Saturday, December 13, 2003
Dude, Your Head Looks Like an Ass Crack!
I met a guy yesterday with the most unfortunate hair.
Now, I'm not one who can really talk about bad haircuts. For one thing, I have no idea what's 'en vogue' these days. Or any days, for that matter. I wouldn't know a mullet from a mallard, a bouffant from a buffet, or a toupee from a tepee.
(Or, if you prefer, a wig from a wigwam. Or a pageboy from a Pueblo village. Really, pick any hairstyle-to-Native-American-dwelling comparison you like. I'm just here to provide the choices. Take your time.)
So, anyway, I'm clueless when it comes to 'dos'. I've got no 'do clue'. I'm a 'do loser', a 'do dumbass', maybe even a 'do-tard'.
(Um, maybe. 'Do-tard' is so wrong, in like eight different ways at once. And that's one, maybe two, more than I usually prefer to be simultaneously bad. I prefer to spread my snarkiness throughout the day, rather than concentrating it all at once like that.)
Anyway, let's just say that I'm never gonna replace the hair guy on Queer Eye.
(Or, for that matter, the food guy, or the interior design guy. I think I could probably take over for that snarky blonde fellow -- all he really does is make bitchy little comments and snipe at people. Yeah, I could do that.
Well, except for that whole 'getting busy with guys' thing. I'd have a bit of homework to do there, and I think I'd have to be really drunk to get started. And blind, and quite possibly unconscious, as well. But look, we're pretty far off topic here. Let's get back to bad hair, all right?)
So, my own ineptitude in the area of hair care is usually pretty obvious. I wait way too long to get haircuts. I I don't use 'product'. I don't even know what 'product' is, and frankly, given some of the things I'm guessing that it might be, I'm not even gonna write 'product' without using those quotes around it. I'm not touching that stuff directly. That's nasty.
All of which is to say: I'm no expert when it come to coiffures. But this guy yesterday had a problem that even a 'do dummy' (heh, forgot about that one) like me could identify. It all had to do with his part. Because it wasn't so much a 'part' as a 'radical separation'. A hairy segregation, a veritable follicular bifurcation. And whatever the hell it was ('bifurcation'? Where the hell did that come from?), it was ugly. Seriously ugly -- I'm talkin' Abe Lincoln's mole, Michael Jackson in a leather tutu, scare the women and children uuuuuuugly.
Now, I don't know how the hell he managed it -- or more importantly, why the hell he managed it -- but this dude had a half an inch or more of scalp showing between his hair-halves. And scalp, my friends and compadres, is not pretty. Not with hair around it, anyway. Fully bald? Fine. Shaved? I'm cool with that. But just peeking through, with all those little hair ends and oil and stuff showing? Bleh! No. And if the gleaming and glistening and shinyness was any indication, the guy's hair was full of 'product', too. I mean, lousy with the stuff. So all that goop and grease was glommed onto that strip of scalp, too.
(I'm hoping it was 'product' of some kind, anyway. Otherwise, I don't wanna know what the guy had in his hair. Frog's have been laying eggs on him, or birds have been scalp-crapping him. I don't know, and I don't wanna know. Let's just call it 'product' and move on.)
So of course, despite my best efforts (and let's be honest... my 'best efforts' really aren't all that damned good), I found myself staring at the top of this guy's head, mesmerized by the hair-gap on his head. I wondered how he managed to get his hair that way -- simple combing and brushing wouldn't accomplish this 'Red Sea parting' kind of look. Maybe he has two teams of horses, and hooks them up in the morning to puuuuull his hair apart. Or maybe he's got a wind tunnel set up on the ceiling of his bathroom, and all the hair in the middle of his head gets industrially blown one way or the other. Or he's found a way to sprinkle little itty bitty magnets pointing one way into one side of his hair (hey, the 'product' would make them stick, right?), and magnets pointing the other way on the other side, so they repel each other all day. (And maybe if someone musses his hair, they get all out of sync and makes a mohawk in the middle; who knows?)
I never did figure it out. I don't know how his hair got into that unholy condition; I just know that it shouldn't be there. And if I know that... well, let's just say that Helen Keller would catch on to a fashion faux pas before I would. This guy needs help, now.
Not from me, of course, unless this guy's looking for the 'Fozzy Bear' look. But help from somewhere. Maybe those Queer Eye guys will swoop down on him and make him fabulous, at least for a day. That would be great -- clean him up, fix his house, teach him how to make a really good pan-seared tuna. All of this is well and good. But please, please, very first thing -- teach the dude how to part his damned hair. It's not a contest to see how far apart you can get the sides. Please, get this guy a 'do clue', before he shows his scalp slit in public again. Eek!
Friday, December 12, 2003
Somewhere Out There, Little Ricky Is Making Her His 'Prostate'
Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy!
I don't usually get into the whole 'currently watching', 'currently reading', 'currently hearing' type of things... but I've gotta tell you -- I scored big-time on the movie front, and I'm a happy man.
From last week... on TiVo... without commerical interruption, from HBO... Better Off Dead. Again, I exclaim, 'Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy!' And to that, I add, 'Hee!'
I don't think I've ever seen this movie all the way through, without commercials. And it's been a while since I've seen it at all. Still -- I know what's coming. I can't quite quote it by heart -- it's not a Python movie, fer goodness sakes -- but I can come pretty damned close. I'm about halfway through -- Lane's just escaped the evil clutches of the 'Two dollars!' paperboys, and found his little brother with the trashy women. And you know what that means, right?
That's right. 'Testicles all over me!' time is coming soon. (And believe me, folks, I've never been so excited to say that. No, really. This is even better than grandpa's birthday parties. Um... ahem. Moving on.)
So, anyway, all we've gotta do is get through the talking burger and the 'Franch' dinner, and then we'll be there. Oh, I can't stand it. Hee.
('Franch fries.' 'Gee, I'm sorry your mom blew up, Ricky'... *snort* Hoo! How many Oscars did this thing win, anyway?)
Okay, enough about me and my Diane Franklin thing. (Erm... did I type that out loud? Really?)
Well, I mean, it's not a 'thing', exactly. Sure, the (fake) French accent is cool. And that whole scene working on the car, with the little smudges of dirt on her face... um, yeah, there's nothing wrong with that. Still, her hair reminds me a lot of my grandmother's, and... well... look, let's just move on. I'm all creeped out now. And I have this craving for French bread.
