Tuesday, August 31, 2010

Progress Report aka Me Fail Good

I turn 30 in just under 6 months. A while ago, I listed all the things I wanted to do before I turned 30. 30 things to be exact. Let us take a look at how I have done:

1. Make list of things to do before turning 30.

BAM! Done and Done. 1 for 1. Batting a thousand. Lets do this!

2. Make list of things to do before turning 40.

Well, 1/2 is still respectable. Small sample size as the baseball stat nerds from Fangraphs will tell you. Batting .500. Still good. Better than Ted Williams ever did, may his head rest in peace.

3. Buckle down and become manager of the softball team. Someone has to do it. Plus, mini-power trip! (And guaranteed aggravation).

Well, now we get into the Ray Kurzweil hemming and hawing about what it means to predict (or in my case, complete) a specified goal. See, I did buckle down and become manager of the team, but alas, I am a shepard without a flock. I sent out some e-mails but could not garner enough interest among my co-workers and associates. Could I have tried harder? Sure. But I did send out an e-mail. I am gonna say, COMPLETED! That is 2 for 3. Let's keep this self-esteem locomotive rolling . . .

4. Go to several museums, see more of the parks, and visit the lesser known monuments of semi-relevant folks who are largely forgotten now. And take pictures.

A couple weeks ago, the girlfriend's younger brother and sister were in town. I drove them all down to go see the Jefferson Memorial. As we were walking there, and back for that matter, I tried to get everyone all excited about the George Mason Memorial. There is no one ever there, and old George looks totally laid back, what with his legs crossed as if he has no balls. No one took the bait, and they all ignored poor George as everyone does. So, sadly, I cannot even say I went up to Mr. Mason and gave him a pat on the shoulder. I also have not been to any museums or parks or any of that shit. But I have a list of places to go. Including little known parks such as Kenilworth and the Rapunzel looking tower at Fort Reno.

But, haven't done any of it yet. Back to .500, 2/4.

5. Tell my girlfriend that she is the most beautiful thing in the world. Because she is, and I do not do it nearly often enough.

I wish I could say it once every five minutes. But I try to say it once a day. She is the ultimate Decider on this one, but for now, I am scoring it for me. With the caveat that I fully intend on keeping it up for the next six months, six years, and six decades. At least.

6. Prove to above gf that my IQ just may be 135 by doing smart things like reading, becoming informed about events and politics in countries that do not start with U (sorry uraguay, have to focus my attention elsewhere), get a better handle on geography, and watching more olbermann and madow.

I got a subscription to the Economist. I have yet to make it halfway through one issue. But I did pay attention to the Glen Beck, Not A Politics Rally, for about ten seconds! I never watch cable news. My knowledge of geography has not changed. This is a bucket of fail. Back to .500, 3/6.

7. Drink less.

At one point, I went two months without a drink (I talked about in my only March 2010 post). I did not make it through the whole three months that I initially hoped for (thus losing the bet with the woman). But hey, two months is pretty good. I still do some drinking. But it is less. WIN!

8. A lot less.

But it ain't a lot less. I thought about giving me the point under this too because I have been drinking less (in the aggregate, I did drink a lot the week the woman came back for the summer, but being that she was flanked by two kids and I had to see her during the day but sleep at home by myself, I figure some excessive drinking is acceptable. That was also the week the woman at the little store in my work building made fun of me for buying 5-hour energy drinks every day that week), but I am not in the 2-3 drinks, 2-3 times a week category that I think is necessary for this category. I may never be, but that is what "A LOT LESS" would entail.

Oh, that .500 average, it is singing my song.

9. Become a more productive and efficient worker. Just cause there is a deadline doesn't mean I have until then to get my shit finished.
Answer after the jump (due to auto-play video, FYI)

Tuesday, August 24, 2010

Anger Management

So today kinda sucked. First I discovered that the charging port on my Blackberry is busted (thanks to me! Stupid, stupid me), so that put me in a bad mood for the rest of the day. Until I discovered this: http://shop.crackberry.com/blackberry-charging-pod/5A100A3318.htm , A charging station for my BB. Who knew those little gold tips on the back were actually function. Those crazy Canadians think of everything.

So I trundled down to the local T-Mobile store after work, and of course, they have none in stock. They just had a big sale on them, and they are no more. None of the other 52 T-mobiles in a roughly 12 block radius have them either. So I sauntered down to the Radio Shack, and they of course, just sold theirs the other day and now the product has been discontinued. Fine, whatever, I will just buy the damn thing online I suppose. Whatevs.

But then, I head over to the Macy's to buy some underwear. Briefs to be exact. Because I am getting back on the p90x wagon-train and I need my boys to be comfortable. Well that, and I ripped a couple of pairs of boxers doing Yoga. Because I am THAT damn flexible. For realz. Thing is, I haven't worn briefs in about 20 years. But I notice that Jockey underwear is on sale. So I pick two 3-packs, when I notice that Jockey Underwears are on sale. Buy one get one 50% off! Wooooo! I think to myself. I have really been needing some new white t-shirts. I just threw out one that stunk to high heaven and could not get fresh with even the tidiest of Tides. (I wore for hockey one too many times. I don't smell that bad. In general. After showers at least. For a couple minutes.)

So I pick up two three packs of nice clean white crew-necks. I boogie on down to the cashier table, he rings me up, I put it on the Macy's card, and then do a triple take. Did I just spend $70 on underwear? yes. Yes I did. So, bad mood is back.

From there, I metro on down to the Giant Super Market. To buy some food. But not magic beans. The magic beans at the Giant suck. The girl made me a list (and considering all this food is for her house, she must trust me a lot to buy shit for her. Yeah, that has to be it . . .(or that fact that I eat most of her food could be it too)), so using my new found Supermarket Circumnavigation skills, I hit up the deli, pick out some yellow onions (last night: Me: Are the yellow ones really yellow? Will it be easy to tell them apart from the other onions? Her: Duh, as long as you are not color-blind . . . . [cue evil laughter]), grab some yogurt, didn't flinch when I saw beef broth on the list (though I had no idea what to get, I ended with something in a carboard box, because it looked similar to the chicken broth she used for thanksgiving turkey), and headed to the checkout line.

Of course, I picked the slowest checkout line, the one with the girl in training. But whatever. Things are looking up. Then the total comes in at $88, so I deftly hand over my Giant card and watch the savings appear (I always wait til the end to give them my card so I can see the money go backwards. I can feel my wallet getting fatter as it happens). Final tally, $68.78. Oh yeah, that is right. I spent more on underwear than I did on food for the week. I am the king of money management.

So I get home-ish, the girls home that is, she isn't here. I fire up my laptop, and the internet is on the fritz again. Not the internet really, but the wireless box that I bought for her. Seriously, the thing is a piece of shit. I hate it. So I started cursing, out loud. Fuck you internets and such. Then I just plugged in the cord, adjusted my fantasy line-up and went to work putting away the groceries.

