt betrayed - mostly by the aforementioned English-hating football god but also by my mother, who foolishly raised my hopes even though she knew disappointment lied ahead.

So it happens that the woman who brought me into this world and taught me how to be cynical and melodramatic is turning 47 years old today. Of course, she's had more influence on my life than my being a football depressive this but since the World Cup dominates my thoughts, that is what she's getting credit for today.

As such, huzzah and happy birthday to my mum. She kicks ass and will drop kick you and your mum in a hot second if provoked! So if you know her, you'd best say something nice. If you don't, just think it... she'll feel the love.

Dirk Nowitzki & There's Something About Mary

Sometime during the Great Depression my great-grandparents shelled out a few kids, eventually calling it a day after tyke #4. Well, my great-grandfather was, and still remains, a frisky cat and wound up in the same bed as my great-grandma's younger sister. She got pregnant, which resulted in the Jerry Springer situation that is my Great Uncle/2nd Cousin Sean. He prefers to be called Uncle Sean but only he believes this. Anyway, my great-grandmother got pregnant with child #5 as some type of weird revenge... though I've never understood her logic on that one since she's the one that went through all the pain and annoyance of pregnancy and labor, I can only assume she wasn't thinking clearly. In any case, 50-odd years of familial awkwardness ensued and now, finally, my grand aunt has passed. She shuffled loose last Wednesday, about a minute after Jens Lehmann was sent off during the 18th minute of Arsenal's losing effort to Barcalona FC... I like to think that his bonehead move did her in but according to her nurse (who was watching the match so how could she really know), she heard that eerie death rattle start up at least a 20 minutes earlier. Anyway, we're leaving for Israel tomorrow to bury her... In an odd twist, my great-grandfather is giving the eulogy for no other reason than to stick it to my great-grandmother just for kicks.  

In any case, on to a few bits and pieces... 

• Do Dirk Nowitzki's teefuses remind anyone of Matt Dillon's capped job as Pat Healy in "There's Something About Mary" or is it just me?
• The World Cup tv schedule has been released. Even if you don't like soccer, jump on the bandwagon and use the U.S. vs. Czech Republic match on June 12 as an excuse to take a 4-hour lunch.
• In other World Cup news, health experts are giving warnings that cardiac arrests, wife-beating, binge drinking, smoking, and suicide surge during the world's most-watched sporting contest. During the '98 World Cup, the number of heart attacks in Britain rose by 25% when England lost to Argentina in a penalty shootout. According to a study in the British Medical Journal - compared with admissions for the same day in previous years - 55 more people were treated for a heart stoppage. It seems that depression, violence, and self-harm are also well-known outcomes of football matches and they peak during World Cups... maybe I've finally found a valid excuse to do all the nasty things that I've been dreaming about these many years...
• Some guy went nuts on an airline the other day and was restrained by none other than Dr. 90210 himself (I don't know who this guy is but the article seems to indicate that he's tres cool). The crazy hopped out of his seat in coach and marched into first class about 15 minutes before the flight was going to land. The passengers watched the madness unfold for quite some time but when the hostile pushed a stewardess, Dr. 90210 sprung to action. "When you get a black belt, at that stage your brain just clicks into action. I restrained this gentleman in a very aggressive way without hurting him." Very impressive. Too bad he used his kah-rah-tay to take down a "very frail" 80 year old man whose only weapons were probably a bottle of Metamucil and a pair of Depends. Someone needs their brain to click into action and kick Dr. 90210 in the teeth. Stupid bastard.

David Blaine To Visit Baloo, Shere Khan, & King Louie

[Be forewarned. I'm starting out with a huge tangent. If you want to skip it, proceed to asterisk] Sophomore year, a girl was moved into our room (we were in a triple) after struggles with her previous roommate. We figured she got kicked out for being a proselytizing atheist but since my roommate and I were Catholic and Jewish, respectively, that conclusion didn't add up. In any case, we found Andrea to be a nice enough girl. Sure, she sexed up a 48-year-old father of 3 on AIM until 3 am each night [she showed us a picture of him once and he looked like Lips Manless from Dick Tracy with a buzzcut] and had an abnormal obsession with David Blaine [wore DB t-shirts at least twice a week] but she wasn't all bad. At least, her boyfriend didn't think so. His name was Abel and if there was ever the human embodiment of Pigpen from the Peanuts strip, it was him. He smelled like cat litter, cigarrettes, and funky balls and ass, a nauseating aroma made worse by his wool wardrobe and living conditions. Side note -- if you weren't on a full ride athletic scholarship like myself or privy to various grants and funding like my roomie, tuition cost the average student about $40,000 per year. This wasn't a huge problem since most kids came from money but the ones that didn't had loans and part-time jobs. But while Abel didn't come from a well-monied background, he had neither a scholarship nor a job to make up for it. How he was getting by is anyone's guess but unlike 99% of undergrads, he chose to live off campus in a $400/month one room shithole with three cats. His wardrobe consisted of 2 pair wool pants, a few t-shirts, and a wool Union Army uniform jacket (he was in a group that re-enacted Civil War battles on the weekends). And since he couldn't afford detergent, the wool absorbed between 6-8 days of funk before he rinsed it out in OUR sink with hand soap. My roommate and I couldn't understand why Andrea didn't do his laundry for him or buy him more clothes but never had the guts to ask... our only request was that they not have sex in our room, as his stink would linger for longer than the typical 2 hours. Sometime around spring midterms, things came to a head. Not only did they violate the sex rule, Abel left his clothes behind for Andrea to hand wash. Trouble was, she forgot and they rotted in our closed-up room ALL afternoon. After dinner, we had an intervention. "Look, we can't live like this. If Abel wants to come back, he has to agree to start bathing and washing and wearing other fabrics than wool." My roomie chimed in, "Yeah and this is fuckin up my asthma!" "Yeah, it's fuckin up her asthma!! If he can't afford it, we'll help him out. Something's gotta give here! He smells worse than B.O. and it sticks to everything it touches like it's alive!" Andrea thought it over and then dropped these bombs on us:

"Wouldn't it be amazing if David Blaine could like, I dunno, fix it?!" Our faces could best be described as "Wa-waaaaaaaaah?!" "Yeah! He could come here. Do magic and fix Abel and you wouldn't have to keep buying the potpourri bottles and Febreeze, Warner!" Stunned silence. She continued: "Here's what gets me. Everybody says 'Jesus Christ,' 'Oh God,' 'God dammit,' shit like that. But God doesn't exist so why not replace that with David Blaine! 'Ohh David Blaine!' 'Blaine dammit!' 'David fucking Blaine!' At least he's real and powerful!"

My roommate and I looked at each other and got the hell out of there. This was before the South Park episode about Blaintology, so we couldn't even mock her... we could only run away.

* David Blaine can eat a dick. Though my feelings are irrationally rooted in my hatred for the above-mentioned deranged girl, I'll admit that early on, I liked him. He's hot and the levitating and street magic were pretty cool... or as cool as magic can be. But then the arrogant bastard stopped doing tricks and got on with lame endurance stunts. I'm not saying the guy has to be impregnating chicks without having sex like David Copperfield but at least wow me with an illusion or two. Trick me, David! Mislead me! Lead me down the primrose path! Don't just sit in a tank for a week (what was the point of that??!) and then promise that you'll hold your breath for 9 minutes or die and NOT FOLLOW UP!! I refuse that! What's even worse about this madness is in the time that it's taken Blaine's dick to transition from raisin to shriveled up movie theater hotdog, he's come up with his next Lack of Trickery Stunt:

"I'm planning to live harmoniously among wild beasts. And I'd like to do it alone in the jungle."

Get the fuck outta here, David Blaine! You're not Mowgli and Baloo won't be out there caring for your ass. Besides, I think Jane Goodall and Dian Fossey (AND her gorillas in the mist) would agree that this shit is old hat.

I've got a magic trick for you - why don't you send yourself to Hell, contact ABC from the 5th circle, and arrange for them to televise your return. Stu Scott can write a free verse poem about your brilliant emergence from the fire and if you don't come back, we'll assume the trickery failed.

Apologies

Apologies for the absence. Someone once told me that I should never apologise for not updating without explanation but I figure if you're doing me the courtesy of reading my words, I should afford you the same and not leave you hanging. Earlier in the week, I was simply up against it and didn't have time to run my mouth to you but later on, things simply got weird.

I was at the hospital for some blood tests on Friday morning and had the misfortune of sitting next to this random oldster that smelled like a mixture of cigars and the geriatric ward. He was waiting for his wife and as you can imagine, was a chatty bastard. I had a 0515 appointment and rolled out of bed about 15 minutes before but he looked like a guy that got up with the roosters and was just hitting his stride. I spent the next 10 minutes nodding in silent agreement as he rambled on about immigrants, American jobs going to Mexico, war, and anything else you hear when your grandfather gets fired up. The only things missing were my Zayde's stories about Los Angeles in the early 50s and Route 66 but this guy didn't seem quite as interesting. Then out of nowhere, he said, "Ya know something, I don't feel like... I just don't feel good at all." I asked him if he wanted water but he refused, saying he'd stop at a water fountain when he went out for a smoke. And with that, he fell out of his chair and directly onto his face. I wish I could say I went on auto-pilot and swooped in to save the day but I'm pretty sure I sat there for about 30 seconds, staring at him while paralyzed with shock. I snapped to though, screamed for help, and attempted to set to work. In the beginning, it was incredibly difficult... he had dentures and his jaw was clenched shut... he was also gurgling. The wave of nausea that hit me didn't help matters either. But I got myself together and did what I could for about 5 minutes until people that actually knew what they were doing arrived. It is amazing to me that it took so long in a freaking hospital but I suppose there's only so much you can ask at 0530 in a random lab. Having watched too much ER, I assumed all of these doctors would appear and rush him up to the OR but these guys were paramedics that tried to revive him right there on the floor. Sometime during this madness, the wife appeared from the lab room and started rooting him on. I found out that his name was Lawrence. He was 61, had a history of heart problems, and was a heavy smoker. And at times, she'd root him on. "Come on Larry. Come back Larry." It was unsettling. After a couple minutes, they brought out the portable paddles and shocked him... 4 attempts; no results. The paramedics asked me what time he fell out of the chair and determined that 18 minutes had passed. They got him on a board and carted him away. The wife went with them. From the chest up, he was blue and since he hadn't moved since the gurgling nearly 15 minutes before, I assumed he was gone and spent the next three days heavily unnerved by the fact the man probably expired while my mouth was on his. But this morning I found out that they actually managed to save the old dude and though his memory is hazy, he's now up and around. The first thing he asked for was a cigarette. Hopefully, they won't be allowing him anymore of those.

In any case, I'll be back to normal tomorrow. I hope you all gave your mums a great Sunday and managed to treat her well for once... naturally, my mum had a great one, which wasn't hard since I spent the day reminding her that she created me and I'm bloody fantastic ;-)

Cheers!

Chief Wahoo and My PC Confrontation

*My brother was a huge Cleveland Indians fan and his beloved Indians cap is now mine; I'm not an Indians fan but for sentimental reasons, I wear it all the time (including today).

So it happens that while I was going about things earlier today, some random woman (hereby known as "Protest" since she looked like she missed the bus to next one) got in my face and said, "How dare you! The Native American peoples suffer from oppression, poverty, and alcoholism and you mock them!!" 

It took me a couple seconds to realize that she was not down with Chief Wahoo but this didn't occur until after I stopped laughing at her saying "peoples." My delayed reaction wasn't noticed, however, as Protest went off the deep end, bashing me from this angle and that for my insensitivity to the Native American plight.

Eventually, she ran out of things to complain about and asked if I had a response... She said it in that tone your mum uses when she calls you out on being bad and asks if you "have anything to say for yourself." In those situations, my head usually drops in shame and I pout. But not today. "Thank you for your opinions ma'am but I AM an indian and if I want to offend myself with a baseball cap, that's my business." Protest's mouth fell open but all that came out were "I can't believe you"-type scoffing noises. I call them the sounds of inarticulate indignance, but soon enough, she got some words out and the topic shifted. 

