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