All was going well, until I tried to shove some 100 calorie Party Mix onto the middle shelf in the cabinet, when some chocolate milk mix spilled over all over the damn place. At this point, I said something like "Fuckity Shit" really loudly. And it looks stupid written out, but it really conveyed my emotion at the time.

So I go to the closet to get the vacuum, when I stub my toe. now I said, "OWWWWWWWW FUUUUUUCK!!!" Well not so much said, as yelled very loudly. Then I punched the door. Thankfully the door is ok, but my hand still kinda hurts. So I grab the vacuum, unwind the cord, plug it in, and start vacuuming up delicious chocolate mix, when i go to far and the plug comes out. I cursed more, which if I printed it here, would have been in bold letters (or maybe a bigger font), but instead of going apeshit insane, I decided to rant about all this shit here, and now I am nice and calm and don't see the need for anymore profanity.

I guess that is the end.

Oh, but if you see the woman's neighbors, let them know I just had a bad day. I am really a nice guy.

Tuesday, August 10, 2010

How To Clean A Foreman Grill

I take so very much from the internet. I watch funny videos, I read interesting things, I get live scoring for fantasy baseball and football, I stream episodes of The Office through Netflix for Wii, and let us not forget the hundreds and hundreds of gigabytes of free porn that are just there for the taking (if one were so inclined). But I never give anything back. Take, take take take take. Sure, I make a blog post once a month or so, and people seem to love my picture of Mr. Burns, but after that? Nada. I do not contribute to any online forums or any comment sections.

But all that changes today! I am giving back to the internets. This is my guide on how to clean a Foreman Grill. I know I searched for answers a while ago, and came up with nothing good, but over time have developed this fool-proof, easy, method of Foreman Grill Cleaning™. (Note: not really a trademark. Well, Lean Mean Fat Reducing Grilling Machine® is, but the other one is just a joke. Granted, ™ doesn't make it a trademark, but whatever).

Step 0--"Oh Noes! I Has A Dirty Foreman!"

(If I had photoshop skills, I would have done a lolcats with this, but alas, I have only rudimentary MSPaint skills)

Yesterday, I made me some delicious porkchops on the Foreman. Afterwards, the grill looked like this: (note: all pictures open up larger if you so desire. Because Detail is key here (ed. note: detail not key))(Post-post note: ARGGHHH, Motherfucker. Ok, so the pictures cannot be opened in a new window for some reason. I spent way too much time trying to get that shit right, and I thought I had it. Oh well. If you use Google Chrome, you can choose "Copy Image URL" with a left click and open in a new tab. If you use IE 8, well enjoy the tiny little picture). (Post Post-Post: I can never leave things alone. There will be a link by each picture, click that, it should open the picture in a new tab. Hopefully.)

That shit gots to get clean. It is some bizarre form of fat and gristle and McCormick's Grill Mates Roasted Garlic and Herb. It is gooey and it is nasty. You can scrap at that shit for hours with the lame plastic tool they give you, scrub with a sponge, get pissed off and scrub with scrubby bristly part of the sponge even though you know that it will peel off some of the teflon (as you will see on my grill once it is clean), or you can follow my simple step by step procedure and have yourself a clean Foreman in mere minutes! Only 19.99! Or free. Plus it takes an hour. Trust me, just keep reading.

Step 1--Ready the Materials

What you need:

  1. Dirty Foreman
  2. Faucet with running water/bucket of water
  3. Paper Towels

Step 2--Easy Like Paper Mache-ing

Take at least three paper towels (without separating them) and get them all nice and wet. Not sopping, but a nice, all over wetness with some dripiness. Squeeze out a little if too wet. Unfurl the wet paper towel into its original sheet size (folded so it is the size of one paper towel sheet). Place on the Foreman like so: Now, press it down into all the grooves to that it is all good and in there. Like this:

Oh yeah, that's the stuff. You finger the Foreman Grill a little bit, it will be good to you. It just needs a little loving.

Now, some of the grease and nastiness will start to be absorbed by the wet paper towels

Step 3--The Waaaiiting is the Hardest Part (For Realz YO!)

I leave the Foreman Grill dirty until I intend on using it again. Then, when I get home from work and say to my imaginary butler, "Hey, I think I am going to do some quasi-grilling tonight!" I get to work on Steps 0-2. Then, I do p90x. This usually takes about an hour. So step three is letting the wet paper towel sit on the Foreman for an hour. If you choose not to work out, here are some other things you can do that will take an hour:

  1. Drive at 60 mph for 30 min in any direction. Then drive back. If you think you are a bad ass, drive 90 mph for 30 min.
  2. Watch 1.5 innings of a Yankees-Red Sox game
  3. Read everything I have posted in the last five years.
  4. Watch Two episodes of the Simpsons. If you are fucking LAME! Because I know you are cool, make that Three episodes of The Simpsons because you have the DVDs
  5. Look up "Tacoma Narrows Bridge" on Wikipedia
  6. Drink three beers
  7. Go to the Grocery Store and get yourself some fresh veggies to go with the delicious meat you are about to cook. Or go there and get the biggest fucking steak you can find that will fit on the grill. Because meat is awesome.

Step 4--The Big Reveal!

Upon lifting your Foreman lid, you shall see that the nasty has permeated the paper towels. This is good. If it looks the same as when you first put the paper towel down, you, my friend, have failed. And I cannot help you.

But for the Alpha Males, you should see something like this:

Well, if you are an Alpha Male, yours is probably better looking than mine. But that is neither here nor there *Ahem, *Cough Cough.

Step 5--Scraping the Bottom of the Barrel

At this point, I think it is important to note the time that I took each picture. Just so you understand how undeniably awesome my method is. Because it is gonna take a few pics to realize that. And since I am not charging $19.95, I have no reason to lie. I hope. Anyway, the picture immediately above, was taken at 5:12 pm (I am unable to account for seconds, so for that, I apologize (but it's really Research in Motion's fault))

Now, spread out your fingers, apply pressure to the paper towel, and pull down. If you stopped halfway through, it might look like this: (5:12 pm)

But do not stop halfway through. Continue to use the paper towel as if you were cleaning the Foreman regularly from top to bottom.

The underside of the paper towel will look something like this: (5:12 pm)

If you cook something like chicken or porkchops, you may disappointed by the results (with steak, this reveal is jaw dropping), but fear not, it is not as bad as it looks: (5:12 pm)

Yeah, that does not look all that clean. Have Faith though.

Step 6--The Wet Wipe

Those who are better than us, but not fantastically awesome enough to have a bidet, use baby wipes to wipe their ass after taking a shit. And you need to treat your Foreman with the same type of affection a multi-millionaire treats his or her bunghole. But not with a baby wipe. That shit is expensive. Baby's have it so fucking good. What a joke. Wait, back to the foreman thing. Wet another paper towel or too, and wipe down the Foreman again. If you are particularly frugal, you can use the same paper towel that was draped across the Foreman for an hour, just refold it (as you do your dust rag when you do that dusting chore once a year) to the crap encrusted upon it is on the inside.