"I'm sorry young lady but to be an Indian, you have to meet specific blood numbers set by the government! With your white hair, I doubt you meet those!" "You mean the government-imposed blood quantum that determines how white I am and whether or not I can belong to this ethnic group?" "Uh.. well I wouldn't put it that way." "But that's what it is." "So what? You don't meet them!" "My father's an Apache and my mother is English-German. To be a member of the Apache nation, you need 1/8 blood, so since I'm 1/2, it looks like I'm covered..... Got any more brainbusters?" "Oh..."

She looked defeated, I was pleased. But it wasn't over. "Well... do you speak your native tongue?" "Yes." "What would your ancestors say to you?" Was she asking me to lecture myself out loud about the hat? I didn't respond to her but I don't think my ancestors would have anything to say. They missed the John Wayne era where Indians were portrayed as savages and drunk injun sidekicks, so I doubt Chief Wahoo would resonate with them... my grandfather, on the other hand, would definitely object.

"Your peoples (again with peoples) are proud warriors and can't be pleased with your hat and the fact that you're destroying your own culture instead of bettering your life and leaving the reservation for education!" At that point, I left the scene. We weren't going to accomplish anything.

This exchange pissed me off because we could have had a good conversation about these issues, ya know? Chief Wahoo is a fiery red, hook-nosed, wildly grinning caricature that is about as politically correct as a depiction of two black children in overalls with big eyes and big lips eating watermelon. And given the brutality and systematic dehumanization that has befallen American Indians, why is Wahoo so goddamn smiley? 

Maybe he's just amused that team mascots are the only mainstream images of Indians that the majority of Americans see... maybe he's a bumbling, drunk fool. Whatever it is, nothing can be done about it since we don't have a Jesse Jackson-type squawking and boycotting each time someone's feathers get ruffled. But alas. Rather than make an attempt at calm, rational, intelligent discussion, that stupid cunt got in my face, lit into me like an pissed off hen, and then questioned how Indian I actually am (or maybe how Indian I'm not). And now Protest is probably off at a poetry slam or some coffee house telling her group about the misguided, lost cause she met today and they're getting up in arms about it. Ugh.

Warner Family Seder Ruined by Berkeley Grad

Since food dominates my life, Pesach is usually the longest week of the year. It's not that plenty of food isn't cooked or that it isn't good. I eat more during Passover than I could even begin to during Thanksgiving. But I want pizza. I want french toast. I want peanut butter cookies. I want Gatorade. I want my kinda kosher diet back! But the closest I can come to satisfaction is matzah pizza and Passover-approved Coca Cola... the corn syrupy goodness is replaced by sugar. As much as it sucks, it's still better than Diet Coke. So it happens I tried to get a few forbidden items in before sundown yesterday, hoping greatly that my mum would be none the wiser. But no sooner had I taken a bite did she materialize out of thin air to pop me in the mouth with the back of her hand... wedding ring included :( I dropped the Coke can and thanks to the stinging pain, my jaw fell open and the cookie fell out before I could swallow. She then scolded me about struggle and deliverance, redemption and remembering, and the fact that she'd cleared our house of chametz and wasn't about to have that screwed up by my lack of will power and respect for the past. I thought about asking if I could skip Seder altogether since I just got the lesson but thought better of it. After my apology, she gave me an apple, patted my head, and told me to go outside to play... though one day I'm sure she'll realize I'm not 5 years old, I doubt the revelation occurs this week. A couple hours later, my family had arrived and the Seder got started. All was well until it was revealed that I would serve my 18th year on Kasha patrol.  For the uninformed, that's the four questions and they're read by the family's youngest child. While that ought to be my five year old nephew, he's not quite grasped the trilingual presentation of Hebrew, Yiddish, and English and I got hosed yet again. Alejandro seems like the type of kid that'll shirk this duty until he's under the pain of death to perform, so I could be doing this stuff until I'm 30.

In any case, we only had one person that I'd consider a guest -- my cousin's coworker, Eric. Aunt Rosa insisted he be invited under the belief that a little spirituality would do his life some good. Eric was (or is, rather) an atheist Berkeley grad.. one of those stereotypical granola breath Birkenstock types that drives a beat-up VW bus while bitching about how humans betray nature and the environment. He thinks belief in I would say the tolerance for this type of individual isn't high at my house, so he was already at a disadvantage. We hit our first snag while I was asking the second question. Once I spouted out the English (always the last of the three), he said, "Yeah that's completely nuts... Jews should definitely spend less time wondering about that and more time trying to figure something out about how to treat Palestinians right in Israel" I can't quite communicate the collective horror but there wasn't time for silence, as my Zayde said, "Why I'm gonna put my foot in--" My Bubbe stood up and sat him down. I continued with the questions. His next move was to throw in an amended line from The Big Lebowski, "Three thousand years of beautiful tradition, from Moses to Sandy Koufax to the Warner's Seeder party!" There was silence and then he asked questions about Charlton Heston. "Is he Jewish?... Does he have a role... if he has a role, maybe he could step in and stop your Zionist killing but hey, with the NRA and all, he's probably as psychotic as the rest of you." These comments were topped with, "When are we watching the Ten Commandments movie because that whole thing where he magically opens up the ocean was AMAZING!" But it didn't stop there. Five minutes later, he went back to Lebowski and asked if we roll on Shabbos. My father grabbed him by the collar and pulled him out of the house, down the drive, and dumped him in the road while my Uncle hotwired his van, which didn't have keys to begin with, and left it in the street. I think it's safe to say he won't be coming back for dinner this evening... or any for that matter.  

If I wasn't a Jew and was just looking to do the most obnoxious things ever, I might think about taking Eric's route.. I'd brag to my friends about how I would make Sandy Koufax jokes... my wit would be on point while I ran my mouth about matzah and rabbis but never could I fathom actually going through with such things. So while a tiny part of me wants to give the guy credit for having the nerve to rip on Jews while they sat around him, the rest of me hopes his van breaks down in the barrio tonight and he gets shot in the face. Stupid fuck.

It's 3 am

• I won't give you a regurgitated bit of sports-radio wisdom regarding the celebration of mediocrity that is 3/4 of the bowl game schedule but I'd like to present a new bowl idea dreamt up primarily by Coz .. the Polar Bear Bowl. We'll replace the Capital One or Outback Bowl with this gem and play it at Lambeau under classic Green Bay conditions. Players, most of which won't go to the NFL, will have a chance to play on this legendary field, Green Bay can have an extra boost to its little economy, and SEC fans can have another thing to bitch about... I doubt they'll travel well to a game like this but Notre Dame or a Big Integer team is involved, filling the seats should be no problem.
• While the death of James Dungy was tragic and all, will someone ever question why his girlfriend went for a walk at 1 am only to return 10 minutes later t0 find that he'd hung himself and wasn't breathing? I don't buy it. Her story reeks.
• I just pulled for Nebraska and let go a "whooo!" when that last ditch Cal-Stanford Band effort by Michigan ended in failure while Mike Tirico unobjectively emoted in the background. I feel dirty but what the hell kind of finish was that? If anyone knows how to fashion a cock up like this, it's Lloyd Carr. I hope Michigan holds on to this guy for another 20 years.
  
• Season after season of collapses and coaching miscues will not prevent voters from placing Michigan in next year's pre-season top 5 or 10. Inevitably, the same voters will be surprised that the Wolverines were so grossly overrated when week 7 rolls around and UM already boasts 2 losses.
• Watching Bill Callahan taste victory, even at the expense of Michigan, made me nauseous.
• I forgot the NFL was playing on Saturday and didn't have my fantasy teams adequately prepared, but I managed to squeak out a championship win, besting Boss in the finals of the playoffs by 5 points. Steve Harvey finished 3rd, Beano came in 4th, and I'm not sure how the rest of the office fared. When I congratulated Boss on a job almost well-done, he threatened to fire me if I spoke of it again. This seems to be an abuse of power.
  
• Lord help you if you are one of these girls: The Girls I Have Dated.
• During Secret Santa activities at the office, one of the secretaries gave another a gag scratch-off lottery ticket. The ticket was a $100,000 winner and the woman started freaking out - it was the crying and the thanking God and the whole new lease on life deal. See, she's a single mother with a son in high school and a daughter in college and making $40,000 per year leaves money pretty tight. I don't know if she was planning to quit or what but after she told off a load of people she didn't like, I don't think she left herself many options. In any case, the gift-giver finally revealed the truth - naturally, tears followed and the woman went home for the day. I don't think she came back either. I found out tonight that the gift-giver has been suspended from work after the completion of the Christmas holiday and I have to agree with the move. You can't play with people's emotions like that, especially when they're in dire straits. In a similar and more amusing vein, check out this video: The Winning Ticket.
  
• I need to surf and I need it bad... so much so that it's giving me the tinglies inside. My boyfriend misinterpreted my needs and believes that I'm in heat. If I can't ride the waves, I'll ride him instead with equal voracity but he can't rock me like the ocean can. Hopefully he won't read this and have an episode. If he does, I love you baby.. I'm dreadfully tired and this is all lies.

Fighting Back with Bible Verses

Thoughts and Issues on a Friday

a) I'm a feminist. I believe in the full social, economic, and political equality of women and making that a reality. But I never said anything about shutting down the WNBA or wiping women's hoops from the face of the earth. What I said was that the lack of talent and athleticism makes the league unwatchable. If 300 Diana Taurasi's played, I wouldn't opt for Law & Order: SVU on a random Monday night. Being a feminist doesn't mean I have to be a radical. I'm not going to get militant unless the Raiders or Yankees are playing and the only time you'll see me picketing is when I'm trying to get Norv Turner fired. I'm not rooting for women just because they're women, and I'm not going to keep my mouth shut when the ability of 75% of the players to walk and chew gum at the same time is extremely suspect.

b) Though it's true that I'm a Daddy's girl, my mother, is, in fact, alive and well. She rowed crew and played field hockey at Oxford University and loves sports but she'd rather watch a racquetball tournament than the WNBA.

c) I'm not a homophobe nor am I in the closet. According to The Gay-o-meter, I'm a "perfectly balanced hetero-babe" at 50% gay. But I will admit that a girl walked up to me at a party once and kissed me. I either didn't care for it or was too drunk to enjoy it. I'll also admit that if Salma Hayek propositioned me, I'd be all over her like the ship was goin down. By the way, I never said a word about the sexual orientation of some players or the league's willful blindness to the fact that their primary market is the GLBT community. Get over yourselves. Idiots.

"I did speak out about the situation (his firing from Notre Dame). My problem is I didn't say what somebody else wanted to hear. ... I haven't bit my tongue. I said exactly what Tyrone Willingham wanted to say. The world's not ready for what I wanted to say." - Willingham being insane

"It's insulting. And mark my words, it's going to come back on him. You start thinking about a guy like Pat Tillman, who turned down millions to go fight for his country. Then you think about Eli crying about where he wants to play football, and it just puts everything into perspective." - LaDainian Tomlinson

Beano, Co-Worker and Baffling Irritant

Teaching Life Lessons

Problems

Not Calling Random Hookups Has Consequences

I can't drink coffee. Well, I can but for the good of my life span, it's best that I don't. The last coffee I had was during finals last winter; it was a latenight cram session powered by Maxwell House. I loaded each cup with sugar, french vanilla Coffee Mate, and some York Peppermint Patties. I had my fourth and last cup around 2 am but at 4, I still couldn't sleep. I first thought it was a normal coffee buzz but then I started jumping off furniture and screaming and running around outside in circles. I did this for 3 straight hours and then ran the mile to class.

Once there, I got my test and found a seat but you know how finals are - you have to wait 20 minutes with your pencils and anxieties while tightass douchebags to your left confuse you with a faulty information review and obnoxious tools on your right talk about how easy it will all be. A few minutes after sitting down, my buzz developed into a full-on PCP type freakout. I was wearing a knit skullcap and could feel the knit material sliding against my skin, I heard my pounding heartbeat from every possible direction. At first I thought the professor was piping in sounds through the intercom to scare us but that wasn't the case. I looked down expecting it to pop out of my chest in some pseudo Temple of Doom moment but that didn't happen either. I could feel the rest of my clothes creeping along my skin, my head itched more and more, and I could hear conversations from 30 feet away, pencil erasures, random sniffs, and someone opening a juice box in the far corner. It was like Spidey sense but from the devil.