(You know, just like grandma used to make. Um, ew!)
So. Where the hell was I, anyway?
Oh, right -- nowhere. I've just been blathering about this movie. Okay, fine. What else we got?
I'll tell you something that's been bothering me for a while, now -- school zones.
Now, hear me out here. I'm not upset that there are school zones. Hey, 'kids are people, too', and 'it takes a village', and 'just say no', and all that other little children crap. I'm down with that. Protect the kiddies from speeding cars -- fine.
But what I've noticed, just recently, is that all school zones are not the same. I always thought they were, but no. I've found that there are different speed limits, depending on the school zone.
Now, is it just me, or does this seem wrong, somehow?
I mean, who decides how fast cars can go in a given school zone, anyway? The parents? Teachers? Angry, emasculated, pissy principals? 'Fuck it -- let's let 'em go sixty-five through here, and we'll weed out the dumbasses. Survival of the fittest, man.'
Seriously, though, I've seen a whole range of limits out there, from ten miles an hour all the way up to twenty-five. And all I can think is... why?
Are the kids just tougher in some neighborhoods? Can the junior high kids downtown survive a higher-speed impact than those soft, pansy suburban wankers? And how do they figure that out? Do they take a couple of the kids from detention and run 'em over, to see what their limit is?
Or maybe it's based on grade point average. If your school falls behind, then the speed limits get jacked up. I can see that -- it even serves double duty. Not only does it put the pressure on -- if you don't shape your ass up, then soon cars will be whizzing by like it's the damned autobahn -- but it also just might pick off a couple of the dumber kids, if they forget how to look both ways before crossing. Smear a couple of the loserly kids onto your bumper, and the grading curve goes up for everybody. Problem solved!
Nah, that's probably not it. It makes too much sense. But I'm sure there'd be lawsuits of some kind, and Sally Struthers or somebody would get involved, and then we'd have to run her over... so yeah, I'm sure that's not it.
Maybe it depends on how many kids are in the school. There's probably a team of statisticians somewhere, geeking over their fancy caluclators, determining how many cars and kids can be expected theoretically co-exist before little Johnny or Jane gets squooshed by some soccer mom in a minivan. And then they get out the abaci and the slide rules and figure out how fast those cars can go, with a ninety percent chance or better of avoiding significant bloodshed. I'm sure it's all very scientific.
Or... it's just not. Probably, they just let a janitor or hall monitor or something roll dice until they find a number they like. Or they just settle on how many beers the health teacher / football coach / resident pervert can chug. That's why you get some of these weird-ass schools with speed limits like '12' or '18' or something. Maybe. I dunno.
Anyway, it just struck me as odd. You know, while driving by schools on my commute. I mean, it's not like I'm just hanging around schoolyards or anything. Or lurking, or skulking, or even driving back and forth by the playground... um, looking for exchange students... from, er, France, say. With hair like my grandma's. Or -- *ahem* -- something.
Yeah, I'm not doing that. No, seriously. Hell, I couldn't, even if I wanted to. How would I know how fast I'm allowed to cruise around the parking lot? The rules are different everywhere! It's so damned confusing! I'm never gonna find a chick with an accent who can ski and pitch and fix my broken-down Camaro. Dammit!
Sure, It's Good to Be the King... But the King of What, Exactly?
So, I'm sitting here enjoying the first beer of the weekend -- and is there anything sweeter than the first beer of a newly unwrapped weekend? -- and I decided to take a stroll through the logs to see how things are going around here. And, I have to say, I'm pleased. Quite pleased, indeed. Here are a few selections from the last twenty or so query terms used by people who got here via a search engine:
- corn header strippers
- skunk anatomy
- stripperella naked
- frosty the blowman lyrics
- caddyshack pictures puke
- meaning tweener
- Fenway JumboTron
Well. I think that record pretty much speaks for itself. (Even if I don't know what the hell some of those things mean. 'corn header strippers'? Is that dirty, or agricultural? And tweener? Um... okay, never mind -- I know what tweeners are. 'Mmmmm... tweeners....')
Throw in 'assbag' and 'dog snot', and that pretty much covers it all. I can see I've got the search engines riiiiight where I want them. Exxxxcellent!
I Just Knew She Was the One...
Have I mentioned lately how damned cool my wife is? No? Well, she is. So, there. Big fat frothy mugs of 'jealous' all 'round. Drink up.
What makes her so cool? Well, a million reasons -- but I'll give you just one, from last night. When she got home, I was watching a Tivoed Simpsons episode, and -- as is my custom -- giggling like a tickled schoolgirl. She didn't roll her eyes, or 'tsk' at me, or anything like that. She just walked over, gave me a kiss hello, let my goofiness slide, and went upstairs to change clothes.
But wait -- it gets better.
See, I was watching a true classic Simpsons -- the legendary octuplets episode. For about the nineteenth time. And when my wife came back downstairs, the show was nearing the very best part, so I asked her to have a look. Calmly, professionally, maturely... yeah, I can't back that up. Here's what I said:
'Oooh, honey. Come 'ere, come 'ere, come 'ere! This is the best part. Hold on, hold on... it's comin'. *squeal!* Ooh, I can't hardly wait!'
Now, most wives wouldn't even step in the room at that point. Most husbands would be squealing to their wife's ass, or gibbering at 'the hand'. But not my wife -- no, sir. She came in to watch, and see what all the hubbub was about.
And then the best part came on.
(If you're interested in such things, the best part of this episode is after Apu and Manjula have had the octuplets, and Apu's back at work, exhausted. Then Flanders comes in -- oooh, I hate that damned Flanders! -- and starts spouting cheerful baby crap at him, until Apu finally responds:
'I can't believe you don't shut up!!!'
Oh man, that's a classic. Gets me every time.)
Sure, it's too bad that my wife missed the 'Let's get this stuff to the real heroes -- the Shelbyville nine!' line, and Homer's 'Mmmmmm... ovulicious', but she did see the best part.
Anyway, right on cue, I squealed and giggled and kicked my little legs in delight. Still, she didn't say a word, or even frown. That puts her in elite territory right there. The pope would tell me to fuck off at that point. The woman's a saint, I tell you.
But there's more!
Finally, after I'd caught my breath, and checked to make sure I hadn't peed my pants (all clear!), I looked up and said,
'Man, I love this episode! This is the best ever!'