And hey, its starting to look better: (5:13 pm)

Step 7--The Dry Wipe

The common man uses normal toilet paper, with no bit of moisture to its name (though I suppose one could wet it in the sink first, but then one would use eight times the normal amount of TP for wiping. Not that I have charted this or anything). The common man should not compromise on the number of plys though. It has to be at least two. Worst thing about shitting in public is the recycled sandpaper single ply they make you use. Fuck that shit. Sorry, got distracted again (this fucking post is taking me like three goddamn hours. This is why I never post).

So take your dry paper towel and wipe down the grill. Bear in mind, a little bit of elbow grease is needed to make sure you are getting in the cracks and up against the grilling grooves. And I took a picture of this for some reason: (5:13 pm)

Looking pretty good there Stud! There is still a little work that needs to be done in the corners, but all will be cleared out in the next step. Promise.

Step 8--The Roof, The Roof, The Roof is on Fire. We Don't Need No Water, Let the Motherfucker Burn!

Yes, I have talked nothing about cleaning the lid. A relatively non-grimy lid will look like this: (5:14 pm)

Usually you get some burned shit up there. I just lower the lid, and blindly scrape all that shit off with the plastic scraper they provide. This way, most of the remnants fall onto the bottom surface of the grill, rather than into the hinge cracks or underneath it. Just makes it easier. Plus, the top is fucking easy to clean. So after scraping, I usually do another dry paper towel run on the bottom and the top.

If that does not get it clean, the one more Wet paper towel, dry paper cycle should get the shit clean, so you have something sparkling like this: (5:14 pm).

And that, is the All Clean photo. Note that it took three minutes for me to clean (5:12-5:14) after the hour long cold compress.

I hope this helps you in all of your fat reducing fake grill cleaning endeavors.

Please note: I seem to recall that chicken leavings are a bitch to clean. I will cook chicken tomorrow and update this on Thursday if I feel that my step-by-step directions were in anyway shitty in the means of cleaning chicken goop.

Monday, July 26, 2010

I'm On To You *Death Stare

I went to the Giant Grocery store today. List in hand, I was whizzing around the supermarket, making great time, grabbing this, grabbing that, improving when necessary (Oh yes, I do need more popcorn, I had totally forgotten), when it hit me.

I done got my ass trained.

There is this old saying, well I assume it is old how can you ever know for sure right? Its not like I have Bartlett's Big Book of Quotes at my house, and a cursory search using the Google-brand search engine yielded conflicting results (but lets not kid ourselves, its from Calvin & Hobbes, and let me just express my frustration at seeing this site get whacked by the Private Copyright Enforcement Legal Team, otherwise I would have embedded the strip. Oh sure, I could go through my Calvin and Hobbes books and scan it myself, but ummm, no). So anyway, Calvin once said, "If you do something bad enough the first time, they wont ask you to do it again."

I am pretty bad at a lot of things. I do not have to try. Used to be, one of those things was grocery shopping. In my single days, I went to the grocery store like a real adult, but generally came home with frozen meals, frozen pizzas, beer, bread, and chips. I was always confused how my freezer was always jammed, while the fridge was always empty. I just assumed that it was an optical illusion due to the size difference. Then I would put the beer in the fridge, and the fridge would be fuller, and all would seem ok with the world.

But now, I have that girlfriend. And she has been gone for the past two and half months. Which meant that I had to fend for myself. Her, being the proactive cutie pie that she is, starting making me a grocery list, and then demanding that I go shopping with a specified time period in order to take advantage of all the SALES!! (THIS BREAD NEVER GOES ON SALE AND IT IS BUY ONE GET ONE FREE!! GET TWELVE LOAVES!!!) So I did, getting my fresh fruit, and fresh veggies, and fresh meat, and random organic shit, and yogurt (mmm, yogurt, with FIBER!).

All the while, unwittingly falling into the perfectly laid trap set by my devious woman.

The girlfriend, being in law school, occasionally has late nights and other various studying and other law school type bullshit, that prevents her from getting to the grocery store. So for example, one weekend she was preparing for a trial. So yeah, lots of important stuff she has to do (this would NOT fall into the aforementioned law school type bullshit category. This is real shit. Regardless of the flavor of the shit, I am always happy to help out. Or, try to help out). And, because she was out of food, she had to send me to the grocery store. So she made me a list, wiped some schmutz off my face, patted me on the ass, and sent me on my way. And I did my best, but the grocery store was just so overwhelming! All this food. Must be 80 quadrillion different food items. And there were only Ten on the list! The odds of finding what I needed are astronomical! I wandered around the store aimless for an hour, occasionally finding a product specified on the list, occasionally confused (Simply asia is on the list, but does she want the noodles, or the microwave full meal, and what flavor? So confused), before I called her up to get help finding what she wanted. And I am sure I still came back with four things that were not correct (Seriously, every time she sends me out to get her something, be it from Giant or CVS or whatever, I never get it right, I always screw something up).

I give her credit though, she never lost faith in me. She kept sending me out, and I kept screwing it up. Even if I did it wrong, she did not stop believing in me.

Then she realized the solution. All she had to do was leave.

I am no longer incompetent at the grocery store. I get actual fresh foods. (Ok, still intimidated by the Meat department, but really, that place is only good for fish. And giant cuts of meat. I don't need that. Plus I am poor. I don't need fancy stuff. I get the Big Buys). Today, I bought a big ass cluster of celery, and not just the hearts, the whole big thing that is cheaper than the hearts. I cut it up and stuck it in tupperware. But here is where it gets bad. I put water in the tupperware, because that will help the celery last longer. And I know it will be good for just about a week. And I learned this shit, through buying celery and fucking up (fucking up is always the best way to learn). GAHHHH!!!! I should not know this! I should not be adept at navigating the grocery store.

She tricked me. By making me self-sufficient, she really just made her life a lot easier. Damn it all to hell.

Oh well, at least when she comes back, she is gonna cook me some real meals. My creativity does not extend to the kitchen (or the blog for that matter HA! beat you too it!).

Anyway sweetie; I'm on to you and your attempts at "training"

I never even heard of this dude:

I write like
Cory Doctorow

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

Thursday, July 22, 2010

Undergrad--A Hopefully Chronological Remembrance Pt. 1

It has been 3 years since I last set foot on my undergrad campus. And that was because I had to stop at the office of disciplinary action to get a record of the disciplinary action taken against me. Had it not been for that, we would be around seven years. Of course, I blame law school for that shit. But regardless, I got to thinking, through an alcohol induced haze (which reminded me of undergrad), what stories I had, and which I did not remember. This series will be about the stories I remember, and hopefully, in the order in which they occurred.

Today, Acceptance

I grew up in the suburbs of Chicago. When you do that, one thing is clear, You are going to the University of Illinois. Or at least, that is what your parents want you to do. In-State tuition is fucking cheap! As it were, I had two older sisters, neither of whom went to U of I. They certainly were smart enough, one went to DePaul and the other decided that Jesus reigned supreme and went to some crazy God school in the middle of nowhere. So through my trail-blazing sisters, I knew that UofI was not the only option. In fact, one could venture in the scary urbaneness of the Chicago, or even into the middle of farm country! (ok, so technically, my house was across the street from a farm growing up, until suburbia exploded in the mid-90s, but still, Possibilities!)