Somehow, I got through my test, ran back to my room, and sat around twitching and shaking my head back and forth like Katharine Hepburn until I crashed out on my face in the middle of the living room floor about 2 days later. My trusty housemates left me there while they had pizza, played video games, and watched tv around my comatose body. 16 hours later, I came to. "You were breathing so we knew you weren't dead. We were gonna give it a day."

Today was my first coffee since the "incident" and on Scott's suggestion, I hit Starbucks on campus. I didn't recognize the guy working but he seemed to know me. [Read all of his lines in a catty bitch voice] "Oh, it's you... Let me guess, come here to apologize for not calling?" I looked around but I was the only person around. "Yeah I'm talkin to you. I don't know who you think you are." I apologized but he went off like we were on Guiding Light. "You don't even know why you're sorry you insensitive-" but then somebody came around from the back, so he calmly asked for my order. Caramel Macchiato. His anger seemed to fade, so I relaxed a little. I shouldn't have. "I didn't know you were a coffee drinker. I thought you were a Gatorade girl." Was this a slight? I couldn't be sure. "I heard about that thing with you and the coffee last year. That must've sucked." I nodded and then my phone rang. When I hung up, my drink was ready. I drank it near the counter. It tasted weird and seemed thick but what do I know?

"How'd you like that mach?" Why do coffee people always have to use the lingo? I told him it I'd probably stick to Gatorade. Then he started talking like he was Jessica Fletcher solving the case. "It was a party in Knott your freshman year.... You were with your friends in Rocky's room. We talked and later I was pretty NICE and GIVING to you. When I asked if you'd call me, you said 'Oh yeah, sure, whatever'? Register? Remember that?" It took a minute but then I remembered [that he was pretty run of the mill at the giving] and asked how he'd been [probably the wrong move]. "Well.. I'm doing well. You know what makes me feel so good? .... Knowing I just put 10 shots of espresso in that macchiato and that your heart will explode. Have a nice day, you heartless bitch!" Then he spun around and walked in the back.

I haven't been the same since.

Boss thinks I'm on crack, I'm jumpier than a virgin at a prison rodeo, and I have this overwhelming need to run out in the streets, break things, and scare innocent bystanders. If anyone is up for causing trouble tonight, tomorrow night, or even the next night, email, IM, or call. I'm gonna be up for a while.

Charlie Hook's Ribs, Fish, & Chicken

Too bad my summer is effectively over. I never had a chance to make any porn... at least, not in a profitable business venture. :-(

In any case, today, at 5 am, I go back to work after a summer off. Though I've had to return to campus for random staff meetings and also to run "voluntary training sessions," I've largely been left to my own devices. I'm not certain "being left to one's own devices" is the most advisable thing for a person of poor judgment and minimal self-control like myself but for once, I think I've done a fairly good job keeping myself out of trouble's way. In a true sign of maturity (or simply one of being at home under parental jurisdiction), I surfed, drank, partied, and caroused much less than usual and occasionally proved myself a responsible adult capable of being a productive member of society. I proudly shared as much with Boss when he called last night but his response wasn't quite what I was looking for.

"I don't need you to be (bleep) responsible, I (bleep) need you to be (bleep) responsible about bustin some (bleep) ass, ok?" "Yes?" "You don't sound like yourself. I need three things from you -- punctuality, energy, rage. (Bleep) killer! You ready to do some (bleep) killin??!!" "I'm" "THAT'S (bleep) RIGHT! See you in the morning. 5 am!" *Click*

Before I could put down the phone, it rang again. "And that (bleep) means no boozin tonight, sister! No killin the beers! FIVE (bleep) AM goddammit!! You save your crazy social life for when we hit a routine!! I need that energy up up up and straight (bleep) into it! I need you gettin some (bleep) rest! You (bleep) soccer (bleep bleep) are craziest (bleep) of them all." *Click* Two minutes later, the phone rang again. I debated answering but Boss has a tendency to go crazy if forced to leave voicemails. "No contacts. You can have your sunglasses, no contacts! Come as the Lord made you. There are freshmen to deal with." "That was the plan." "Yes... right. Okay. (bleep) Good night. Rest up. Here we go... good night." "Gnight, sir."

After hanging up, I stared at my phone, unsure if Boss would ring again. [It felt like one of those absurd sitcom moments where the camera zooms in on the phone while the actor, sitting in front of a bowl of cereal and clad in flannel pants, awaits a call of doom from his girlfriend, mother, or job. Then the phone rings, effectively scaring our sitcom star off of his kitchen stool and onto the floor. The random neighbor enters the room, points, and laughs. Hilarity ensues while the studio audience roars.] Luckily, it never happened. Boss was a little more hyper tonight than usual but I can't imagine how many emotions he's been through in recent days. His behavior was more than reasonable. After going through the conversations in my head, it took about 2 minutes to decide that drinking was absolutely necessary.

So at the conclusion of a pretty solid binge, I had a taste for some Popeye's fried chicken. Much to my chagrin, Popeye's is not a 24-hour joint and visits to the local establishments were unsuccessful. However, you'll be happy to know that a place named Charlie Hook's Ribs, Fish, & Chicken, which operates in a building where the workers are protected by bulletproof glass (the food and money exchange is done in a bulletproof lazy susan type of thing), was willing to deliver as much fried chicken (and sides) as necessary but not without stipulations. It seems that while Charlie Hook's is 24 hours, it does not normally provide a chicken delivery service. This is completely vexing to me, as I can't be the only person out there with 3 am hankerings for legs, thighs, and biscuits. In any case, they wouldn't deliver the chicken unless I also made a substantially large ribs order that was much more fierce than the $10 bullshit required by Chinese restaurants.

In light of these events, if anyone in the area is interested in some succulent, fall off the bone ribs today around lunchtime, Jordan will be near the stadium showing off his fabulous grillman skills and a few other housemates will be putting together rib lunches for $5 a pop [If you are low on cash and would like lunch for free, you'll be required to donate a 6 pack of Guinness, Murphy's, Labatt, or something that isn't one of the Big 6 to our house's first party of the year]. This lunch will include the option of ribs or rib tips, biscuit or cornbread, green beans, and macaroni & cheese. You're on your own for beverages and fatty desserts.

Cheers!

My Sister Owned Me. Again.

This is my sister. Now, some of you are wondering if I'm the milkman's, but I assure you, that's not the case at all.

I belong to the mailman.

While growing up, my sister spent most of her free time emotionally abusing me and going out of her way to exclude me from activities (I spoke of one of these childhood instances here: Sharp Contrasts). I was a sensitive young one, so it couldn't have been hard work for her. She is the middle child and was born without the albinic features that plague my brother and I. Amazingly, being the normal-looking one of our brood only served to make her feel out of place and may be a slight explanation to some of her behavior. In any case, when not upsetting me, she played with her Barbie's and engaged in other girlie type things in which I had zero interest. My lack of interest never stopped me from trying to hang out with her, as I thought she was the greatest thing in the world for being everything that I could never be. Even now, I am constantly seeking her approval. And though we're 11 months apart, I grew up believing we had little in common other than naturally curly hair, left-handedness, and a dislike for onions. But in the last week, my sister has revealed herself to be a helluva lot cooler than I ever could have imagined. And it was today that she punched me in the face with knowledge and opinion... about sports.

When she came in the room earlier, I changed the channel from ESPN to E!. I usually do that because I know that we can both enjoy E! but I am never really sure if she'll be down with the random baseball game that I'm watching. But this time, I changed the channel and she didn't seem to notice. I turned it back. A few minutes later, sparked by my wearing a throwback Tim Brown jersey from his Notre Dame years, my sister put me so far in my place that I fear it'll be months before I find my way out. (her words are in yellow)

"Too bad you can't find a throwback Jerry Rice from... where'd he go?"
"Mississippi Valley State."
"Does Mississippi even have valleys?"
"I don't think so... maybe some gulches though."
"A gulch is a valley, Yoda. I thought you were the smart one."
"..."
"Gulch State sounds awful. Valley is clearly necessary."
"Mississippi has deltas."
"Delta State."
"Deltha O'Neil."
"Delta Burke."
"Is a fatty."

Like me, my sister has a gift (or curse) for the oddly-timed, random comment, so our civil conversations usually follow that obnoxious pattern of give and take that drives people mad.
We spent the next minutes in relative silence. Then she said:

"With all this talk about Tim Brown and how he played on bad teams, why doesn't anyone wonder how he would have fared if he had Steve Young and Joe Montana and those great 49er teams instead? I don't think he would have done nearly as well as Rice. He just wasn't explosive or fast or dangerous enough. With Brown on their teams, Montana would have become another Marino or an Elway that had to wait until the end of his career to win it all. Consistency doesn't win Super Bowls. And if Brown was with the Niners, isn't it nuts to wonder where Rice would have been? Maybe Marino would have won that Super Bowl after all."

My mouth fell open. I stared at her while she prattled on but the remainder of what she said simply failed to register. I couldn't quite wrap my brain around what I was hearing. It had nothing to do with her opinions or the merit of her argument. But it was that MY sister, the girl that flies to Beverly Hills twice a month for a $400 shampoo and haircut from that metrosexual douchebag on Blowout actually contemplated the career of Tim Brown and THEN had opinions about how his presence would impact great offenses and quarterbacks of the past. My sister's always been a pretty good athlete and you can't grow up in my house without knowing a little about sports, so it's not like she's incapable of having these discussions. But in the 6 times that I've actually heard her discuss football, 5 of those conversations dealt with the wealth of great asses that can be found in defensive secondaries. And though she's absolutely correct about the quality of ass in those areas of the field, it doesn't do much for her credibility as a legitimate fan of the game. In any case, I stared at her in such disbelief that she grew uncomfortable and stopped talking.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"
"B-b-b-because... well, where did you--"
"Oh what I can't have opinions?"
"Well... I didn't mean that, I--"
"Oh you think I read about it in Cosmo, didn't you?"
"But you see I--"
"You have no respect for me unless you're asking me how to wear your hair or how to pick up boys."
"But no" (Actually, but yes) "I didn't m--"

And that's when she teed off on my dumb ass.

"Just because I like to read my Coach catalogs and do my nails while you, Matt, August, and Daddy watch and talk sports doesn't mean that I'm not at least somewhat paying attention to what's going on. What, you don't think I noticed when Tim Brown only collected 200 yards receiving and ONE touchdown last season? Like I didn't know that Ben Roethlisberger actually had a rating of, like, 33 in this huge win over the Jets even though he threw 2 interceptions and totally stunk it up? And I know what you're thinking in that mind of yours.. 'She probably doesn't know who Troy Brown is' [Actually it was Belichick but that's neither here nor there] but you're wrong because I do and it was a shame that the Patriots released him only to sign him again for LESS than a million. He deserves more than that. I couldn't avoid this stuff if I tried, especially with Daddy making us watch the goddamn NFL Network all the time. And here you are, my sister of all people, thinking I can't talk about Tim Brown and have an opinion?? Oh please."
"But--"
"Turn it back to E!"

If I am Kellen Winslow II in this situation, think of my sister as Randy Starks.

Selling One of My Surfboards

My dad enrolled me in surfing school when I was 6 years old, four days into a developing hydrophobia caused by the movie, Jaws.

The Spielberg classic aired on one of those Sunday afternoon movie programs that local channels host upon exhausting their libraries of Star Trek: The Next Generation.

For nearly 3 hours (including commercials), I sat paralyzed with fear and by the time the credits rolled, I was not only afraid of the ocean but all other types of water as well.

Logically, I knew that Jaws couldn't squeeze through the pipes and attack me in the bath nor could he wriggle his way through the desert and wait for me in our pool. But it really didn't matter. I didn't want to risk it, as when I closed my eyes, I saw my tiny body being chomped into bits like Roy Scheider's boat and, well, that was upsetting.

For three days, I refused to take baths and eventually, my parents resorted to holding me in front of the garden hose in the yard. [Humiliating? Of course. But only because my siblings were laughing at me. Had I been alone with a sprinkler or Slip n' Slide, the experience would have received 2 thumbs up.] On the fourth day, we went to Mauritius on holiday with my extended family.