And how did she reply to that? Did she seize the opportunity to say, 'Well, you're a goober.' Or, 'We really need to get you some help, you know.' Or even, 'What the hell is wrong with you, anyway?' Maybe she gave up, and shot me a distracted 'That's nice, dear.' without really hearing me. Or did she just walk out of the room, sadly shaking her head at me?
Nope. None of the above. Here's what she said:
'Yeah, it's pretty good. But the best is the one where Lisa goes to the wrong school, and the teacher says, 'En francais!', and all the kids go, 'Huh huh huh huh huh' at her.'
How fucking cool is that? Not only was she on board, but she'd come up with an answer of her own, and even cited examples to make her case! (Okay, so that last bit is just the lawyer in her coming out... but still!)
Damn, I love that woman! Now I've just got to get her watching Family Guy, and we'll be all set. I love it when a plan comes together!
Thursday, December 11, 2003
A Little of This (Crap), a Little of That (Crap)
Well, I tried. I started three -- count 'em, three -- posts tonight, and none of 'em went anywhere. I guess I just ran out of gas. But, I'll try flinging poo at the blackboard one more time, to see what sticks. Let's try some 'queek heeters'; maybe a collection of teeny little tidbits will be easier to manage than one big, huge monster. It's like lining up a dozen ordinary men, rather than wheeling out John Holmes. You know what I'm sayin'.
So, let's see, then. I guess I can just say whatever the hell I want, and flit from topic to topic willy-nilly. If I've done my job correctly, then your expectations have been sufficiently lowered to the point where I really can't screw this up. You can't be unpleasantly surprised. So that only leaves the question: just what is on my mind, anyway?
Well, for one thing, I can see that I'm watching too much West Wing lately. I swear to god, this thing is the new Friends. I'm convinced that there is no time when the damned show is not on. It's still on in prime time, and it's syndicated on six or eight other channels. Every time I turn the damned TV on, there's Martin Sheen and Rob Lowe and the gang, with their fancy suits and plastic smiles, staring back out at me. It's creepy.
And now I know I'm watching too much -- SportCenter is on, and I'm not even paying attention to the highlights. I'm just waiting for them to show the anchors, so I can continue to determine how much Linda Cohn looks like CJ from the show. Clearly, dementia is setting in.
There's been an enormous, nasty, hairy-assed black fly flitting around the house for the past three days. I finally smacked it into the kitchen sink tonight, and washed it down the drain. (But I didn't turn on the garbage disposal. I believe in giving my prey a fighting chance.) It's nice to be rid of the thing, but I can't help wondering whether the thing laid eggs in the potato chips or somewhere before I dispatched it. And if it did, how would my wife and I ever know?
Me: Honey? Do these chips you bought have mushrooms on them?
Her: Um... no. Why? Do they look funny?
Me: Yeah, a little. And they smell a little musky.
Her: Well, if they're stale or something, just throw them away.
Me: But... there aren't any more bags of chips.
Her: I guess you'll just have to go without, then.
Me: But... but... hmmmm...
Her: What is it? Did you throw those chips away?
Me: Nope. I'm sure they're *crunch* fine. I decided they didn't smell so bad, after all. *munch munch*
See? Clearly, there's no way we could tell. It's impossible.
Eggs in the snacks would be doubly inconvenient, too, for the child flies would get their genes from the one I sink-flushed. And that was an annoying goddamned fly, let me tell you. It kept trying to get into the freezer, for reasons that still aren't clear to me. Maybe it didn't realize how cold it is in there, but I'm still not sure what the attraction would be for a small, pestery insect. Did it have a thing for ice cream? Maybe it smelled the beef-like substance in my frozen dinners? Or perhaps we've already accidentally trapped flies in there, and this guy was on some kind of search-and-rescue mission. I honestly don't know. All I can say for sure is that he really wanted to check out our freezer -- I had to shoo him out of there three or four times this week. And now, he's swimming with the fishes. Maybe that's cold enough for him, the little parasite bastard. Serves him right.
I got caught belting out tunes in the car again. You'd think I'd learn my humiliating lesson, but no. At least this time, it wasn't Hole. I had the Foo Fighters' 'Waxed Actors' looping on the CD player in the car, singing along with it over and over... and over.
Actually, that's not really unusual for me. I often get stuck on a song, and repeat it ad nauseum, ad infinitum, and ad coworker-pissum-offum, until I obsess over something different. For several months -- yes, months! -- it was 'Spybreak' by the Propellerheads. (That's the music playing during the 'lobby scene' in the original Matrix.) It doesn't actually have any words, but that never stopped me from making a boob out of myself by singing along in the car:
'Doo doo doo de-doo-de-doo... Doo doo doo de-doo-de-doo... Do-de-diggy diggy doodle diggy diggy diggy...'
(Yes, folks, I need help. Real, professional help. Plus a bottle of tequila, and maybe a cattle prod. Help me?)
Anyway, for a few days recently, it was the title track off of Hole's Celebrity Skin, and now, I've moved on to the Foo Fighters. At least now I can embarrass myself by singing real words -- in English -- instead of making up ridiculous baby-talk noises to match the instrumental songs. That doesn't make me feel much better, but a little. Baby steps, people. Baby steps.
Well, I think that'll do it. Hopefully, this will tide you over until tomorrow. As usual, I'm up a couple of hours later than I really wanted to be (and later than I'm backdating this post to), and I can feel myself starting to nod off. Pretty soon, I'll be sprawled out with one hand down my pants a la Al Bundy, drooling on the couch pillows while I pretend I'm just 'resting my eyes'. And there's gonna be plenty of time for sad shit like that once I'm grandpa-age. (Hey, it comes with the territory. Who am I to buck tradition?)
So, I think it's time for me to hit the hay. I'll get a few hours' worth of sleep, and be back tomorrow with fresh drivel. You should go get some rest, too. I don't want to see you half-ass reading out there. Don't just mail it in. We've all got our part to play, man -- make sure you hold up your end, all right? I'll see you tomorrow.
It Ain't a 'Fireside Chat', But It's All I've Got
Hey, everybody. Okay, now -- file in orderly. Take a seat up front, don't be shy. Fill in the middle of the rows first. Get comfy. It's time for another 'State of the Blog' address. Okay, is everyone seated? Good. Let's get started.