As my graduation date loomed near, I looked over my right shoulder and saw the Oldest Twin off at DePaul, a private school, and over my left shoulder I saw my youngest older sister at North Central College, a private school (having since given up the dream of "Crazy Religious Schools are the Place to Be!). It was time for me to make a decision.

I understand the benefits of the in-state school. Surely when I have kids, that is where I want them to go. But I am not them. I wanted to get as far away as possible. Well, as far as possible without going to a crazy Jesus school.

Sadly, I know what exactly drew me to Miami University. They sent me a big huge package of shit. And, they were in Ohio. I figured, if they are gonna send me all this shit (postage must have been at least $0.72!) they would not reject me. And they were in Ohio.

I do not think it is necessary to justify why I wanted to be 5 hours away, other than that my mom was on the fence about me being that far away. I was 18. I wanted to be out in the world. I thought I could be somebody who was cool. I was proven wrong in with respect to the latter, but essentially, it came down to a choice of where I would be uncool at, UofI or Miami.

In classic self-loathing, repressed teenage, get off my back dad, form, I threw my Uof I essay. Threw it like one would throw a basketball game for the benefit of gamblers. My essay was good, don't get me wrong, I am pretty sure I used the same one for my Miami application. But there was one key difference.

Ok, two key differences.

First, I hand wrote my UofI exam. On the back of the application, there was and a third of a page blank space for an essay, which I guess they assumed people still had typewriters back in 1999 (they may have been right), but I crammed my essay into that space with handwriting a third grader would not be jealous of.

And I applied to the School of Engineering. Which you have to be smart to get into. Sure I had an ACT of 29 and a weighted GPA of 5.05/5 but I knew that would not be good enough. I did not even want to be engineer.

But that did not stop me from applying to the Paper Science Engineering program at Miami. That shit was begging for students. (long aside: I did the whole, sleep in a dorm room and your mom sleeps in another dorm room Fun Crazy-type weekend at Miami. This was after we stopped at the campus on the way back from New Jersey and when I fell in love with the campus. On the way to this sleepover, driving into Oxford from the Chicago area, was the first and last time I have ever actually nodded off behind the wheel. That will scare the shit out of you. Driving along, close your eyes . . . . . open them and you are a quarter of a mile down the road. Those rumble strips are effective. Nonetheless, I still feel bad about that. And hence, no sleeping behind the wheel since then. Anyway, that whole sleepover thing, I heard stories about people going out and getting smashed, and whatever, while I was back in my room at 11 pm. My quasi roommate came back around 3, but he was Black, so I just assumed that he was cool and people wanted to hang out with him. Nobody liked my white ass, and I sure as shit did not know anyone in bumfuck Ohio, so you might think that whole experience soured me on Miami. For some reason, it didn't. Probably because my mind was already made up).

So yeah, applied in a major I was sure to be rejected in at UofI and applied to a major I was sure to be accepted in at Miami. That is the recipe for success. Assuming you eventually change your major, don't graduate during an Accounting recession and go to law school, graduating at the top of your class just before the bottom falls out of the legal market.

Coming soon, Part 2, Orientation and Swing Dancing

Wednesday, July 7, 2010

Its Too Hot Today

Current Temperature in Alexandria VA: 100 degrees (feels like 103)

Current Temperature in the Cayman Islands: 86 (feels like 96)

Suck on that you fat money laundering Simpsons character living in a tropical paradise. You don't know what hot is.

Well, I guess I shouldn't complain. Its not like I am venturing outdoors today.* No, no, I am just gonna sit here and watch World Cup soccer on one tv and some random muted program on the other. Yes, yes this may seem wasteful, but hear me out.

First, the problem is that ESPN comes in all scrambly on my digital tv hookup. As such, it is impossible to watch that channel. I do not much care because I never watch ESPN anymore (oh noes, I will miss LeBacheorlette!) (and, I can still watch baseball games on ESPN3.com) (So why not watch soccer on ESPN3.com? Umm, because I am trying to write a blog post. And my laptop sucks, it does not like playing video and running any other programs. Also, I have my laptop on my lap and I don't want to burn my legs) (yeah yeah, time for some original jokes).

I have a little tv, that I watch while laying in bed. Even though I live in a studio, I find it necessary to have two TVs approximately 23 feet from each other. And I think today totally vindicates that decision. My little tv is just hooked up to the coaxial cable, not through the digital box, so I can watch ESPN on there no problem.

So while I have two TVs on (as well as a laptop), all my lights are off. And sure, the A/C is on, but the shades are closed. When I did this as a child, my mom called me a mushroom. So, I suppose you could say that I am shrooming today to beat the heat.

Anyway, due to the position of the two tv's, I have had to adjust my usual sitting position, and have moved from my couch to the chair which my girlfriend hates (that's its proper name). This has had an unintended benefit. I am in a much better position. Allow my wicked photoshop MS Paint skills to show you:

As you can see from the drawing (I hope, well probably not, that is why I am going to explain it), from the way my apartment is set up, sitting on the couch is like sitting in a deadzone. the cool air is blown away from the couch on both sides. By sitting on the chair, I not only get a view of both TVs, but also cool air blowing on my head.

So, that is my introduction to some random thoughts:


I spent the last month ripping though The Wire. It is quite awesome. I am not sure what else to say. It is as good as all those obnoxious, highfalutin TV and pop-culture snobs say it is (sigh, guess I have to start watching Mad Men now too). The last season is a little too out there, but it is still pretty damn good (kinda like knocking Lincoln cause he was too gangly).

I am hopeful that I can get the girl into it. I have a pretty good track record of getting her into my TV Shows. She can now, thanks to me, count among her loves, Arrested Development, The Simpsons, and Firefly. For some reason she remains resistant to Buffy and Angel, even though she will spend two hours researching Twilight characters.

But I think that she will like it. It moves a little slow (she is an up at them kind of girl:

but it focuses on things she looooves. For example, the first season centers around the police department and organized crime. She has worked in a prosecutors office. She did a defense work clinic. This is right up her alley. Later seasons focus on politics. She loooves politics. She should watch it. Make sure you tell her to. Cause that would be helpful.
Spain just scored. Damn YOUUUUUUUUUUUU. Stupid Ponce de Leon. Hmmm, that is the only spanish guy I know. I am so ignorant. And really, I don't even care who wins. Soccer is so boring. I do not know how anyone can watch it.
Yup, that's right, time for more Simpsons video clips:

Damn you copyright laws. or at least copyright claims. Brush up on your fair use defense youtube. Oh well, go here, fast forward to the 2:45 mark, and enjoy the worst Russian dubbing in the history of dubbing.

Bottom line: Soccer is boring. I will never be convinced otherwise.