After again refusing to deal with water, my dad got fed up and enrolled me in surfing school, hoping that I'd learn how to confront my fears.

2 days of crying, a near drowning, and a couple faceplant wounds later, his plan started to work. I've lost my fear of water, accepted the fact that a shark might eat me, and have turned into a damn good surfer as far as amateurs go.

In any case, the good news is that tomorrow my dad is taking me to Evolution Surf, the best board makers in the world, to be calibrated for a customized, handmade surfboard. Needless to say, I'm pretty excited about this and am hoping to test her out during Christmas break. But since I won't be doing much surfing between now and the winter, I'm thinking about selling one of my three boards (pictured above).

This is a 6'3 Wayne Lynch designed Surftech shortboard with round pintails that have exceptional volume flow and control - especially in waves with hollow barrels and heavy faces, FCS Tom Carroll Redline fins, Creatures of Leisure traction pad, and leash. I'll even throw in some Sex Wax. If you're not ready to buy a brand new board and are interested in an exceptionally fast, light, and durable one that's made by the master of the shortboard revolution, let me know. If not, no sweat, I'll just keep her. We've had good times together.

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Original Comments

10 Things Every Single Girl Must Own

1. A fabulous photo of yourself where your smile, hair, and bod all come together in one sexy little package. Post that sucker at eye level on your fridge so your male guest can't help but notice it as he checks out if you have beer (see #5). Keep a digital version handy so you can email it to online suitors or blind dates who want a glimpse of the goods beforehand.

• The only things on our fridge are alphabet magnets, team schedules, and the menu to Golden Dragon. I'm pictured on one of the schedules but it is far from fabulous and sexy.

2. A pretty pair of heels. You can transform virtually any outfit to make it on-the-town ready by adding heels to a skirt, jeans, cropped khakis, whatever to make you stride more confidently. Plus, the taller you are, the more cute men you'll be able to see around the room.

• I'm 5'4 in cleats. What difference would heels really make?

3. An Eminem CD. What's one of the first places a guy peruses when he walks into a woman's home? Her music collection. Good for you if you have an extensive one. But if all he sees is a stack of girl bands, he's going to panic. Balance out your collection with Eminem and you have no idea how relieved he'll be.

• He needs to see Eminem to be relieved? I've got 2Pac, Snoop, and Dr. Dre.. if that's not good enough, sorry boutcha.

4. A great pickup line and a way to blow 'em off. We can't always depend on guys to initiate contact, so prepare thyself with one simple, non-cheesy icebreaker to lay on that cutie who's making his way to your area of the bar. And in cases when a guy initiates contact and you're not interested, our suggestion: "Sorry, I don't think the guy I'm seeing would appreciate it." Sure, it's a lie, but it'll let him down easy.

• I've never had a pickup line but instead of blowing people off, I just give out the number to the time & temperature man from home when asked for my number.
  

5. A six-pack of good bottled beer. A prepared single girl is ready to host and toast at any time. Skip the mass-produced swill and go for microbrews.

• Be prepared to drink Guinness. I don't do Bud, Miller, any sort of Light, or other domestic bullshit.

6. Bathroom reading. What man doesn't appreciate finding interesting reading in his sweetie's bathroom?

• Any man that dates me sure won't. Toilet books and toilet book readers are both foul and unacceptable.

7. A business card. After the age of 18, it's no longer cute to scrawl your first name and phone number on a napkin and hand it to a man who wants to call you. So if your job doesn't provide a card or you'd prefer one with your personal email address and phone number on it, then have some made at your local Kinko's or for free from vistaprint.com. A napkin he can lose. A card he'll file and keep.

• Oh please. You never outgrow napkin-numbers.

8. Earplugs. There's nothing sweeter than a man who wants to cuddle up for a long night's sleep. Unless he snores so loudly you can't get any sleep. Prepare thyself with a pair of earplugs.
9. A straight male friend on your speed-dial. Every girl knows she needs a gay male friend she can go to for fashion advice. But when it comes to relationship advice, you need someone who's been there, done that.
10. A condom. Hey ladies, you know the drill by now. If you want to be able to have spontaneous fun of the bodily kind, you have to prepare for it yourself. You can't always count on him to have something in his back pocket—or a 24-hour drugstore on the route home. If you don't want it to break, you buy it.

Maybe this list is for the single girl that is desperate for a man but I wish the author made it more clear, as only one of two things is possible: she is a boob or there's a reason why I'm not married. Aside from numbers 5, 9, & 10 (5 being an essential for life with or without men and 9 & 10 being common sense), I can't imagine adhering to any of that nonsense.

Luring him to my fridge of beer so he can see my hot picture and feel reassured about things? Toilet books? Eminem cds? I have to think that if he's drinking my beer, thumbing through my tunes, and spending so much time in the loo that he needs reading material, he's way beyond interested - he's been testing out number 10 on me for a while. Blast that list. These are my single girl needs and I think they're pretty simple:

1. Sunglasses - the essential accessory for every ocular albino
2. Cell phone with unlimited minutes
3. Chapstick - the original brand
4. Ortho Tricyclen
5. Buffalo Wild Wings Grub card
6. Playstation 2 (update: my new XBox 360)
7. Cable/DSL connection
8. Yo-yo
9. Blockbuster card
10. Guinness draught and a proper glass

I'd throw in Brazilian bikini wax but that's more an activity than a thing to own.

But in sum, I like: keeping my retinas pain free, my lips soft, and my eggs recklessly abandoned every month; talking to no end; and enjoying wings, pints and pints of Guinness, video games, the net, music, and movies.

I'm a low maintenance girl and, as you can see, barely have 10 essential items for life, let alone 10 weapons in the war against singledom. I almost feel like I'm being lazy about it.

Tim Montgomery & ADD Are No Joke

It's 9.78 second event where you take your mark, hear the gun, and sprint to the ribbon! Montgomery could focus his thoughts on the differences between The Cream and The Clear and set a world record. The only people in danger of losing their concentration during this 10 second event are those of us afflicted with ADD, and our biggest fear is getting distracted in the blocks while waiting for the gun to fire.

My thumb breakage occured after

Scammed at the Circle K

A side note about the Circle K: It's a couple miles from my house and has employed the same 4 people since I was at least 10 years old. They know that I like 2 squirts of vanilla not one, I don't buy lottery tickets, and if the donuts are fresh, they can con me into buying some. They recently hired Johnny, an old man that offended my father on day 1. We were in there together that day and while my dad was paying, Johnny said, "It's so nice to see interracial couples out without fear. In my day, you wouldn't see a Mexican man with a, well, shoot. What are you, sweetheart?"

Other than being asked if he's Johnny Damon, nothing steams my dad more than comments like this, but he was relatively calm. "I'm an Apache Indian. My wife is not. And this is our daughter." "So a blue eyed, white hair Indian and a father Indian. You people just don't age. Real Apache just like Burt Lancaster! I can't say I've ever seen Apache before in person. I've seen Pueblo but they're a friendly people." Apparently Johnny thinks we're in a John Wayne movie. We savages postponed our plot to attack the white man in order to descend from the mountains for gas and soda. Asshole.

I fetched my Coke and a 2 minute trip turned into a 25 minute disaster. At the register stood woman in her late 20's, thin, scraggly, and generally unfortunate in appearance, with her 5 year old son (I'd come to find his name was Jalen) and a 2 month old in a car seat. "Ma'am, that'll be $77.48." She wrote a check but it didn't clear. What a surprise.

While assuring that this has never happened before, she entertained us with a litany of excuses and complaints. After 5 minutes, she allowed the next woman in line to go. But that's when Johnny got upset. "You mean I have to void all this?! $80 in sales?" He threw his hands in the air, rolled his eyes, and went through an assortment of womanly "I didn't get my way" histrionics.

What does he expect? He works at a fucking gas station. Suck it up.

It took 5 or 6 minutes but he finally voided nearly $50 in items, leaving her $30 in necessities like milk, baby wipes, diapers, etc. But whaddya know, she was out of checks. "Can I initial my other check and change the amount?" Johnny wasn't down. "But I can't use my ATM card. It's been demagnitized. My son put magnets in my purse." I wanted to laugh at her bullshit but I wanted to strangle her as well. It'd been 20 minutes.

"We don't have money, mommy? I'm hungry."

And then the baby started to whine and then cry and then wail. The more I looked at the kids, the worse I felt. They were woefully unkempt, unhappy, and unfed. If a fly had landed on the baby's face and Sally Struthers had emerged from the chip & dip aisle, I wouldn't have been surprised. Then little boy turned around to those of us in line and started to cry. And that's when I got suckered.

I offered to pay her bill and while Johnny congratulated me on positive representation for the Apache nation, the woman made off with $40 in unpaid lottery tickets that she did not return when the sale was voided.

My family was eating breakfast this morning when "And from a northeast Circle K last night..." resonated from the television. A white woman in her late 20s and 2 children are visiting gas stations in the more affluent areas of the city, using checks (from fake accounts) that don't clear. She uses a sob story to scam unwitting saps out of gas, groceries, and lottery tickets. My ears burned and I felt nauseous. A few minutes later, the police arrived at my house and spoke to my mother:

"Ma'am, we're looking for an Apache young woman between the ages of 17 and 21 with blue eyes and white or white-blonde hair. She has dimples, is around 5'3 or 5'4, with a build like that of a soccer player or sprinter. She has an English accent and may drive a 2004 or 2005 Jeep Wrangler, black. We believe she was a victim of a scam at the Circle K late last night. Is this girl familiar to you?"

They left out "listens to The Doors and thinks a baseball game is the perfect first date." I'm the only white-haired Indian under the age of 75 in the American southwest. I doubt all that description was necessary but at least the Circle K people are familiar with me after all these years.

In any case, I now have to go to the police station to give my "official statement." It's a sad day when you become a statistic and a schmuck all at once but it's far worse when innocent children like these are used as pawns in some degenerate's con game.

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Three Things

Memorial Day 1988: My First Concussion

My Nephew: Corrupted Toddler

Now that I'm home for the summer, it's my responsibility to take my nephew, Alejandro, to gymnastics practice every day. He's the love of my life, so I'm all about taking him here, there, and everywhere. Needless to say, we do a lot of aunt-nephew bonding. A part of that is our post-practice ritual of hitting Baskin Robbins, Cold Stone, or Dairy Queen and then playing games and watching cartoons after returning home.

I was on my way out earlier this afternoon when my cousin, Alonso, stopped by and opted to come along. I guess after 8 straight hours of MVP 2005, he was looking for a change in scenery.

We scooped up the little man and aside from a minor traffic entanglement with a black Silverado that insisted on battling me for road position (on a 3 lane highway), the drive was rather tame.

Alonso and I went back and forth about the surging Marcus Giles while my nephew entertained himself with road signs. But then Alejandro asked, "Aunt Aminan?" (he can't say my name) "How do you say o-t-h-e-r?" "That word is other." "Other?" "The t-h make a thhh sound, you see?" "Yes! Thhhhhhh!! Thhhhhhhh!!" It's a good thing I'm around since he misses Sesame Street every day. Alonso and I continued our conversation but in the background, I heard, "My... my... othhhhhher.... what's t-o-y?" "Toy" "Ohhh! Toy has a... sss..ssss.......... Aunt Aminan? How do you say s-e-t?" "That's set, buddy. Set." "Set!" I patted him on the head. "Of... t..t..tiiiii..tiiiiii...."

"Aunt Aminan!! Know what?"
"What's up?"
"My other toy has a set of tits!"

 As I internalized the words just uttered by my precious nephew, a wave of shock and horror fell over me. He just said the word "tits." And worse, he was still saying it.. "tits tits tits tits!!! That's fun to say Aunt Aminan!!!"

I told him to stop but he wouldn't. He clapped and said tits. Laughed and said tits. Tits tits tits. I asked him, in my most stern coolest aunt in the universe tone, where he'd heard such a thing.

"Duh Aunt Aminan, the black truck." And sure enough, there it was, affixed to the tinted cab window in white block print: My Other Toy Has A Set of Tits. I resolved right then to pull alongside the Silverado and throw out my best evil stare... I'd leave it to Alonso to provide the childish, obscene gestures.