Ahem. First, I'd like to thank all of you for taking time out of your busy schedules to attend. I'm sorry I couldn't provide any snacks, or booze, or... you know, chairs or anything. There's really not much of a budget for this sort of thing. Maybe one day I'll at least be able to heat the garage... er, meeting room. In the meantime, I wouldn't let any exposed skin touch the floor. It's been freezing all week, so there's a good chance you'll stick, and leave a little part of yourself here with me. (In addition to your IP address and domain name, of course -- I always keep those. I've even started a trophy case -- you'd like it. It's very tastefully done.)
So, let's get down to bidness. First, I'd like to thank and congratulate the fantabulous fan -- or critic; I probably should have asked -- who stopped by to deliver the blog's 10,000th visitor!
(And yes, I know that's just an average day for some blogs. And that those 10,000 'visitors' really represent repeat trips from, like, nine people, plus a bunch of misguided Google searches. And that my hits alone account for ninety percent of the total.
Nah, I'm kidding. I filter out all my own hits. And it's more like Googlers and three people. But I digress.)
Anyway, I can't thank all 10,000 people who came here (looking for 'Stripperella naked' or 'jiggly tasticles', or simply 'hell'). But I can thank 10 of you, and that's what I'm going to do -- here are ten people who've really made a difference around here. And in no particular order, just so's you people don't get in a big slappy tickle fight over where you rank. Really, there's plenty of you folks to go around.
(On the other hand, if you want to get in a slappy tickle fight... hey, go right ahead. Just make it sexy, and send me the pictures. Rub on oil on yourselves or something. You know, put some effort into it. That's all I ask. Anyway, here's the list.
Oh, and if you're not included, please know that it's not from a lack of gratitude. Really, I 'wuv' you all, as the teenyboppers say, but there's just not enough space to acknowledge everyone. Plus, I'd still forget someone, and they'd either fall asleep during this, or get pissed at me, so I'm not gonna put you through that. And if I missed you... well, I'll get you next time. Kisses, now!)
- Andy over at Walking Stick has been checking in since... well, just about the beginning, really. He's a frequent visitor, master commenter, and all-around cool dude. Thanks for bein' there, man! Or... well, here. Thanks for being here. Yeah.
- Lara has (perhaps unwisely) given me lots of encouragement and support. She's even watched -- and commented on! -- both standup shows that I've done. Despite the Surgeon's General warnings! Go say hi to Lara at 75 Degrees and Raining.
- Suzette from Traveling in Style and I go wayyyy back, in terms of my blogging career. Like, to July or something! Freaky! She's witty, fun, and even -- are you sitting down? -- knows how to make a kick-ass bowl of soup! She even published a recipe of mine! How's that for a (brave) Renaissance woman?
- Speaking of ubercool chicas, I'd also like to thank local superstar Shelley, from Cynical: A Life. Her blog name sums it all up, I think -- we're two peas scooped from the same pod. And she's right here in Boston -- someday, I'm gonna meet that girl!
- And while we're on the subject of brash and brilliant Boston bloggers, I'd also like to thank Hilatron of Blogatron fame. She was the very first -- way back in July -- to feature my drivel on her site, in a guest post during her 'blogcation'. She came back refreshed and ready, and has been chugging along ever since. Go see; go see!
- I can't go any further without giving mad props to my buddy Buzz from BuzzStuff. And not just because when he linked to me and wrote a very kind blurb, my traffic tripled overnight. (Buzz has a lot of friends, and rightfully so.) He's also a spectacularly nice guy, and a prolific updater. Show the man some love!
- Let's not forget Natalie over at Natalieville. I've only recently run into her, but she and I were cut from the same wacky cloth -- we're both into good beer, lots of parentheses, and the Toadies. Oh, and we're both July babies. Spoooooky.
- Amber from Learn to Speak Ebenese is the absolute coolest, folks. Not only does she visit often, and leave lots of yummy (read: smart-ass) comments, but she even took valuable time out of her mommy-and-blogging schedule to come to my very first standup show. In person! What a woman! And then she stayed (later than I did) to close the bar! Kick ass, Amber!
- My favorite thing about Kelly at Crimeny.net is that my comments on her site often get me an email response, with material at least as quirky and hilarious as the stuff she posts. You people don't know what you're missing! (Oh, and sorry, Kelly, if you only do that for me -- I didn't know it was our 'little secret'. Shhhhh!)
- Last, but certainly not least, I want to thank my 10,000th visitor, Sabrina. I have to admit that I just met her today, but she's tres cool, and a lot of fun! And -- and! -- this little experience has inspired her to start her own blog! Check out LoserGenius, won't you? And tell her Charlie sent you. I'm her new biggest fan. And now I've got her wish list. Mwah hah ha! Mwah hah! Hah!
All right, let's keep this train rolling, shall we? Oh, quit your squirming -- for one thing, all you have to do is click all the links I just gave you, and I guarantee you'll get a bulge in your blogroll. And that's true whatever you decide you want that phrase to mean. And sure, the rest of this crap is gonna be all about me, but the sooner we get through this, the sooner we'll get back to the hilarity. Or... the feeble attempts at it, anyway. Oh, just hush up. It'll be over soon. Here, have a peanut. Be cool.
So, back to the agenda. Let's talk milestones -- look, I'll only do this once, and then it'll be done. I gotta get this out of my system. As I mentioned, today the blog received its 10,000th visitor, courtesy of Sabrina. Cool. The blog is also coming up on its half-year anniversary -- it's actually on the 17th, six long months after the post that started it all. Reading it again, I see that not much has changed. I haven't gotten any better, or nicer. I space my parentheses a little differently. That's about it. Progress, schmogress. Poop on that.
Okay, so let's wrap up with some other upcoming events. For anyone who's interested and local -- or crazy enough to come all the way to Boston -- the 17th is also the date of my next standup show. Once again, it's at the Emerald Isle (1501 Dorchester Ave. in Dorchester); swing by, and I'll buy you a beer. After my set. After. I'm as punch-drunk on the stage as I need to be already. But see me after -- I'll hook you up.
Also, I'll remind you that the WizBang Blog Awards 2003 are still going on -- until the 15th, I think. (Hey, I should also thank Kevin over there for putting it all together, and -- again -- Buzz for nominating me for Best Humor Blog; lots of great new people have come over from there, and I'm muy grateful.) So get over there and vote -- if not for me, then for your favorites in all the categories. Or find a new read, and vote for it. Don't just sit there, dammit! This thing's not gonna be open forever; don't you want something to tell the grandkids someday?