The woman gave me blog topics. One of which was the difference between her family and mine. I am not actually going to write a thousand words on that, but she mentioned that me meeting her family would be like the movie Meet the Parents. I said, true, but that her grandmother would try to stab me while I slept. Instead of the "LOLz" I expected, the girlfriend replied, "yeah, she might. She is nuts."

Those are not the most encouraging words I have ever heard in my life.


I am however, trying to learn greek. It is not going that well. I think I am too old to learn a foreign language. I took three years of Spanish (who incidentally just won. Damn YOU ESPANA!!! May the Netherlands rip out your heart, and feed it to you while it is still bleeding (wow, I really hate Spain. Good thing France didn't make the final, I might have gotten all stabby (also, strong Nationalism is at work even with the crappiest of sports. Hence I can get fired up about soccer results, even if the games put me to sleep))) and about all I remember is "donde esta el coche/ el bano." It is enough to get by. Oh, and when I met the girlfriend, I remembered what Bonita meant.

Needless to say, my foreign language learning history is not encouraging. And then I had a structured class, with a textbook and everything. Now I just have a second hand Rosetta Stone that doesn't even have directions.

I do have the woman though. She decided that she is going to speak to me in greek for ten minutes every night, and I have to respond in kind. And if I do, I get special presents.

Needless to say, I am feeling confident in my ability to learn passable greek. Oh, those special presents. Men are so easy.

*if you are curious why I am not at work today, well let's just say that my system felt the need to clear itself out today. I don't think I could have made it to the train without popping a squat in the nearby woods

Tuesday, June 15, 2010


As I am sure you are sick of hearing by now, the Chicago Blackhawks just won the Stanley Cup. The Goddamn Chicago BLACKHAWKS won the Cup. The Stanley Cup. Its been a week, I am still in awe. My mom and my little sister went to the Cubs-Sox game Sunday night (the dueling no-hitter game that ended with no hitters) and got to see the Cup. In all its glory. Its amazing.

I have been a hockey fan for most of my life. Sure it helped that Eddie the Eagle Belfour broke into the league when I was 8, and Jeremy Roenick was the most electric player in the league when I was 10, and Dirk Graham was the first partial african american captain in the league (not that I knew that of course. He was Dirk Graham. He had a kick-ass mustache. He ate glass for breakfast. And he was the captain. The reverence given to the hockey captain is something that will never be understood by the masses). Roenick and the Eagle, along with Cheli, lead the Hawks to the Stanley Cup Finals in 1992. I was 11. I was excited. This was to be the greatest moment of my life.

At least until Mario Lemiuex and Jaromir Jagr swept the Hawks out of the building. The games were so close. I always thought we had a chance. Even in game 4. Hey we are down 3-0? What of that? We are the team that will be the first to come back from that deficit to win the Cup! How can we not? We are so damn good!

But fucking Barrasso would be better (and he had to be American too. Bitch).

Then I walked out of my wide-eyed, in awe of professional sports phase, and saw the Hawks for what they were. Or really, who they were. Bill Wirtz, aka, Dollar Bill. I am sure you heard he kept home games off of local TV.

My love for hockey never waned, though my love for the Hawks did. In 1996 I would decide I wanted to play hockey. I took some beginner courses, and played on the JV hockey team in my Sophomore through Senior years (yeah, I was never that good, but hey, good enough to win some trophies!). And through all this time, and numerous hockey games, I would see one or two games a year live, get irrationally excited when a Hawks home game aired on Fox (hell yeah glowpuck), and sink into misery when Eric Daze got injured yet again (though Pat Foley's assurances that Mark Bell would one day be Captain material is hilarious in hindsight).

I went to college, and played intramurals there (even took a class in ice hockey. I got an A (though some jack ass took a slap shot four feet away from me and I thought I broke my ankle blocking it. Seriously, it was class. You would never take a slapper from inside the hash marks on your own goalie during warm-ups).

I cannot say I thought much about the Hawks during this time. I would usually get tickets to a Hawks game for Christmas, but really, the hawks sucked. We had pinned our hopes on the ABC line--Tyler Arnason, Mark Bell, and Kyle Calder. They had moments, but looking at them through non-fan eyes reveals that they sucked. (in doing some research just now, I realized I blocked out the Doug Gilmour as captain, Tony Amonte as captain (he was good, never great, but given the shit Hawks fan had seen, we made Tony Amonte out to be great, and he never was, nor could he ever handle that role as team leader), and Alexi Zhamnov as captain (holy hell, this guy was so smooth on skates, but he didn't have the hands. I completely forgot about him as I was thinking about the writing of this post. Shit. I feel bad. I mean, I remembered Alpo Suhonen. (Upon secondary reflection, Zhamnov could skate like Kane, as if it were easy, but Kaner has skills beyond what Zhamnov had)).

I would be remiss if I didn't throw a few words in here about my dad. He had been a hockey fan forever. He remembered the teams with Hull and Mikita and Magnuson. He was 12 the last time the Hawks won the Cup. Old enough to remember. Young enough to revere. The intervening years had crippled his fandom. But he was excited as anyone when I started to play hockey. He and my mom, collectively, never missed a game I played. They saw many of the practices too (once I bought a car, not much need for them driving me 30 minutes away to late night practices). He is the one that bought me all the Hawks tickets as Christmas Gifts. (And I have a memory of going to a Hawks-Flames postseason game where the hawks lost. But according to history, that would have been, at the earliest, in 1989. And I never went to the conference finals. Maybe it was 96, and the Hawks loss in the next round clouded my judgment. Whatever, the Hawks sucked for a long time.)

I do not want keep yammering on here. I continued to go to one game a year after college. One day, my dad ended up with first row tickets and I took my good friend from college, and it was awesome. Sadly, it was the year after the lockout and the Hawks had signed Dynamos like Martin Lapointe and Adrian Aucoin (though we did see Aucoin punch some dude twice in the face, out of sight from the refs as he drove him into the boards. Classy. Shows why he is still playing in the "New" NHL (No really, he is! Plays for the "Yotes!)).

So then Bill Wirtz died. And the rest is history.

2 Million people showed up to the Hawks Victory parade. I felt a pang of . . . something. I was actually in Chicago, but decided not to go (and this was before I realized that many people would attend). A parade is nice. Seeing the cup is nice. But more important things were going on. Its not like I was going to get to touch the cup or anything.

But more importantly, 2 million people showed up. The metro area is estimated at 10 million people living there. One out of five people in the entire Chicago area showed up.


Look, I am not gonna rip on bandwagon fans, but seriously? Hockey was virtually dead in Chicago before Dollar Bill died. I was hardly contributing to the teams bottom line, but at least I knew who some of the players were. I saw Duncan Kieth when he was a skinny motherfucker who made terrible blind passes in his own zone. And then he learned. And he evolved. And now, he is gonna win the Norris trophy this year (Norris Trophy goes to best defenseman, fyi).

I am not bitter. A championship is meant to be a party. I wish I could have watched the Cup clinching game with my father or my girlfriend. But it didn't happen. I watched it alone, which really sucks some of the joy out of it. Do not get me wrong, I am ecstatic, but there was no one to high five/hug/kiss/dance with after we realized that Kane had actually scored.