But before I could.. "Aunt Aminan?" I looked at him, unable to imagine what could possibly come next. "What's tits?" I nearly drove off the road. Wasn't this a conversation his mother or father should be having with him? Or my parents, maybe? Should I just ignore him?? Why me? I didn't hear the word tits until I was at least 8 and it was when my dad negligently allowed me to watch Beverly Hills Cop 2 with him and his buddies when my mom wasn't home... I learned a lot of words that day. But still! I don't know how these developmental issues work and the last thing I want to do is ruin him for life. Knowing my luck, he'd say it everywhere and when asked where he learned such a word, he'd happily clap and shout, "Aunt Aminan!"

It was then that Alonso piped in from the backseat, "Hey Ro, tits are breasts. Everyone has them. You, me, everyone!" "What's breasts?" Alonso reached his hand forward and pointed his index finger at my right one... "That's one right there!" "Ohhh, mommy has those!"

I pulled the car over... Immediately.

After getting out, I encouraged Alonso to join me on the roadside. When he did, I beat him in the head and body until he cowered in the grass. Then I got back in the car, declared a quiet time, swung by the Dairy Queen drive thru, and headed home. We pulled into the garage around the same time my dad and brother, clad only in shorts and shoes, walked outside. Alejandro climbed out the car and took off towards my father, arms stretched to the sky, and full of excitement...

"Papa!!!!"
"Ohhhh, it's my hombrito!"
"Papa! I see your tits."
"My what???"
"And they are hard like rocks!"

We'll be taking a different post-practice route tomorrow afternoon. I'm not taking any more chances.

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Original Comments

Chicken Bacon Ranch

Sharp Contrasts

As time passes and faces grow nameless in my memory, I wonder how I'm going to hold my life together. When I was a youngin during our time in the States, my mother frequently took me and my older siblings to a nearby park to play. At the time, I didn't know why. I mean, it's not like we couldn't play at home. We had a swing set, a jungle gym/playhouse, a sand box, and, of course, grass... driving to a park for the same amenities seemed a bit foolish. Aside from that, at this point in time in the '80s, we sufferers of ocular albinism were forced to wear sunglasses outside lest our retinas be scorched like the fires of hell. I preferred to stay home and read.

We always arrived at the park just past lunch. My brother usually ran off to play baseball while my sister and 10 other girls convened near the swing sets to engage in Barbie Dream World or whatever it is little girls do with anatomically incorrect plastic dolls that possess neo-archetypal beauty. I joined the group once at my mother's insistence and upon not being able to get Barbie into her Dream Car, I removed Barbie's legs and threw them in the Dream House. She fit perfectly... three minutes later I found myself kicked out of the club. So, I stuck to playing make-believe in the area around the bench my mother occupied. On some days, she'd put her book down and play with me, on others she'd try to get me involved in a game of tag with other children, and occasionally, she would simply let me be. But this all stopped the day a boy arrived at the park with his grandfather. With hair like auburn crescent moons and a nape the color of the midnight sky, his appearance captivated me. It wasn't often that I felt connected to someone. It wasn't his peculiar confidence or his somewhat wry inner amusement, as he danced merrily to the songs his grandfather would sing. It was that he, like me, was a study in sharp aesthetic contrast. His curls flopped whimsically against his dark skin much the same way that my albinic curls fell against my dark bronze shoulders. I was never close enough to see his eyes and couldn't tell if they were like mine but I knew that at the very least, he didn't "match." I felt an instant bond with him but was far too shy to ask him to play... I remember the way he giggled when I crept near. I remember his grandfather speaking to my mother and her telling him how cute we were together. It made me blush. And though other little kids made fun of us, it didn't seem to matter as much anymore. We continued on, day after day, rarely as a duo but always within a stone's throw from one another, exchanging occasional smiles of reassurance and comfort. And then, one day, he wasn't there. I spent most of the afternoon on the bench with my mum awaiting the arrival of the sky blue station wagon but it never came.

A year passed. I was gearing up for the day when I'd permanently ride my bike without training wheels. To practice, my parents took me to the park. Upon arriving at the all-too familiar bench, I spotted a couple close to my parents' age at the nearby table where his grandpa used to sit. It was my mom that spotted him though, near the sandbox, dancing to music that wasn't there... at least, I couldn't hear it. But it didn't matter. For the first time I ran around the park with someone that I could call a friend. We played on the swings.. I taught him how to do handstands and he showed me where to find worms. As the sun went down, he picked a dandelion and put it in my hand, called me a princess, and said I was funny. His eyes were a pale grey. I made faces at him and he kissed me on the cheek.. right on top of my dimple. Our moms cooed... he laughed; I blushed.

I never saw him again after that day but I think of him often. I wonder if he thinks about me. And now, his name, a name I've said to myself a billion times in my dreams and memories, has somehow slipped away. It's nearly sunrise as I write and I'd guess my body's need to sleep is contributing to this random bout of memory loss but that's no consolation. He was my first friend and at 6:12 AM, I can't remember his name... I can't help but feeling a bit sad that I don't.

G'night.

St. Patrick's Day Quote

Happy Valentine's Day..

Fry Me Up Some Latkes... Dammit

Sorry I've been out of commission around here for the past 5-6 days. My new boss insists I put in these 12 hour days and unlike those aimless mornings and afternoons with my previous boss, I'm no longer finding time to get my long-winded posts in during the day.

From now on, expect updates to show up at night... Or in the middle of it. I had a post written and ready to go yesterday - it was about Lent on Fridays but I've decided to cut it and only leave the brief comment about Lent below. Since you'll bitch, this is what it was kinda about - This shifty kid with blue hair approached Chris and I, talking about revolution and conspiracies and I just wasn't having it. After we sent his patchouli ass back to his table and went on about our way, this mini-revolution of lime jello went down near the fro-yo machine... a protest of the no-meat policies in the dining hall. Turns out, it was this kid and his hipster doofus cronies. Maybe I should've listened to him and got involved.. maybe not. Either way, you're not getting the bulk of the story because it's entirely too boring. Maybe something else will go down next week.

Today Yesterday Friday, we broke for lunch following a 2 hour movie and noticed that there were about 20 minutes left for lunch at SDH. After discussing our options, Chris and I decided to take a stroll to South Quad.

Normally, we probably wouldn't have - it's not like we're living in the dorms anymore. But we were both out of cash, weren't interested in a visit to the ATM, and it was the tail end of the lunch hour.. the amount of visitors (unlike Reckers) would be few. We walked in and were immediately smacked with the aroma of the Lenten Season. Mmm... fish sticks. Stale, breaded, and Gordon's fisherman good. I'm consistently impressed with his work... must be that yellow slicker.

This is my 5th go of Lent round these parts and something that's always confused me is the practice of foregoing meat on Fridays. Why isn't it offered? It's an age-old question, boring to everyone but freshmen, so no, I don't think I'm presenting anything new.

I'm only saying that it continues to make zero sense to me, as the refusal to serve meat completely defeats the purpose of sacrifice. How can I prove to God that I can resist such non-sinful delights and material desires if these nermals don't give me the option? Christ, I can go without sex and donuts if no one offers them to me.

Were I one of the dining hall gods, I'd offer up all kinds of meat. Quality, succulent steaks; pork chops; thick, juicy, flame-broiled burgers; ribs; and all other melt in your mouth, mouth-watering options of cow known to man.

I'd put A-1 next to the ketchup, wet naps and those  slick, plastic rib bibs next to the napkins, and I'd even throw in a grillman. Then let's see some sacrifice. What's the harm in a meat option?

I know, I know. This is a Catholic school. If I don't like it, I can leave. But you're gonna tell me that these boner-biting bastards can't hook me up with a ham sandwich? I know there are more students in any ethnic minority here at Lily White U than there are Jews but how about somebody in that cooking staff fryin up some fucking latkes. They're not just for Hanukkah anymore, kids.

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Original Comments

Shoulda Stayed Home

I traded in endangering my life in late night adventures for tooling around the internet... for a while, at least. Around 3 this morning, I happened upon a quiz that measures my nerdiness.
According to the results, 17% scored higher (more nerdy), and 83% scored lower (less nerdy). Your nerdiness is: High-Level Nerd. You are definitely MIT material, apply now!" Though I've never denied having some nerd tendencies, I didn't know I was this bad off. I'm not knocking nerd life but scoring in the 83rd percentile.. well.. I'm just gonna let it go.

[moving on]

1. At 2:30 am, NBC re-airs Leno and then Conan. The shows are usually 2 or 3 days old. One of Conan's guests "tonight" is Paris Hilton. I'll spare you my opinions but the only thing going through my head right now is my intense desire to dress her in a potato sack, force-feed her lard for 4 weeks, and then plop her on the corner of Florence & Normandie without her cell phone, make-up, or credit cards. Then I want to put cameras on her (from afar, of course) and see how she manages to scam or slut her way from South Central back to Beverly Hills. Maybe I can employ some type of "Amazing Race" format or something... I'll work the details out at work later today.

2. Am I the only one who thinks we're going to see a Conclave in the next few weeks?

3. I was at Reckers for a while watching tv. [I know, I know - I can watch tv just as easily in my bedroom, but Reckers at 4 am provides a nice change of scenery with comfortable furniture, #9 smoothies, and food prepared by someone other than myself. An additional factor in my decision was the moment when I became startled by the sound of my own voice. I'd been through nearly 90 minutes of infomercials. Tony Little and Ron Popeil and Amazing Discoveries. Rotisserie-o-matics and Ab Rockers and Juicemen and Ginsu. Lose weight! Try a psychic! Sell your soul for 3 installments of $19.99! I changed the channel for the 8th time and happened upon C.H.I.P.s... I don't remember what came out of my mouth but it was then that I threw on the coat and walked out the door.] Random kids came in and out at first but after 10-15 minutes, I was alone. There wasn't total silence. The tv droned incessantly in the background but I didn't care. Any sense of panic and stress that I once felt began to melt away. The pulsating throb in my forehead grew weary and began to subside. I settled in and took a deep breath. Chills and then goosebumps. The calm washed over me like a crashing tide. I couldn't help but appreciate the unusual simplicity of the moment. I sometimes wonder if my body puts me through the hassles of insomnia simply so that I may have the opportunity to experience this brief and halcyon respite.

I laid back and took in a Modern Marvels segment about the silver lode in Nevada on the History Channel. My eyelids were heavy but I wasn't tired. I clasped my hands across my stomach, hooked the barbell in my tongue into my teeth and relaxed (I have a tendency to chew on my tongue piercing). All was well for about 10 minutes. The side door opened and shut. I couldn't tell who was walking in but his feet were heavy... and sounded somewhat uncoordinated. I didn't bother to look; I should have. I heard a "Ohhh shhhhhh-i-i-i-i-i" and then saw a body falling to the ground directly behind me. Then I saw a hand. The next thing I experienced was pain, as this errant hand swept across the back of my recently shredded neck. To make matters worse, I bit down on the barbell and chipped a tooth.

"Oh I'm so sorry! I'm a loser! A loser!" The bloke beat himself up enough over the matter that I felt bad and told him it was no big deal. I didn't know I was bleeding at the time. I wish I had - I would have left immediately rather than listen to him prattle on. "I totally come in here late at night because nobody is here. It's so relaxing just to be here alone taking it all in and watching tv and doing that thing. Man, nobody is in here, which is so awesome. Don't you like the solitude? I love it. This is so relaxing. It's so quiet and relaxing in here." He failed to see the irony and I chose not to inform him of such. All I could do was stare at him with the utmost contempt for his existence in my life. "Man, I've seen you in here before. You get those smoothies. I'm Tom, Tom *******. I live in Sorin. I love coming here to chill. Don't you live in Walsh?" "No." "Welsh?" "I did but I moved off campus" "Yeah, cuz I've seen you. You know where else I know you from?" FUCK! The pulse in my forehead began to return and I picked up another in my left eyelid. They grew more forceful with every beat, as my calm jumped off the sinking ship that was my sanity and swam out the building. "Yeah and then you had that play that..." My hands started trembling and he wouldn't stop talking. He was so bloody loud. Yackety yackety fuckin yack. "Whoa and then you..." [Remember when Austin Powers killed the Fembots with his pelvic thrust dance? The effect here was the same and meltdown was imminent.] My breathing grew ragged and the images in front of me started to swirl. "I totally have one of those posters..." Bloody Christ. "HEY! I know, can I have your autograph?! I have a sister and she.." I started screaming. Endless screaming. I wasn't even saying anything, at least I don't think so. It was primal.. desperate. And then -"HAHA WHOA! That was awesome! That's totally how you play." I nearly broke into tears. Why?? Why did he have to come in there? I know it's what I get for leaving my bedroom and going to a public place but come on. Only me, I swear to bloody God. "Hey, you're bleeding." My neck felt wet and I checked it out. He was right. I thanked him for noticing, apologized for screaming, and left, somehow managing not to run over to his chair and beat him to shits.
[fast forward]
I have stitches on the back of my neck now. I probably should have gotten them after Denny's like the paramedics recommended but I'm hard-headed. Ah well...