Finally -- hey, wake up! It's almost time to go -- keep an eye out for my Weblog Review treatment, probably coming over the weekend sometime. I'm currently second in line for a review -- that's next to next! -- so keep your fingers crossed for me to get a kind reviewer. With a good sense of humor. Who likes ridiculous drivel and snarky jokes about asshats. And... yeah, I really don't have a prayer, do I? I'm never gonna do as well as the last guy -- Mark, over at R80o, who was treated very nicely by the crack review team. (Hey, and would you look at that! He's been on my blogroll for weeks, now. Maybe months! Hey, can I spot talent, or what? You go, Mark!)
So, that's it. Thanks for hanging in there. Hell, thanks for coming by at all. I hope to see all of you again, very soon. Now, if you would, kindly file out through the hallway, and we'll get you nice folks home tonight. Mind your step, and be sure to tip the valets. They're working hard out there. Drive safely!
We Have a Wiener!
More on this -- and much, oh so much more -- later, but this little old blog received its 10,000th visitor today! Woo hoo!
And, as promised, I'd like to thank the lucky round-number-person who put us over the top with a gift of some kind. Preferably a 'wish list' gift, but we'll cross that bridge when we've paid the toll.
You see... I'm not really sure who it was that I need to thank. But I know that the hit came this morning, and I have an IP address associated with it. So here's what I'd like you to do -- if you visited earlier this morning, please come back and leave a comment on this post. If I can match your comment IP address with the 10,000th hitter, then you're in line for fabulous prizes!
(Well, okay, just one prize, actually. And I'm not quite rich enough to make it 'fabulous'. So you might want to replace 'fabulous prizes' above with 'mediocre crap'. Still, it's free mediocre crap, and I think we can all appreciate how rare that is.)
So, leave me a comment, and I'll get you some swag. (If you're the right commenter, that is. All of you people just chiming in to congratulate me, or express your enthusiasm, or brag about how many more hits that you have are getting nothing. Nothing except my undying appreciation and gratitude, of course.
Except you braggy people with ten thousand hits a friggin' day. You people suck. Let me have my damned moment, will you?)
So, that's it for now. Thanks to everyone who's stopped by and had a look around -- I'll have a more complete 'State of the Blog' address later on (lots of exciting things are happening!), so stay tuned for that. Oh, and I'll try to be funny later today, too. Yeah, that should be a hoot. At least you'll be able to laugh at me. Meh.
And so, in summary ('cause that's the way TJ likes it): yay to me, thanks to you, gimme comments, and somebody's gettin' some loot.
Damn, folks... what the hell else could you want from a blogger, anyway?
Wednesday, December 10, 2003
Well... You're Soaking In It!
I was poring over the old site logs today, and came across this search phrase (and for goodness' sake, don't ask me if I 'wiped it off'... on the other hand, if you don't get that joke, you're probably in the wrong place):
'what is it like to be an only child'
Apparently, there's someone with siblings out there who's jealous of us solo kids. Or there's a set of worried parents getting all angsty about whether little Johnny or Jane will grow up mutated, unless they squeeze out a playmate for him or her. Or there's a very precocious young kid with no brothers or sisters, wondering what to expect from the formative years.
Whatever. It really doesn't matter, and I don't care that much. Just pick one, and we'll move on -- it's not important for the punchline. (Hey, don't give me that look. I'm an only child -- we're selfish bastards. Go cry to your brother or sister, ya weenie.)
Anyway, the punchline is... I am the number one, primo, expert advice-giver on the topic, if you ask Google. (Go ahead, try it. It won't hurt. Much.)
Now, as you can see, if you read the post in question, I actually know quite a bit about being an only child. Hell, I've been one for as long as I can remember -- I'd better have learned something in all that time.
But to be the first place that people turn, the Oracle of wisdom, the veritable horse's mouth? (That's mouth, dammit! Mouth!) Well, I don't know quite how to feel. You know, other than all alone and selfish and unsure of myself. All that 'only child' shit.
Still, it's nice to be recognized as the top source for something.
Er, well... something else, anyway. *sigh*
At Least It Wasn't Celine Dion... Er, Um, I Mean... Nothing. Nothing!
Is there anything more embarrassing than being caught singing in your car?
Well... yeah. Theoretically, at least.
Theoretically -- this is purely theoretically, you understand? -- you could get caught singing at the top of your lungs in the car.
When you're belting out lines from your Hole 'Celebrity Skin' CD as loud as you can, in a high falsetto voice.
(Did I mention that this is completely theoretical?)
Being caught by a big hairy, moustached, Italian-looking guy driving a plumbing service truck, while you're stopped side by side at a red light.
(That's a hypothetical red light, of course.)
Just as you get to the line 'When I wake up, in my makeup' from the title track, and look over to see Mr. Plumberman smirking at you, and elbowing his buddy in the passenger seat.
(This is so hypothetical, people. So very, very hypothetical.)
And then having the truck right in front of you for the next eight blocks, and seeing both guys checking you out in their mirrors, trying to see if you're still singing. And, of course, you are. You have no shame. Hypothetical shame, that is.
Yeah. That would definitely be more embarrassing. I mean, I imagine it would be... hypothetically speaking. Yeah.
On a completely unrelated topic, I'm gonna go home early today, drink myself stupider, and hide my head under the bed covers. No reason. I just thought I'd mention it. What?
The Short of It
So, TJ has asked for the 'Cliff Notes' version of last night's post. Okay, fair enough. It was pretty damned long. Here ya go, TJ. I aims to please.
Blog Post Summary:
Lessee... first, there was a clever intro where I talked about kicking somebody in the balls. Then, I explained how BMW owners seem to hate me, for no good reason.
There were some wavy flashback lines -- very impressive, by the way; all the Hollywood directors use those -- and then a bunch of stories about asshats getting in my way in the snow, and how they all drove BMWs.
And... um, then I bitched some more, and I made up some new lyrics to songs that were mainly the word 'bitch' over and over. It was all very 'in your face' and powerful.
And then... well, more bitching, more bitching... dum de dum, bitching some more, still bitching... ooh, and I used 'Eurotard' in there once or twice. I was very happy with that.
And finally, I wrapped it up by saying that things might get better now... but really, they probably won't. And there was some more cursing, and then it was over. Finis.