But I have invested a lot of time and a lot of heart, and even some tears in this team. Fels said it well, over at his site. (And as a season and a half subscriber to the Committed Indian, I am pumped for the Commemorative issue).

Alright, so what does all this yammering mean. The Hawks won the cup. I cannot believe it. I already have a hat and a shirt and am probably gonna buy some more stupid crap from shop.nhl.com before the week is through. And, well, i am still in shock. This was mostly rambles. More in depth thoughts will have to wait a couple days (like you will get them, because I never write).

Monday, May 24, 2010

Is God Laughing at Me? Most Likely

After completing 90 minutes of P90X Yoga, I was treated to this conversation with the girlfriend:

Girlfriend: also im bummed you havent blogged in AGES
me: sorry babe
Girlfriend: are you gonna write one?
me: not tonight
Girlfriend: why not?
me: nothing to write about
Girlfriend: what???
me: do i have something to write about?
Girlfriend: umm me leaving, us maybe moving in together
the hawks
your p90x/healthy routine
me: well writing about you will make me sad
Girlfriend: you moved your office!
youll be fine
me: baby, when i feel like writing i will, i promise
Girlfriend: you neeeeeeeeeeeeever feel like writing

So I was successfully talked into writing something. Here is what was rattling around my brain today.


I believe that it was the Immortal Jerry Seinfeld (as he will live forever through syndication) who said that more people fear public speaking than fear death. Thus, at a funeral, one would rather be the corpse than the one delivering the eulogy. I do not know what I fear the most, but I am well aware of what causes me the most anxiety. The one thing I hate to do more than anything. I cannot say I would rather be dead than do this, because it was one thing that must be done. Everyday, around 11:30 am, I get that rumbling in my belly. Oh yes, it is time to take a shit.

I absolutely hate dropping a deuce in public.

I even know when it started (roughly). It was probably in the 3rd or 4th grade or so when I had my first bout of diarrhea (that I can recall. I am sure I had the runs as a baby in diapers and possibly even a helping of the squirts in the privacy of my own home). I was at school, and my bowels decided to unleash holy hell. As a wide-eyed student in the Blue (read Smartest) Reading Group, I thought I knew everything, that my shit didn't stink so to speak. Well this day it did, repeatedly. And as everyone knows, in elementary school, you have to go get the giant wooden beatin' stick/hall pass when excretion is necessary. Getting that stick a couple times in a hour might be excusable, but when your asshole is a slow moving and selective St. Peter, it seems like only a little bit wants to get out every ten minutes.

Add this to the fact that I had no clue what was going on. I felt like I was dying. Utterly embarrassed I did my best to hide my shame and hold as long as possible between bathroom breaks, but the damage was done.

With rare exceptions (hey, when you gotta go, you gotta go) I successfully avoided public restrooms when reporting for doodie for about a decade. Then came college. And more specifically, Dorm Rooms. I lived on a floor with about 15 guys sharing a pisser/shitter/shower room. And that is when it became a running joke about avoiding the bathroom after I used it. (But hey, according to this website, its healthy!) To my credit, this is when I was able to put myself on a cycle where the kids only had to be dropped off at the pool late at night.

Combine my leper poops with my already ingrained fear of public restrooms and there was but one thing left to do. I moved off campus for my sophomore year (though not entirely for a poop-related reasons of course). Sharing a bathroom with one other person, who also a friend and not a raging douchebag, made taking a shit much more comfortable. Especially cause it was college and I could shower whenever I wanted, so I just showered after pinching a loaf giving the smell time to dissipate. Life was good. And I would stay there for three years.

Then came the inevitable "Places You Will Go" moment and I had to go get a job. Had to start working the 9-5. My poop experience at work was pretty miserable. I had started drinking coffee at this point, so at times, work shits were inevitable. I am sure the architect of this building patted himself on the back several times for picking out the perfect location for the bathroom, where it was conveniently located to 100s of workers. This was not a bathroom where you could expect privacy. This would be the time when I tried to become a morning shitter, chopping a log before heading to work. Sometimes successful, sometimes not. And this may or may not have resulted in a hemorrhoid one time (now that is a learning experience. I hear. . .).

With shitting at work not working out, I decided I should go to law school. And my first year, I lived alone. For the first time ever. And it was a shitting bliss. Crapping with the door open! What a concept! The next two years, I lived in a house with people, so I went back to the shit-shower routine (you don't have to shower in law school either. Or, at least I didn't).

But as the world turns, I eventually ended up back in the working world, realizing that yeah, this is gonna be my life. Time to man up and start taking shits at work. And I did. When necessary. Assuming there was no else in the bathroom. If someone walked in, that was it, I was done, that turtle got scared.

Then, I met the woman (wonder if she wants me linking her?). And suddenly, I was in a real relationship. And wholly crap, I might spend an entire day at her place. And I am gonna have to take a crap at her place. And she is gonna dump me when she realizes what comes out of me. But eventually, I did (probably while drunk). And now, she keeps plenty of glade on hand. And through her understanding, and rare snide comments, I gained more self-confidence to crap at work. That, and in the beginning I was so scared of crapping at her place, I had to shit (sorry having trouble coming up with more euphemisms for taking a dump. Oh wait, Google exists. This looks like a good site. Back to taking care of business) at work.

Then, Revelation. A while back I had ass surgery. In order to facilitate baking a hot icicle (?!) afterwords (wait, icicle sounds too hard, lets go with making a half-melted Baby Ruth), the doc suggested Metamucil. And holy glorious duking. As if Mozart himself had composed shits. (This guy agrees!) Scrapes the colon clean of any little devils that may want to create cancer.

And by taking Metamucil everyday, I cannot avoid crapping at work. It has to be done. So I have now come full circle. I am back to shitting in public. Though I prefer not to have anyone in there with me, I can still launch a scud. And yes, I do seek out the most rarely trafficked bathroom in the building, but I am still in there baking brownies. And with the Metamucil, I am healthier (in addition to my new healthy diet). I am making waves with the logs I am dropping (I recently noticed that my preferred crapping bathroom added a new Bad Air Sponge).

But the anxiety is not completely gone. And the Metamucil is still powerful. So even though I have made great strides, I now regularly have to crap twice at work. Twice! As if the 11:30 organic depth charge is not enough, my bowels now whistle at me that they want to sing with Michael Bolton. But hey, whatever doesn't kill you . . .

One day, as I am walking out of the stall, franctically buckling my belt after composing a majestic poopmyphony, my boss will walk in and our eyes will meet, and his nose will twitch, and I will wish that I was dead (or reading this post at my alma mater's convocation).

As a post script, I want to be this dude one day.