Cheers!

PS. If anyone sees or knows this chap, well, if you wouldn't mind... Thanks, I appreciate it.
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Original Comments

Insomnia and The Wolverine

[Inner-monologue: The worst thing about criminals is 90% of them suck at crime. Rarely do they even possess the Basic 3 of criminal behaviour - desire, ability, and opportunity. You can only guess which one is usually lacking. Beyond these though, to which principles should one adhere? When I was 5 years old, my father gave me my first lesson on military strategy. We covered the 9 Principles of War. "MOOSEMUSS, Wee One. That is how you'll remember them." And I have.
Mass - the concentration of power at the decisive time and place;
Objective - direction toward a clearly defined, decisive, and obtainable obective; Offensive - seizure, retention, and exploitation of the initiative;
Surprise - striking at a time, place, and manner for which your enemy is unprepared;
Economy of Force - allocation of minimum essential power to secondary efforts; Maneuver - place that your target is in a positional disadvantage through the application of my power;
Unity of Command - unity of efforts under one leader;
Security - never allowing the target to acquire an unexpected advantage;
Simplicity - preparation of clear, uncomplicated plans and orders for thorough understanding. While there are times when the Principles must be followed and others that necessitate they be broken, I can't help but think that correct application during the execution of a crime would yield positive results. That said, we'd have to find an intelligent person to put this information to use ;)... /Inner monologue]

I just returned from an out and abouting. It's currently 7 degrees in the Bend, so I figured the temp would make for a rather pedestrian stroll. It's usually after 3:00 am when the streets become the devil's playground. Blink and you miss it, as sunrise wipes away any traces of its existence. But at this hour of the night, all you have to guide you is the glow of the neon lights, whose unyielding luminescence often flickers when you need it most. While walking past Denny's on 31, I stopped for a moment and looked through the glass. This is the hour at which the frooks come out to feed and it is establishments like Denny's that nick their toll. ... Relatively empty save a man reminiscent of Mr. Magoo. As I made for the door, the light on the nearest pole began to flicker and the parking lot grew dark. I decided to use the other door and took 3 steps in the opposite direction when I heard screeching followed by a mighty wind and an explosion of glass behind me. My neck felt wet.

Some guy was hanging out of the door of a rusted out shitbox missing its front left tire. I ran over, pulled him out, and then called 911. I admit, I momentarily hesitated. I've seen too many Bruce Willis movies where a car crashes and a fly lands on the windshield to trigger a chain reaction of explosions. A policeman arrived within seconds and an ambulance came soon after. I have some cuts on my neck and head but nothing requiring stitches; the guy is going to be okay. From what I understand, someone purposely loosened the tire on his car a la Changing Briefcases (or whatever that bloody disaster film with Samuel L. and Ben Affleck was called).The police are supposed to get to the bottom of it.

After they took my statement and the ambulance checked me out, I was free to go under the condition that I'd visit the ER if any bleeding continued. Advised to go home, I just didn't want to. This had been a bit too much, so I walked across campus to the Speedway on Ironwood. I go there quite a bit in the late hours. The graveyarders know me well and let me run up a tab on fountain drinks and read unlimited amounts of trashy magazines. It has to be stressful working this shift given all the freaks and crazies (I do not include myself here!). People aren't people at this time of night... We're primal creatures capable of transformation, release, and renewal. Who knows what can happen. It is this wonder that often has me sitting in an oasis of neon light, waiting for something to stagger out of the blackness and break up the excrutiating minutiae of the hours slowly passing.

I retired to a booth...

A man entered... 6'2 or so, lanky, and rather pungent. Visually, he reminded me of Wolverine sans bulk and brawn... and claws... and motorcycle.. and rage. He was Wolverine in clothing alone. But I don't mean Wolverine from the Brian Singer live-action. I'm talking about the comic book... Seeing a grown man in yellow spandex was quite amusing. He strutted about the Speedway's 4 aisles impressing no one. Seemed to bother him. I stopped paying attention for a moment before spotting him postured near the front of the store, fizzy drink held high in the sky... "Even a man who is pure in heart and says his prayers by night..." Trailing off. Very dramatic. I waited for the next line but he took too bloody long. I stole his flow: "may become a wolf when the wolfbane blooms and the autumn moon is bright." He stared at me, incensed that I'd ruined his melodramatic soliloquy in such a disrespectful manner. I stared back. This continued for a few more seconds until he looked away. I refocused my attention outside. ... "You are unsettling." It was Wolfman, speaking to me from the door. "Something is wrong with you... It's in the eyes... something soulless" Since I wasn't wearing my contacts, I'll take the whole soulless zombie thing. I've gotten used to it. But to say that something is wrong with me... are you fucking joking?? I know I can't sleep and all and that I walk around town with no rhyme or reason like some lunatic but I'm certainly not the daffy bastard at the Speedway at 4 am wearing an X-Men get-up and spouting lines from a movie that hasn't been popular since 1941. I must have communicated all of that with my eyes because he spun on his heels and ran out the store.

Given that my nights frequently consist of stupefying boredom punctuated by random moments of terror and amusement, I figured I had enough for the night. Hopefully tomorrow night won't be as traumatic.

Cheers!

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Original Comments

Undue Stress

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MILWAUKEE (AP) - A student whose vacation plans were spoiled has sued to end summer homework in Wisconsin, claiming it creates an unfair workload and unnecessary stress.

Peer Larson, 17, had lined up a dream camp counsellor job last June, but honours pre-calculus homework turned his summer into a headache. "It didn't completely ruin my summer, but it did give me a lot of undue stress both at home and at work," the high school junior said Thursday. "I just didn't have the energy or the time for it."

Larson and his father sued in Milwaukee County Circuit Court seeking the end of summer homework across the state. They argue that homework shouldn't be required after the 180-day school year is over.
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Human Bonding

If we only had machines this intelligent...

I generally do my best to avoid human contact if at all possible. If I had my way, I'd be on a mountain top in Big Sky country, living in a technologically advanced home somewhere between the Unabomber's shack and Coeur d'Alene territory. Is there a reason for it? Yeah, I'd say so. i mean, I'm not some anti-establishment crazy with a manifesto but I don't know if I should be classified as a loner either... I'm happiest when enjoying a busy solitude, but I don't go out of my way to avoid the company of others (not always). It's probably best to say that I'm a societal misfit mentally unprepared to share the world with the rest of its inhabitants... or something of that nature.

For those of you that don't know me too well, I'm not a big fan of people... I arrived at the University of the Bubble a lifelong introvert nearly void of true social skills and little desire to acquire any. However, over time, I grew into a reluctant extrovert and can now navigate my way through our social scene with relative ease. But being social doesn't make me any less of a misanthrope. Let me be clear - it's not that I possess some kind of hatred for mankind or anything... One on one, I really enjoy talking to other people - observing life and laughing about it with them, expressing my views and listening to theirs, and all that other interactive crap. But unless I'm on my 8th Guinness and 5th shot, I simple dislike people when they're all bunched up in one place. On those rare occasions that I'm coerced into becoming part of a crowd while the sun is still up and the kegs aren't tapped, there is one activity on which I can rely to make the experience more palatable: mocking others.

The grocery store is probably the best place for this... you get to walk around with a cart for as long as you wish, watching people as you go, ridiculing them in your mind, and at the end of the day, no one is the wiser. "That girl isn't watching me pick my nose... she's looking at brownie mix." If I'm heading to Martin's or Meijer, I take a moment to mentally prepare myself for all the observations I'll have to do once inside... so many flaws on so many people - it's a hater's dream. Oh stop it - I'm exaggerating - I'm not picking everyone apart. It takes a discerning eye to spot the true gems, but I usually cop out and focus on the people that cough on me or make small talk in line. And what's so wrong with that? I'm sure most of you will agree that observing people (though disconcerting) can be a fun, fascinating experience. Much to my initial amusement, this was the day that every malcontent, half-wit, weirdo, miscreant, and goof ball within 50 square miles was at Meijer. How do I know that? It's a simplistic formula. Examine the ratio of tattoos and less teeth to people. [Factoring in the sightings of black lipstick/eyeliner/eyeshadow, acid washed jeans, and mullets can lead to more accurate results]

In any case, I visited the store to pick up Doritos, shredded cheese, Coke, and other supplies, as Boy and I had plans for a nachos and movie night. My ineptitude in grocery stores usually guarantees that I'm there for about an hour, so I try to carve a little space for it into my afternoon. This day was no different. Though I saw many amusing individuals, I couldn't help but notice 8 mothers, each saddling 4+ children under 6 years old. They were peppered throughout the store but the similarities were uncanny. Each mother carried the same disheveled, chain smoking, Natty Light drinking appearance.. I wasn't surprised by this nor was it amusing.. What struck me was the fact that each of these ladies had children. There is a man (or men) out there that each managed to either charm or trap... this man found her at least attractive enough to do his business... and worst, this man found it completely unnecessary locate a condom, opting instead to go bareback. Having passed the 7th mother/litter of this variety, I stopped cold in my tracks pondering the madness when I smelled a strange combination of gas, Valvoline, and antifreeze...

Sterling Marlin racing jacket, no front teeth, and a mullet with a 2 foot party in the back (revealed as he took off his Budweiser cap). I immediately craved Skoal and fishsticks. Though the mother had a baby of a rather surly disposition on her hip [I'm convinced this baby was completely aware of what was to come in life and was only too pissed that he lacked the verbal skills to express his discontent], Captain Skoal squeezed her butt and slid his tongue out. She did the same... Suddenly their tongues, spastic and determined, played about each other in midair.. sliding, probing, oh God stop it!! Before I could vomit, the Nicotine Avenger, pulled her closer (smashing baby) and fully enveloped her face with his lips. I felt a cold chill run up my spine and had the urge to turn and run, but I realized that there was no where I could go. You see, they were making out in front of the Doritos - the only item I needed. I could interrupt them but that would mean getting close and exposing myself to potential infections and viruses. I'm too much of a germophobe for that. Or I could leave the aisle, meaning their unkempt love would win! Instead, I focused on Jerry Seinfeld's Theory of Datability. It posits that only 5% of the world's population is actually datable...ETOH is responsible for the rest. I've long agreed with that assessment... until now. Though I only spotted a couple hundred people in Meijer that day, I think it was a perfectly reasonable sample size to conclude that the rate of undatability is closer to 98%. Overreaction? Possibly. But had you been witness to the mass outpouring of filthy, sexual weirdness as I, you too would have been scared bloody shitless and would have gone running back to your privacy cocoon.

Check on me around the first thaw. I might be ready to come back out by then.


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Original Comments

Woefully Immature.

The Wrath of Khan

I've been laid up with an affliction that has left me shivering, nauseous, and miserable for nearly a week. One individual postulated (humorously) that I could be infected with Plague, as one never knows what deadly, ravaging diseases lay dormant within the shores of Brittania. A comforting thought, but since I haven't been in the belly of a rat-infested ship or bitten by fleas lately, that idea may be somewhat far-fetched. Luckily, my doctor revealed that I'm suffering from a gross combination of flu and sinus infection. Then he doped me up and headed out the door. This was two days ago. Today, he returned.