Hey, that was fun. And, you know, with just a couple of minor tweaks, you can pretty much use that summary for any of my posts. Just replace the 'kick in the balls' part with whatever's appropriate to the topic (dogs drooling, or people pissing me off, or boobs doing... well, anything, really), and change 'Eurotard' to 'assmagnet' or 'fuckknuckles' or whatever ridiculous shit I've come up with that day, and there you go -- instant summary! You might want to keep this post bookmarked, just in case.
So now what? Hey, I know! In keeping with today's theme of 'brevity' (shaddup, it's a relative term... and yes, I know this post is already longer than most people would bother with in a blog...), I'll give you long-suffering readers (or is it long-reading sufferers?) a break, and keep things short and sweet today.
Of course, that just means that I'll post several times, rather than one. You're not getting off so easy, see -- I'm just gonna give you some extra breathers in between the madness. I hope you find it just as unboobered as usual. Or at least not more boobered. The goal here is to reduce the booberitatiousness. Let's see how this goes.
(Heh. 'Fuckknuckles'. Pure genius. I've done it again!)
Tuesday, December 09, 2003
You Can Shove That 'Ultimate Driving Machine' Right Up Your Ass, There, Skippy
In a former life, I must've kicked some German dude in the balls. Really hard. Really, really hard. Fall-down, eye-watering, 'Help me, mommy!' hard. That's all I can figure.
Because I've been cursed, and that's the only explanation that makes sense. I'm absolutely plagued by BMWs, and it must be due to some horrible affront that I've perpetrated in the past. It's too damned consistent to be coincidence. The ghost of German engineering is pissed, and he's coming after me, every chance he gets. Lousy fucking bastard.
The latest episode in this recurring nightmare came tonight, but it's been going on for a few years now. Ever since I moved to Boston, in fact.
(As a matter of fact, if you've been paying close -- no, particularly close... no, unhealthily obsessive -- attention, then you'll remember that I've mentioned this nightmare once before. I summed up my feelings in June by writing these lines:
'The most annoying thing about the winter weather in Boston is the preponderance of cars manufactured where snow is apparently not an issue. Or heard of. Or even believed in. After three winters here, I'm convinced that BMW engineers regard snow as some sort of Christmas-time fable propogated to scare children, or excite them, or depress them, or something. (Anything to distract the little piddlers away from the bratwurst and milk left for 'Santa'.) Anyway, I've yet to see a Boston Beemer do anything even remotely useful in the snow, except serve as a convenient -- and utterly effective -- barricade against actually driving to work, on those days when one of the bastard BMW owners who park in our lot tries to dig out before I do.'
Hopefully, you can see how strongly I feel about these vehicular boobjobs. Especially since it was still bothering me in fricking June, with no threat of snow for at least... oh, I don't know, a month, maybe two? Hey, this is New England. Summer lasts like a week and a half or something.)
Maybe I should start at the beginning, way back on a chilly winter morning in early 2000.
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It was the morning after my first big snowstorm in Boston. We'd just had fourteen, maybe sixteen, inches dumped on us. (Keep your minds out of the gutter, porn-watchers; focus... focus!)
Now, I should probably explain how the parking lot at our old apartment was set up. Let's see how this goes -- picture three small apartment buildings / converted houses on the 'down' side of a street running along a hill. The entrance to the parking lot is to the left of the first building, and dips down the hill at a fairly steep angle -- close to forty-five degrees -- for the length of the building, maybe thirty feet or so. At the end of the 'driveway', the lot takes a ninety-degree turn to the right, and continues along behind the three buildings. There are about twenty spaces in all in the lot, most of them angle spots. The lot is maybe twenty feet wide, so there's just enough room to swerve between the parked cars when the lot is full.
(Okay, thus concludes the technical part of this post. There won't be a quiz or anything, but if you can recite that last bit to me verbatim, I'll grin like a monkey-spanking... um, well, monkey, actually. Seriously, who spanks monkeys better than monkeys? I mean, they're right there, all the time, with the equipment just... just hanging out there. And the bananas! All those bananas flying around all over the place! They're experts, man -- friggin' experts!
Um, sorry. I got a little carried away there. Monkeys tend to have that effect on me. I'll try and keep it down now. Um, so to speak. Look, let's just get back to the story, shall we? I've suddenly got a craving for banana splits.)
So, our parking spot was near the end of the lot. When I walked out that morning in 2000, most of the cars had already gone. (Hey, I get up late. Can you blame me for wanting my beauty rest? I'm not a frickin' Baldwin, you know.) But there was one car left when I went out to dig my car out -- a late-90s model metallic blue BMW. 3-series, I think it was.
So, of course, just as I get ready to rev my way out into the lot and up the driveway, the Beemer's owner -- of German descent himself, coincidentally -- came out and hopped into his roadster. And started it up. And backed into the middle of the lot, not thirty feet in front of me. And got his sorry rich ass stuck there, flapping and fishtailing his car around like a wounded marlin. (Pudge Rodriguez, maybe, or Willis Roberts, or... oh, fer chrissakes, it's a baseball joke! Marlins? Baseball? Oh, forget it. Who invited you people, anyway?)
Look, the point is, Herr Dickenstein rushed his Hessian heinie out there to get out of the lot before I did, and ended up holding us both up. So then, I had to spend forty-five minutes digging snow out from under his fricking tires, and pushing his stupid front-wheel drive hunk of shit back and forth, until he finally managed to navigate his way the hell out of my way. Douchebag.
But, you know, that's fine. Nobody's perfect. We all make mistakes; forgive and forget; live and let live; everybody shakes it more than twice sometimes. Whatever. But Mr. Poopenschnitzel wasn't finished. Oh, no. A few weeks later, we got more snow. And again, I came out to the car just before the crack of noon. And again, the dickhead raced to his car, and sputtered into the middle of the lot, and got himself hung up. Again!
The next winter, it happened again. I swear to holy Heineken, this mother fucker was watching me from his window, just waiting for me to come out there, so he could get in my damned way. Oh sure, he was polite, and apologetic, and very 'Aw, shuckenheimen, am I in ze vay again? I know nuzzing!' Which only made me want to shove his nuts up his tailpipe even more, of course. Eurotard.
So you can imagine my glee when I saw, after two winters of this crap, that he was selling his condo next door, and moving himself and his BMW the hell out of my life forever. Woo hoo! Curse over, right? Um, no. I was destined to be 'Oktoberfisted' yet again, the very next year.