And finally, could this post really be complete without this?:

Wednesday, May 5, 2010

I am no MLK Jr

I had a dream. I woke up to my phone dinging, rolled over and looked at it to see what it said. It was a text message from the girlfriend saying that I should not read the comments on the latest south park episode because they were very depressing. I had missed a couple other messages from her in my sleep. The first prior one was a brief synopsis of the actual south park show (something about the letter N I believe) and a link to watch it. The message prior to that was of Grandma Simpson (of the tv show) having one very exaggerated breast (as if it was being pulled. Yes, its weird. Its a fucking dream)

Then I woke up and The Girlfriend was in bed next to me, which made me happy. Then I slid off the bed, which woke The Girlfriend up. I said hello to her, then told her I slid off the bed. She asked why. I said I didnt know, I just slid off. She told me to get back into bed, which I tried to do. But I couldnt forces were working against me. I said I could not get into bed. She said that is crazy talk. Then my entire apartment started shaking. Like rocking back and forth violently. The Girlfriend looked at me and understood why I could not get back into bed. Oh shit I thought, a fucking earthquake. I grabbed her off the bed and pulled her into my archway. As if this would help I thought, we are on the ninth fucking floor. The rumbling and shaking got worse as car alarms started going off. We sat on the floor clutching each other as we looked out the window. Then we saw it. A hollywood type blast, like the one in Independence day, was coming towards us, fast. This is it I thought. A second, maybe two to live. One chance to make sure I know she knows how I feel before we die. I turned towards her, pulled her close, looked right at her and screamed, "I LOOOOOOVVVEE YOOOUUU!!!!" as loud as I could to make sure she could hear it over the blast. The fiery blast hit us, and I could feel myself being pulled apart, and screamed that I loved her again, tears evaporating off my face as fast as I could form them. In this moment, my last thoughts were that I hope Jesus is real, I hope there is an afterlife, and I hope that I get to see The Girlfriend there.

And then I woke up. Laying in bed, nothing shaking but me. Furiously clutching The Girlfriend's stuffed bear that she left for me when she left last summer. My heart racing at who knows what rate. I laid there for five minutes.

Then I got up and wrote it down. Beats going back to sleep.

[ed. note: I dreamed this a while ago, Apr. 3 to be exact. I know because I freaked out and wrote it down after the tremors stopped. I then emailed it to myself. I share it with you now because I never write anything, I feel shame for that, and think that exposing my inner most fears will allow you to accept me.]

Monday, April 12, 2010


I really suck at this blogging thing. It seems like every other post I mention how I do not write that much, and how I should write more, and yet, I never do. Even sadder is that the every other post comes two months apart. It is a damn good thing I was not an astrophysicist in the '60s. We never would have made it to the moon.

But since I never blog anymore, I figure I should tell y'all all the other shit I never do anymore. Because it will be fun. And make you feel good about yourself for not being a lazy sack of crap like me.

I never read anymore. I try to read, but it just seems like I never get around to it. I will look at my book and say, I am gonna read some of that sumbitch tonight, then get distracted by blinking lights and dirty dishes and before you know it, its one in the morning and bedtime. And it sucks. I have a ton of books that I am really looking forward to reading. I am currently reading Parting the Waters: America in the [ML] King Years by Taylor Branch. Awesome, awesome book. But I am only on page 330 or so (and I have been reading it for at least the last three weeks. Pathetic, I know). Need to refocus. I will try to finish it by Sunday. I am also looking forward to reading all the other books I have bought in the last few months but haven't read. In no particular order: The Last Don by Mario Puzo, Autobiography of Malcolm X, Traitor to His Class: The Privileged Life and Radical Presidency of Franklin Delano Roosevelt by HW Brands, What Hath God Wrought: The Transformation of America, 1815-1848 by Daniel Walker Howe, and The Black Swan: The Impact of the Highly Improbable by Nassim Taleb. All extremely interesting looking books. At least based on the cover. I am excited to get to reading them . . . eventually.

I never drink anymore. That has been covered. Thanks to the stupid bet. Only about 40 days to go. And hey, a character played by Josh Hartnett did the the same thing, but with sex. And if he could do that . . . well . . .

I never watch Netflix movies on the computer anymore. I watch them on the motherfucking TV! Through the motherfucking Wii! Damn, someones mom is getting wore out by all this netflix awesomeness. But I have to say, netflix for wii is freaking great. The quality is astoundingly good, both on my sort of not small TV screen and the girlfriend's small, but HD, screen. Granted I am no expert on TV pictures or colors (most certainly not on colors, as a quote from Above the Law rang particularly true for me today: “Khakis were invented for men who can’t match clothes” ) but I enjoy it. My computer sucks balls (only $55 more dollars and I own it finally!) so it doesn't handle streaming video very well. Now thanks to this, my computer can go back to its primary purpose, fucking up streaming video from redtube (that is a porn site, fyi).

I never seem to sleep in my own bed anymore. But that is ok, I have found a much better alternative.

I never listen to new music. Seriously, it is getting bad. I need to sack up and find some new bands. Some days it seems like I never hear anything from after 2000 on my iPod. Its kind of depressing. Meaning, now I know what it feels like to get old. I was thinking the other day about how my parents had their first kids when they were my age. I would come along a few years later. And by the time I reached an age where memory began to function (such that I can remember shit now), my parents seemed pretty old. But now I realize they were not that old. And that makes me feel old. And I think typing this paragraph just gave me arthritis and a few more grey hairs. Fuck. Thats it, I am going to the 930 Club this weekend. Who is playing? . . .


Sat Night?????

Um . . . A dude rapping about Vietnam. VIETNAM!!!! Holy shit. The entire world is conspiring against me.

At least I still have my young, sexy, and gorgeous girlfriend. She keeps me on my toes. Makes me do shit. Try new things. I guess not doing some things aint all that bad.

Tuesday, March 9, 2010

Update on the Stupidest Bet of All-Time

Stupid in that, why the hell did I enter into the bet. Not stupid like betting on which ant will cross the crack in the sidewalk first.

Just to refresh your memories, the bet, between my girlfriend and myself, was this: I give up beer for three months and I get a Kindle; She gives up chocolate for three months and she gets a baby computer.

So, two weeks in, and I have yet to have a beer. Who knew I would make it this long? Especially with the girl out of town partying it up on spring break (she watched Free Willy tonight, that crazy party animal (hehehehe, love you babe!)). So I made it through the weekend without her, so I think I should be ok. 'Course, now I probably have carpel tunnel from obsessively playing Madden all weekend. Such is life.

But there is good news in all this (never mind all the rejoicing in the background, that is just my liver). First, my weight, of which I have been trying to shed a bit of, has finally started in a downward arc on the Wii Fit rather than staying at relatively the same place. Stupid delicious empty calories. The lack of drinking has really provided the kick in the ass I needed to get going on the working out. I ride the bike everyday at work and have imported my Wii from my place to the woman's place since we spend all our time there anyway.

Second set of good news I suppose is that I have fallen in love with edamame. Apparently it is good for you. They way things are going, in six months I will be living off edamame, hummus, pita bread, and farm fresh chicken. MMmmm, mmm good.

Bad news--got my scrotum poked with a needle today. Several times. By a doctor. And it was intentional. And beneficial. But still, scrotum poked by needle. Could have used a beer after that.