I remember the first time he walked into my bedroom. It's not like I hadn't seen him around before. My doctor knows my family well. He was my uncle's roommate at Eton, a former courter of my aunt, an assistant for his father at my birth, and his father and grandfather had both served as my family's physician. The guy was all over the place. But this was different. He was in MY room... MY Lair of Lovin'... well, that's what my brother called his room, anyway. He frequently lured seemingly normal girls to his room but they always walked out looking delirious and quite dizzy. Sometimes their shirts were on backwards or they'd be missing socks and other non-essential items of dress. I could never understand how they lost all mental faculties in the hour since arriving. I asked my brother time and again and all he'd say was that he gave them a special milk that made them feel good... he also said, hypocritically, that if I ever came into contact with a boy that wanted to give me milk, I should tell him and he'd kill that boy. It took 4 years and a near violent altercation between my brother and my first boyfriend to unlock that code... Maybe I should have told him that William tried to serve me juice. ... I stared at my doctor, wide-eyed and full of wonder, my palms became sweaty, my mouth turned dry... I was flush. I was not yet aware of the correlation between good-looking men and my full-body lobster skin problems but as far as I could tell, this was the first instance. To make matters worse, I was starting to tingle in places that we just don't talk about and was getting light-headed. The last time I'd felt that way, I'd eaten a pound of rock candy and drank 8 cups of tea while watching my father work on an engine in the garage. I was having trouble relating the two experiences but I digress. I looked down to find my doctor intently listening to my heartbeat. His unruly curls had fallen over his glasses, and as he looked up at me with his deliciously wicked grin and put that icy stethoscope back on my chest, I became enchanted. "Aaahhhnd breathe..." His voice was of the sexy, Scottish, Sean Connery variety that'll melt ya butta. I did as he asked and in those 3 seconds, determined that not only was he was simply the most beautiful man I'd ever seen but that we would eventually marry in a hybrid Jewish-Muslim wedding and would speak out against religious strife. As he took the othoscope to my ear and his cool breath rolled over my neck, my breathing grew more and more ragged. It was not 10 more seconds before I passed out, a victim of his beauty. I awoke to find his lips on mine and my mother frantically running about the room. An inhaler was placed on my lips and soon all was well... the good doctor assured me that it would be so. His smile, now warm and inviting, remained masculine in its confidence and yet rather boyish, as it twinkled with an unabashed verve.

And so began my obsession with Dr. Tariq Khan, III. I was 14.

[skipping 8 years of obsessive moments and fantasies for your convenience]

I spotted him from my window as he slid out of a red Alfa Romeo Spider. Sleek, sexy, and powerful, he moved like a swift wind, black leather bag in tow. As you can imagine, I was feeling pretty giddy. I ran to the bathroom to check myself out but dizziness overcame me and I ended up on the floor. This was my most pathetic moment in years. Defeated, I dragged myself to bed and sat down just as he walked in. "Well if it isn't little Mirjana." [Clue to the uninformed: that's my first name. Pronunciation lessons later]. My heart started to pound and my eyes lost focus... Thermometer, temperature, tonsils, say ahh. His voice was magical. Stethoscope, heartbeat, lungs, and breathe. As he went through the check-up prelims, I gave my original dream lover a good once over. At first glance, all was well. But upon re-examination... what.. a bloody monocle?? The glass, rounded in gold, fit snugly around his eye and was attached to his lapel by a string. I had a quick fantasy about snatching it from his face, throwing it out the window, and doing a dance of joy but I hadn't the energy. That attached string would likely thwart my plan anyway. Why was he wearing a lapel? What happened to his normal clothes? I then realized that Dr. Khan no longer wore normal clothes. He was wearing a black tuxedo with tails. Nervously, my eyes roamed to the left. His doctor bag. I didn't want to focus on it for I knew what I'd find. But I had to buckle down! Had to be strong! ... I spotted a cane. I was being examined by Mr. Peanut. Something clearly wasn't right with the world. [Flash thought: Yet another side effect from the Asian earthquake? The earth had teetered on its axis, a tsunami has wiped out hundreds of thousands, weather systems have suddenly changed course.. perhaps this happening was a minor, undocumented result. Even if that isn't the case, this is certainly proof that I'm living in the Bizzaro World.] This stupid bastard was shattering my dreams, my fantasies! Why not finish pushing the stake through my heart and show me your top hat! Fucking wanker probably left it in the car.

I asked him what he was doing in the get-up but he didn't hear me. It didn't matter. We were over. "Up on the scale, little one." In the last 5 days, I'd lost 15 pounds to hit 122 and my body fat had dropped to 3.8%. I didn't look emaciated or anything, well, not in a Sally Struthers commercial type way. I'd mostly lost water. But I had a couple extra cans on the pack and I think I lost a cup size in my bra (the true tragedy). The damage to my formerly ample bosom aside, I kinda felt like Mr. Universe (sans roid rage and shrunken penis). So like any of you would, I struck a hero pose. Peanut took a look at me, patted me on the shoulder, and said "Well, you're filling out quite nicely." Was he hitting on me? I hoped so until I was hit with another nausea wave. "At 1.6 meters, you'll soon be as tall as your sister." She's 5'10, beautiful, and makes me feel inadequate. I hate her. "The x-rays on your growth plates show that you have few centimeters left to go. 1.75 meters, here you come, eh?" I wasn't 5'4 until my sophomore year in college. I wouldn't be 5'10 until 2021. Possibility that I'll grow more? "You're a healthy 16 year old. I don't see why not." Had we gone back in time? Is it 1998? "Oh wait, my mistake, little one." Rubbing it in is so classy. "Your premature birth stunted your growth. I suppose you'll never gain those extra centimeters." Depression in 5... 4... 3... "So how have your A-levels come along?" "I just graduated from college!" "Ah so you have, I tend to get you children mixed up at times." "But I'm the youngest." "Yes.. well.. be glad you look younger than your years." Yeah, there's some bloody consolation. We continued this ridiculous give and take over the next 10 minutes as he looked me over. When he was finished, I got the usual lecture - eat, drink, sleep, medicate. Thanks Tariq, you phony arse.

You know what I'm really pissed about?? I wasted so much time fantasizing about this jerk and I finally grow up into a reasonably attractive girl with some pretty nice intangibles and a great ass and he ends up being a live-action legume with a stethoscope and a prescription tablet. Not only that - he thinks I'm 16. I've been chumped. As he walked out the door, I asked, "What happened to your brain? Did someone crack you and eat it?" "Oh no, it shant rain today. We're going to have lunch at the polo club." Exactly as I suspected. Thumbs down on you Dr. Khan, thumbs down.

And so ends my obsession with Dr. Tariq Khan, III. My fantasy life is starting anew.
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Original Comments

Sick Bay

2005: The Early Hours

New Year's Eve/early NYDay has turned out to be yet another period of great confusion and temporary panic in my life. Seeming as this occurs about once a week, perhaps I'm just sticking to routine...

Things started innocently enough. I called my boyfriend to wish him a happy new year and all of those things. He told me that he wished he could kiss me at midnight, which cued the inevitable gush of warm-fuzzies and giddiness that you don't want to read about. The moment, however, was quickly squashed, as my brain got involved and injected thoughts of indifference:

Me: Why do people have to kiss at midnight on New Years?
Boy: It's tradition
Me: Well it's a dumb tradition
Boy: Why do people kiss goodbye?
Me: Why do people kiss before sex?
Boy: ... We don't....

Yikes. The words, almost palpable, hung like winter in the air. What the hell just went wrong?? Should I apologize? Suddenly, my man was the posterboy for the romantically scorned... melancholy and resigned. But his punk ass fooled me for only a second. This is Boy we're talking about. He'll not trick me into regret. After sharing a couple laughs, my night marched on.

[fast-forward 7 hours]

Around 3:00 am my cousins, friends, and I left my house and headed to Oliver's for go-cart racing... [alcohol + go-carts = responsibility]. After an hour and a half or so, frostbite began to set in, and we went inside only to discover our parents still whooping it up in front of the tv.

I rarely have a chance to see my parents, or those of my friends, gettin down with the powwow but I suppose New Year's is as good a time as any. I don't know if you've ever encountered 20 sets of English parents lit up on Guinness, Bucks Fizz (mimosa to you patriots), and various Beefeater mixes but I'll be honest, I was quite frightened.. at least initially. Not because they were mashed, mind you. We're English. Most of us would rather get wankered than eat... though I may be one of the few exceptions. My fear was locked in the possibility that I'd witness kissing or some other untoward activity that parents should reserve for closed doors. Interestingly enough, our presence seemed to frighten them far more than they did us, as I heard someone's father shout, "Oh bugger! It's the bloody children! Run Awaaayy!!" [--> parents] A mild panic ensued. Leaders of business and industry (and their wives) scuttled about, colliding with one another as they darted to the four corners of the room. For what reason, I don't know, but I had a sneaking suspicion that this worked on their own parents at some point in the 1970s. Only my parents, unfazed by our presence, remained in the center of the room. My dad invited us to join them in watching Jay Leno and we all took a seat. Soon enough the other mature adults returned to the festivities (a courageous move).

At 5 am our time, New York rocked in the New Year and after a minute of watching celebration both in the City and on the Leno set, we heard something almost magical... or sad... "Ladies and gentlemen....... MOTLEY CRUE!!" Bloated and disgraceful, Vince Neil roused even the most tired of the adults and with him they shouted, "GIRRRRRRRRLS GIRRRRRLS GIRLS!!!!" Luckily they only lasted one chorus before flipping to the Dickless Rockin Eve on ABC.

We watched for a few minutes before Billy Idol entered stage left. Though Idol has lost his baby face, he has managed to maintain his 3 moves: the smirk, the split legs, and the classic, rockin fist pump. I considered making a comment but before I could, my uncle came stumbling back in the room, yelling expletives at the tv. As he got closer, his comments became more clear. "YOUUUUUU bloody yob! You slept with myyyyy sista!! I'll have your bloody skull I will!!" And on and on. "I won't forget March 1981 blast you! ... Bloody bastard." At first, I found this quite amusing. My aunt slept with Billy Idol... it really doesn't get more hilarious. But then the eyes of these adults turned to me. "March of 1981.... didn't you just have a birthday 3 days ago?" I said nothing. "Yes, yes, she did. That's 9 months." These dimbulbs couldn't possibly believe- "And she's the only blonde in their entire family. The ONLY one." "I've always found that quite odd." "Odd indeed. And she has quite a sneer." "Yes, quite." I looked at my parents for help but their mouths were hanging open - they had nothing. Could it be?

No way... right? Soon enough, adults began hurling empties at my mother (not real empties, you loons), laughing at her for consorting with this faux punk rocker. I felt ill. I tried to escape to a nearby loo, only to spot my aunt slinking away in the background. AH-HA!!! It was SHE that so freely shagged poseurs and punks alike in the early 80s! I pointed at her and opened my mouth, fully intending to out her to anyone that would listen. But she beat me to it and told on herself:-( They were together at Sussex, she said... Before he dropped out and she transferred to Cambridge. A one-weekend affair. But no one seemed to care. Throwing empties at my defenseless mother was far more amusing for as much as my features and personality favor my father, no one has ever been able to explain my hair. Even with monthly visits to the hair salon to un-albino myself, I remain the lightest of hair color in my line. In the midst of my aunt's confession, someone flipped to MTV. Holiday fun with Snoop Dogg. Delightful. To further add to my shame, I heard my father jump in to the flow with Snoop *With so much drama in the LBC it's kinda hard bein' Snoop D-O double G, But I.. somehow, some way, keep comin' up with funky-ass shit like every single day... May I kick a little somethin' for the G's and make a few billions as I breeze through, Two in the mornin' and the party's still jumpin' 'cause my mama ain't home.* He was met with mass praise. "Bloody 'ell mate. You know this song?" "I have daughters and young seamen! I'm hip!" ... I don't think that came out the way Daddy intended. As wowed as I was that he actually knew these lyrics, I was equally saddened by the fact that at least a few of these daffy bastards would go home thinking that I was sired in a passionate moment with Billy Idol. *Rollin' down the street smokin' endo sippin' on gin n juice* Cue my uncle, who's already done enough damage: *LAID BACK, MATE!! with your mind on your money and your money on your bloody mind!!!* The adults cheered again. I left the room for home and my cousins followed. I have to say, this end result proved itself to be the most anticlimactic happening since Randy Johnson's upcoming deal with the Yankees.