It was in the same parking lot, just last winter. Again, more snow than you could shake a mukluk at. Again, I shuffled out in the cold to dig the damned car out. (A different car, by this point, but no matter -- stay with me here. I get just as worked up when some putz blocks in my Nissan as when the yutz gets in the way of the old Buick. More so, in fact. That Buick sucked donkey nipples. And not in a good way.)
But this time, I was rushing to get to a meeting. I cleaned off the car, warmed her up, and got ready to go. Nothing could stand in my way -- there wasn't anyone in the lot the whole time I was out there. I was home free, and I knew it. So, of fricking course, that's when some lady comes rolling out of the garage on one side of the lot... yes, in her big-ass black BMW, and slides to a halt, right in the very epicenter of my fucking way. Bitch.
Of course, she had her small child in tow in the back seat, and was late for the tot's doctor's appointment herself, so I couldn't even call her a bitch. Oh, but I could thinkit: 'Bitch!' Oh, yes. Over and over and over in my head -- I made little songs out of it.
Swing Low, Sweet Chariot -- 'Swing loooooow... bitch bitchy-bitch. Comin' for to bitchy-bitch-bee-yatch!'
Fur Elise -- 'Bitch-bitch-bitch-bitch-bitch-bitch bitch bitch bitch. Bitch-bitch-bitch! Bitch bitch BITCH!'
Green Acres -- 'Bitch bitch bitch bitch bitch -- you bitch! Bitch bitch bitch bitch bitch -- rich bitch!'
Overreaction? Taking my earlier frustrations out on her? Yeah, you might think so. But let me tell you this --
After I took a half a damned hour getting this woman unstuck and on her way, I got into my car, started it up, and pulled out of my spot. Roll, roll, roll, through the lot, turn the corner to the driveway... and there she was, halfway up, stuck again. Apparently, she tried to eeeaaase her oversized hunk of shit up the icy steep hill, rather than taking advantage of the 'big mo' and gunning her way through it. At the risk of sounding redundant, I feel I simply have to say again: 'Biiiiiiiitch!' Ahem.
So, ten more minutes to get her out of that predicament, and she was finally out of my hair. But her little escapade left my car at the bottom of the hill, at a dead stop, with no momentum whatsoever. So I hopped in and gunned it... halfway up the hill, and that's all she had. If the damned lady had been out of the way, I could have 'hit the hole' with some steam, and been out of trouble. So, I tried backing down the hill, and around the corner, to give it another try.
That's when I lost my wheels' precarious place in the tire-ruts, and plowed the back corner of the car into a snowbank. Stuck again. (Bitch.) So I revved the engine, and switched from forward to reverse and back again, trying to rock myself back to safety.
Forward -- spinning wheels. (Bitch!)
Backward -- bump into the piled up snow. (Bitchy-bitch-bitch.)
Forward -- move a little, smell of tire rubber. (Bitchy-poo.)
Backwards -- some rocking, a slide, and... nothing. (Bibbity. Bobbity. Bitch!)
Anyway, I finally did manage to get back into the tire tracks, backed my ass all the way to my parking spot, threw that baby in 'Go', and plowed right through the lot... revved it at the corner... and powered it up the hill. Ten seconds, maybe fifteen. And only an hour and a half later than it should have happened. Yip. Pee. Fucking Beemers.
So that brings us to today. (I know, I know; you're running out of gas. It'll all be over soon, I promise. Just hang in there -- you're doing great so far. I'm so very proud of you!)
Now, you'd think that I'd have no problem any more, right? I'm in a house now -- there are no parking lots or garages or any of that to worry about. All I have to do is spend two grueling hours shoveling the walk and steps to the car, and then three more back-breaking, painful hours digging away the five-foot tall wall of snow that the snowplows piled in front of the driveway. Piece of cake, right?
Well, yes and no. (But really, no. No, no, and no. Ooh, but wait... um, no. Just no. But how about...? No.) To be fair, though, I was, rather miraculously, able to get out of the driveway without any Beemer-related shenanigans. I even, eventually, found a place to park that wasn't completely piled high with snow. Partially, yes, but not completely. And I was still forty minutes late for my meeting this morning. Fine.
So, I came back to my car tonight, got in... and realized just how stuck I was. The car was sitting on three-to-six inches of sleet and snow. At least, it was when I started trying to get out of the spot. Once I'd spun my wheels and dug around in there for a few minutes, I had each wheel on a highly-polished, shiny patch of pure, slick ice. Great. Just what I was looking for at eight-thirty at night -- screw getting home, putting on my Underoo jammies, and getting some damned dinner. Nah. That's for babies. I wanna chop at ice and snow with a window scraper for an hour and a half, trying to get out of the little ditches that I'm digging every time I rev the engine. Yeah, that sounds like a fun night. But oh, it gets better. Oh, yeah.
Now, I'd first like to say -- in my defense -- that one of the reasons I had so much trouble getting out is that I was parked just a couple of feet behind another car, so I really didn't have the option of just rocking forward and driving out of my mess. You may be surprised to learn -- as I was -- that the car in front of me was not a BMW. Which makes sense, I suppose -- the car was sitting there all day. It really wasn't so much at fault, as just an annoying obstacle.
(In golf, they call that an 'incidental hazard', or something like that. I dunno, really -- I always kick my ball away from anything potentially 'hazardous', like ponds or sand traps or angry beavers. Honestly, I'm lucky if I hit the thing more with my clubs than my golf spikes. If I could get any loft that way, I'd just kick the thing off the tee, even. At least it'd go straighter that way. *sigh*)
So, there I was, rocking the car back and forth, and digging under the wheels. I was making progress -- I was pretty sure I was getting close to backing my way out, when my old nemesis showed up. This time, it came in the form of a big dark 5 Series car, which came crawling up the little street I was on... and pulled up behind me... and tried to park. Park! With me standing there, obviously stranded and stuck and low on elbow room to get out? What the fuck?
Anyway, the car pulled in behind me, got within about four feet, and stopped. Greeeeat. Some woman with a European accent got out, and -- I swear to God -- said:
'Oh. Vere you tryink to get out?'
Hmmm. Yes. Yes, I was. How's about you move your Euroheap outta my damned way, so I can get back home before Christmas, lady? Would that be okay with you, or are you here to torture me further?