Not much else to say. Though most people I have talked to about the bet seem to think it would be harder to give up chocolate than alcohol. I should broaden the people polled beyond chocolate loving teetotalers.

Friday, February 19, 2010

Cheap Cheap Fun Fun Quiz

Taken from the last refuge of the persecuted crack smoker. I suppose these are the rules: 1. If you read this, I want to know 36 things about you. I don't care if we never talk, or if we already know everything about each other. Short and sweet or long and detailed, all is good.2. Comment here with your answers and repost the questionnaire on your own journal if you wish.

01) Are you currently in a serious relationship? Yes
02) What was your dream growing up? Play shortstop for the Baltimore Orioles (better than Ripken. Ahh, dreams).
03) What talent do you wish you had? Picking lottery numbers. Or maybe having any sort of rhythm/musical talent. Or possibly being able to tell the difference between green and red.
04) If I bought you a drink what would it be? Usually a Bud Light, but if you are paying, the house draft (assuming it is not too heavy)
05) Favorite vegetable? Have to go with Broccoli, particularly if it is surrounded by beef and delivered from a Chinese Restaurant.
06) What was the last book you read? Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs by Chuck Klosterman
07) What zodiac sign are you? This one yo:

08) Any Tattoos and/or Piercings? Explain where. None
09) Worst Habit? Probably biting my nails. Though if you ask the girlfriend, leaving the toilet seat up.
10) If you saw me walking down the street would you offer me a ride? Assuming I am driving a car, sure.
11) What is your favorite sport? Hockey
12) Do you have a Pessimistic or Optimistic attitude? More pessimistic, though I like to think I have been trending towards optimistic in the last year.
13) What would you do if you were stuck in an elevator with me? Sing show tunes.
14) Worst thing to ever happen to you? Umm, not sure. Pretty charmed life. I think I will say "fistula" I recommend not googling that.
15) Tell me one weird fact about you. Occasionally when I went out drinking back in the day, I would decide I had to purchase Simpsons stickers from a sticker vending machine. My favorite one is Ralph with the heading "I'm Special"
16) Do you have any pets? A cat that lives with my folks.
17) What if I showed up at your house unexpectedly? I would be stoked that I owned a house. HOUSE PARTY!!!
18) What was your first impression of me? Law student seeking outlet
19) Do you think clowns are cute or scary? Cute I guess. Once helped a friend procure clown porn for another friends birthday present. It was scary.
20) If you could change one thing about how you look, what would it be? Less doughy
21) Would you be my crime partner or my conscience? Conscience. Unless Bud Light is involved.
22) What color eyes do you have? Brown
23) Ever been arrested? Yup
24) Bottle or can soda? Glass bottle if they still made them that way. But plastic at work, aluminum at home. I swing with my soda containers.
25) If you won $10,000 today, what would you do with it? Be amused that it would not pay off 10% of my student loan debt. Then blow it on pop rocks and pixies.
26) What's your favorite place to hang out at? The Front Page (though not during the douche fest happy hours).
27) Do you believe in ghosts? Sure
28) Favorite thing to do in your spare time? Snuggle.
29) Do you swear a lot? Never at work. Often elsewhere. Though certain company I know keep keeps the cursing down. I have gone from sailor to kid from Stand by Me.
30) Biggest pet peeve? People who take an elevator to go one floor.
31) In one word, how would you describe yourself? Nice.
32) Do you believe/appreciate romance? Yes. I try to be.
33) Favourite and least favourite food? Most anything on a Jose Andres restaurant menu (even little fishes!). Unless it includes tomatoes
34) Do you believe in God? Not yet, working on it.
35) Will you repost this so I can fill it out and do the same for you? Hells Yes.
36) Favourite band(s) of ALL time: Our lady peace, Lucky Boys confusion, Brand New.

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

30 before 30

I just turned 29 a couple days ago. I was sitting at work dicking around, and by that I mean staring at my work, but not actually doing work, when I realized that I never set out a list of accomplishments to achieve before I turned 30. So I am gonna do that right here and now. Some may seem more like goals for the next 360-odd days, but it is my list and I can make it anyway I want.

1. Make list of things to do before turning 30.

2. Make list of things to do before turning 40.

3. Make list of things . . . Ok, ok, no more of these.

3. Buckle down and become manager of the softball team. Someone has to do it. Plus, mini-power trip! (And guaranteed aggravation).

4. Go to several museums, see more of the parks, and visit the lesser known monuments of semi-relevant folks who are largely forgotten now. And take pictures.

5. Tell my girlfriend that she is the most beautiful thing in the world. Because she is, and I do not do it nearly often enough.

6. Prove to above gf that my IQ just may be 135 by doing smart things like reading, becoming informed about events and politics in countries that do not start with U (sorry uraguay, have to focus my attention elsewhere), get a better handle on geography, and watching more olbermann and madow.

7. Drink less.

8. A lot less.

9. Become a more productive and efficient worker. Just cause there is a deadline doesn't mean I have until then to get my shit finished.

10. See a play.

11. Become more ambitious.

12. See three plays.

13. Invest myself in learning about my gf's culture, ie, learning the language.

14. Learn a foreign language (it is tough to get 30 things).

15. Help people if they look like they need it.

16. Talk to my parents and sisters more often.

17. Play less farmville/cafe world/mafia wars.

18. Read at least one journal article that I have no hope of comprehending each week (like something from the journal of applied physics)

19. Learn how to dance. Wait, I should just learn how to get rhythm first.

20. Write more.

21. Set up a pandora station and listen to new music. I am so out of touch. Now I know how parents feel. I also feel old.

22. Save some money.

23. Take a random half day to surprise the gf with flowers dinner and the best damned backrub ever.

24. Learn how to think two moves ahead in checkers.

25. Buy a new hockey stick.

26. Sheesh, 30 is a lot. Ummmm, get a passport.

27. Go to a nationals game.

28. Go to a capitals game.

29. Buy rogaine.

30. Don't worry about making my life too complicated. This is the only one I get.

All right, one down. Only 29 left!
Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

The lonely last seat

I am standing on a fairly crowded metro train, observing the last available seat, but really using my peripheral vision to check out the man sitting on that joining seat. He seems pretty normal, on the hefty side, but his ass is not spilling over onto the other cushion, much. Hardly noticeable. I am sure he is friendly, though he appears to be indian (dot type). Certainly not a terrorist looking person.

I wonder if he realizes that he is the only sitter on this train with out a warm body next to him (though one old lady looks like she could die any second, but the body will remain lukewarm; for a while anyway). He has a sad little expression on his face. It almost makes me want to sit next to him. Not chat him up of course, but just so we can uncomfortably rub legs, letting him know that he is not a freak. That society has not completely rejected him and left him out to dry.

Or he could have a family, kids, and be the happiest man on earth, only now he is a little pissed because some lady just sat next to him and now he is jammed up against the side like every other window seater. He is no longer special or noticeable. And he is pissed that his leg room has been lessened.

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