Since waking up the next morning, I've been to London, caught some flu-like disease, missed the Arsenal-Charlton match (a 3-1 victory for the Gooners, by the way) as a result of said disease, and have been pathetically laying about ever since... ugh.

And so it goes... New Years 2004. Ah well. I hope yours was just as enjoyable. Cheers!
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Original Comments

Rockin Eve

Gladiator!

Old news - Rush Limbaugh admitted to an oxycontin addiction and did so having stated all the way back in 1995 that too many whites get away with drug use, abuse, and illegalities and need to be "sent up the river" with the rest of the addicts. Thanks for sacking up, Elmer Gantry. But enough with trashing the King of Moralists. If Rush can own up to his shortcomings, then so can I.

I am an addict. Like most out there, my downward spiral into total shame and co-dependence was a gradual one. I had my first true taste of the sweet delight as a curious yet slightly shifty 5 year old. I was undersized, quiet, and suspicious of all around me. It was not long before I needed to be the whiz-bang of calm; I needed to feel that "cool"... that soothing sensation that only comes when your mind can be relieved from the swirling madness that few ever escape. Though one might believe that my parents provided this vice as an attempt to abate a spastic temper tantrum, I actually won it from a peddler of cheese and sausages after selling a remarkable amount of their product at local establishments and homes for my school. And this was the only way I could have ever achieved such a reward. I found early in life that my parents were not tolerant of tantrums... my father's threat of setting my "little butt on fire" was plenty of incentive to remain calm at all possible moments... I have always been (and still remain) rather fond of my butt and am very much opposed to it reaching temperatures hotter than kapow. Perhaps that is why I haven't been spanked since the age of 4... but I digress.

My addiction to television has shown me one thing in the last couple of months - advertainment is mind-numbingly, egregiously stale. The spots that pepper every prime time commercial break smack of the corny, unimaginative vision that only twenty-something ad execs recalling the glory days of a cat-eating alien can dare express. "Remember Alf? He was kewl! Let's use him in a spot with the most amazingly irritating former football player on earth!" "Michael Irvin**?" "No silly, Terry Bradshaw!" Why do they force us to suffer so? It's not right! It's not fair! I think we, as a public, can make a case of intentional infliction of emotional distress. That could be a class action, baby. If we all team up, we'd be looking at a settlement paying out at $.83 per person! The only mitigating factors for the ad universe are the Peyton Manning commercial, the soul-filled Rubber Band man for Office Depot, Levi's, ESPN, and a rather interesting Crown Royal commercial that fooled me into thinking I was drunk already.

But for some of you freaks out there, what's your pleasure? Pepto Bismol takes on Immodium AD. Gastrointestinal song and dance versus squirt sufferers whose neglectful treatment of their "condition" forces them to shuffle sheepishly off-screen to void themselves rather than take advantage of their life's first and last fortuitous situation. Ick. There's also the corporate sibling battle between GAP and Old Navy. Pre-menopausal Sarah Jessica Parker frolicking through a human wallpaper of spinning, dancing barely legals while she pimps scarves, striped prints, and rhinestone-studded hobo bags versus 21-and under, ethnically diverse models (plus an obnoxious little boy with a shit-eating grin) that magically appear in bakeries, stores, and closets to sing personalized Christmas carols and teach us that the true reason for the season is ensuring that the whole family can be festively clad in catchpenny, bargain-basement knits & fleece. I think I've seen this premise before. A freakishly ginormous Kirstie Alley bounds out from behind couches and out of corners to traumatize and harass random homeowners until they have a nervous breakdown and buy a Pier One duvet at 20% discount. And now I hear Kirstie has a new show... my shudders continue. That said, at least the GAP features NSync's JC Chasez in a career resurrecting rendition of Earth Wind & Fire's "Shining Star" that leaves me quakin' in my knickers.

But my original point to this post (I did a helluva lot of babbling) - why is that bloody Elizabeth Taylor White Diamonds ad still playing? I remember the first time I saw Elizabeth Taylor trying to convince the masses that though getting on in years, she was still the violet-eyed vixen that could bewitch a man with her come-hither stare. I was a 6 year old with a 7 pm bedtime but that was a night that violated routine. And for good reason: my dad was coming home from some faraway, unknown battleground and I got to stay up late. While he played with us and while my mum scolded him for making us hyper, the tv played softly in the background. And in the split-second of calm during our playtime we heard a haunting flute (or maybe a clarinet) that spawned a flowing, enchanting theme. Enter a 50-something Taylor, who strolled up to a man 30-years her junior with all the seduction and mysteriousness that few women could ever muster. "These have always brought me luck." Elizabeth Taylor... White Diamonds. Ooooooooooooooooo. "Who's that Papa?" "That's Elizabeth Taylor, children. She's an Academy Award winning actress. She was Cleopatra, Virginia Woolf, Maggie in--" "She's old, Papa!" My father paused, recognizing both our astuteness and the futility of battling with an 8, 6, and 5 year old, but what else could be said? She was old. And since this moment in 1988, she has continued to be old. And year after year, this commercial airs. Through cancer, through Parkinson's, through Glllllaaaaaaaaaaaaadiatorrrrrrrrr!!!, this commercial lives on. But how?! But why?! I'm rooting for a new fragrance from the now addlebrained Liz. True, it may make one may smell like senility but hey, that's gotta be a fun time!

**Believe it or not, I like Michael Irvin. Yes he's loud and, from time to time, has outbursts like a crackhead having a PCP fit but if you can get past that, you can see that he's pretty insightful and has good things to say. Rah, rah, Mr. Irvin.**
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Original Comments

Wing Tuesday

Wings. Beer. Sports.

That bogus ESPN bowl week commercial claims that this is the most wonderful time of the year. In the words of that Mel Brooks lookin, no-talent, gasbag, Lee Corso, "Not so fast my friend!" And no, I'm not going to launch into an anti-Corso tirade even though he is a pot-bellied ninny. There is but one wonderful time of the year and guess what! It occurs every single week. The Buddhists call it nirvana; the Christians, Heaven; and for the Vikings, it is Valhalla. But for me, it's Wing Tuesday. A veritable cornucopia of succulent delights unparalleled by any other experience one can have at any other time of the week. It is the day where BW-3's drops the prices of their wings to 35 cents, enabling one to order 20 mouth-watering, finger-licking, hot and saucy wings for only $7. The thought of this makes me weak in the knees.

[And the Lord said, "Let there be wing," and there was wing. And the Lord saw the wing and said, "it is good."]

Every Tuesday, my crew and I make the hop, skip, and jump to B-dubs on Washington to partake in the taste sensation that is the wing. I order 20 wings in medium sauce, a basket of buffalo chips - golden-crisp, natural-cut potato slices whose taste compliments the wing, and a lot of wet naps. After picking the bones clean and unbuttoning my pants, I sit back, marinate, and decide whether I will again succumb to the wing's siren song that night for dinner. Tonight, I think I will.

Wings are manna from heaven. They are the Lord's food.
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Original Comments

Adventures in Bending

After practice today, I had enough time for an outing to the hip artery of the Bend: Grape Road. My two destinations? Best Buy and Barnes & Noble; two seemingly hassle-free zones that solely exist to provide my father with yet another reason to lecture and harass me following the arrival of my bank statement each month. "Best Buy? What could you possibly need there?" After pausing for a moment, I say "Drugs, Papa... They just keep calling me." My father, suspicious, peers at me but is soon off to his next question, "Barnes & Noble?" Truth be told, I am often hesitant to admit that my sole motivation for visiting is to see if I can manage a score amongst the plethora of goateed, pseudointellectual, latte-drinking, left-wing freak shows between the ages of 21 - 35. I don't think my father would understand that this particular species of male can only be found where books and Starbucks are housed within the same collection of bricks and mortar.

In any case, while at B&N, I searched hopelessly for a particular Christmas gift for my boyfriend (sweetheart, disregard that sentence). Having already visited Customer Service once, my pride prevented me from returning, so, like any arrogant person who refuses to admit defeat, I wondered aimlessly through the aisles in hopes that "it" would catch my eye. While passing through the Biography section, I encountered a girl around 24 or so, who appeared to be a likely mate for the Noble Starbucks Male. She hacked profusely... this guttural, phlegmy cough that had me feeling nauseous. As most of you know, I'm a germophobe - these situations rarely bode well for my calm nature (yes, that was sarcasm). Departing the situation was goal #1. I tried to be sublte... sprinting out of the aisle was not the best solution. But as I walked, so did she. Through Biography, Poems, Essays, Science Fiction... wherever I was, The Cough managed to appear. I felt my lymph nodes tightening into Defcon 1. Then, all of a sudden, her phone rang. ... I eavesdropped - of course. Perhaps she'd reveal the nature of her disease and I could get to SB Memorial stat. "Well I have just got to put this sick thing down, curl up with a book, and do laundry..........it's not like I have any health insurance yet.... I'm gonna call Steak & Shake and ask for the day off." (What? How about you take a day off from society and go back to your Petri dish apartment! GAH!) I power-walked in the opposite direction. .... 15 minutes later, I had to visit the loo. While there, I heard my fellow restroomer laughing it up in her stall. I found nothing amusing while in my stall. Perhaps the other one was decorated with a cool poster of jokes. I washed my hands for extra time just to see what was going on... and then she emerged. The Germ Girl and she had a book in hand! Reading in the loo! Who does such things? I quickly left but when I saw her come out a few seconds later, she put the book back on one of the shelves! I was horrified and promptly told on her to the B&N staff like a bratty 8-year old girl. They confronted her and forced her to buy it - and rightfully so! Coughing on people... putting toilet books back on the shelves. Justice served.

On my way to the car, I got a call from Justin - we needed eggs and milk, could I pick some up? Of course and since I needed wrapping paper anyway, I went to Wal-Mart. Since the snow squalls had arrived, I didn't want to rought it and park far away. So, I did what any lazy bumkas would do in my position - Vehicular Parking Lot Stalking. I spotted the target - feeble, white-haired, and contemplative, he wore a patched tweed sports coat, corduroy pants, and bow tie. Perhaps he worked at the museum with Indiana Jones. All that said, he certainly fit the bill for your typical close parker. I crept along in my Jeep (unnoticed, I'm sure) as he hoofed it through the squalls but something was wrong. We passed the handicap spots and the oversized sedans with Florida plates... the Lincoln Towncar, the Cadillac Deville, the Buick LeSabre -- all were no go for takeoff and with a fleet of SUVs and Dodge Neons ahead, we were running out of Early Bird Special possibilities. Finally, we arrived at a PT Cruiser with a sunroof... who was this guy? Ah, who cares. PT Cruisers are, quite possibly, the ugliest vehicles known to man today. As he drove off, I gave him the "thanks for the primo spot" wave and parked. While getting out of the car, I noticed a blue and grey building far off in the horizon. Wal-Mart. I stalked this old fool to the edge of oblivion ... Perhaps it had to be thus.

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Old Haloscan Comment(s)

Squalls and V-dubs

So weather.com says snow squalls for us here in the Bend. I can't say that I actually know what a snow squall is... I did, however, see that horribly abysmal yet extremely well cast White Squall .. replace Robin Williams with Jeff Bridges and you've got the Dead Poets Society of the high seas. riveting drama. life lessons. love. mmmm. But i digress. upon giving this movie further mental review, I think everybody died in the end. I hope these impending snow squalls aren't anything like that.....

In other news.. it appears 21st Century hippies are, in fact, go for take-off:

When i was but a youngin, i had dreams of taking a VW Microbus cross-country on a whirlwind adventure of Route 66, the PCH, and every Ben & Jerry's in between. Me and my psychedelic rolling palace of love would stop off at communes for s'mores and singalongs and such.. I'd ponder life, write poetry, and maybe, just maybe, get interested in the world of the ganja. but i guess that's no longer a possibility. From the looks of this badboy, it'll shoot out those tent wings and fly me to Mars.. which, well, may not be so awful...

I'd be taller than everyone and they'd make me their queen.