'Ahhh. I zink my car may be ztuck, too, now.'
Well, that answers that, now, doesn't it? You are the antichrist, sent to poke me with pointy sticks until I give up and lie down in the middle of the icy street to die. Well done. Welcome to the party. Good to see you again.
So, I tried pushing her out -- nothing. I offered her my window scraper to dig under her tires -- she refused, choosing instead to jab impotently at them with the toes of her shoes. Well, as long as you're committed to helping the cause, lady. Glad to see you're willing to go that extra mile. (Have I said, 'Bitch!!!' yet? Yes? Good.)
Eventually, I concluded that she was going to be about as helpful as a Swiss cheese beret in a shitstorm, and I decided to take drastic measures. Instead of going backwards, toward the Moscow moron and her satanic Beemer, I'd go forwards, and try to iiiiiinch my car past the jalopy in front of me, and then over the two foot tall mound of slush sitting between me and the middle of the road. So I cleared away the mound, as best I could, and went for it.
Now, I'm not going to sit here and lie to you, and tell you that I didn't bump into the car in front of me. I may have even scraped it a bit. And my car was, at a couple of points, teetering on the bits of mound that I left in place, with the frame resting on the snow, and no wheels on the ground. But eventually, I rumbled and tumbled and scrambled over it, and into the street. Free at last! Glory hallelujah, free at last!
So, I was out, a full hour after finding myself stuck in the first place. And this time, I even made a peace offering to the gods of German engineering. I flipped on the hazard lights, got out, and pushed the Beemer behind me out of its rut, and into a parking spot. It's the first time since this saga started that I've saved a BMW that wasn't still in my way (though this one had been, only moments before). So I'm hoping that the madness might finally be over. Maybe the Beemer bitches will finally leave me alone.
Still, I'm not optimistic. I still don't know what the hell I did to piss them off, but it seems the BMWs out there have some pretty powerful friends... and they hold grudges. So the same stupid shit will probably happen next year, too, and the next, and the one after that, too. It's enough to make me want to move out of Boston, to a place where these fuckers can't get in my way so easily. That's just tempting fate, though -- if I moved, I'd probably just be pushed into a tornado, or ravine, or tar pit, by a damned Beemer. At least I can handle the snow-related shit. And if it ever gets too bad, I can just wait for the shit to thaw.
So it looks like I might never be rid of this accursed nightmare. I wish I knew how I pissed them off; I'm still leaning toward the 'past life kick in the nuts' thing. And after four years of bitchy paybacks at my expense, all I can say is this -- if I did break my foot off in somebody's jewels, I hope it hurt like hell. I want 'em to still be sore, if they're gonna treat me like shit for this long. If I'm not gonna be happy, I should at least get my nutcracker's worth. I got your 'driving excitement' right here, dude. Bring it on!
Monday, December 08, 2003
Gee, I Always Thought It Would Involve an Angry Mob, Somehow
I know how I'm going to die.
You can't imagine what a load off my mind this is. No more uncertainty, or wondering, or worrying -- now, I can just sit back, relax, and wait for the inevitable to eventually happen. And I know exactly how it's going to happen. Hey, lucky me!
And that's not all. No, not by a longshot. I also know at what time I'm going to die, within an hour or two -- it'll be mid-morning, somewhere between about eight and ten am. And I know that I'm going to be alone. And I'm going to be naked. That's right -- all alone, without a stitch of clothing on. Just the way I came into this world, except I'm hairier now.
(Though some people would tell you my head's just as soft... hey, fuck them, man. Nobody asked them, anyway. Buncha assbags.)
What's more, I even know where I'm gonna bite the big one. It'll be in my upstairs bathroom. That's where they'll find me, in the afternoon or next day -- naked in my bathroom, cold and dead and hairy. I just hope I'm... er, represented well. Does rigor mortis cause shrinkage? I'd better check on that. That would be embarrassing, even post mortem.
So, how do I know all of these details about my impending demise? Well, it's quite simple, really. It's just a matter of putting two and two together. Here are the important facts:
Surely, from this list of circumstances, you can see what's going to happen. One day, without thinking -- because I'll be incapable of rational thought at that hour -- I'll grab a handy bottle and take a hearty swig of poison. I'll probably stand there, naked and dripping and oblivious, gargling bleach like a frigging fool, and that'll be it for me. Cooked. Done. Disinfected, permanently.
- I am not a morning person. I hate being awake, or even alive, before ten am, when my brain finally switches on. It's all I can do to not drool before ten, and sometimes more than I can do. Just ask my (often damp) wife.
- There are at least three days a week when I have morning meetings at work, and thus am forced to drag my slobbery carcass out of bed before I'm ready, and 'autopilot' it to the shower, where I hope I'll wake up enough to at least wash my hair, face, pits, crotch, and rear end. (And in that order, or all bets are off. This is not a sequence you want to experiment with.
- More often than not, I don't wake up while in the shower, which leaves me to 'mumble, grumble, stumble, fumble' my way through the rest of my hygienic machinations, without a brain to help me.
- The medicine cabinet in our upstairs bathroom, where I shower, is woefully undersized, which forces my wife and I to be rather creative about where to store certain of our toiletries.
- One such toiletry is the mouthwash, which I use every morning after brushing my teeth. (Or brushing my nostrils, or my ears, or the top of my fricking head, depending on just how sleepy I am that morning.) The mouthwash -- minty Scope, I believe it is -- is in the cabinet under the sink.
- Here's a list of the other bottles under the sink, most of which have the same screw-top cap as the Scope: TidyBowl toilet cleaner, Drano, Tilex tile cleaner, SoftScrub, and Jergens hand lotion.
I suppose if I'm lucky, I'll just get a mouthful of that lavender-freesia shit that my wife rubs on her hands. That might not kill me, at least. Though I'd probably wish I were dead, if I had to walk around with that taste in my mouth all day. Nobody likes a guy whose breath smells like a grandma, you know. And I don't mean a grandma's breath; I mean a all-over, rubbed-down, full-body grandma.
(I don't even know what grandma's breath would smell like, anyway. Applesauce and aspirin? Marmalade preserves? Vodka and pills and chocolate chip cookies? Dunno. I love my granny and all, but it's been a while since I got any tongue. A long while, indeed.)
So, there it is -- the story of my death, before the actual dying. I know the how, and the where, and even the attire, or lack thereof -- I just don't know exactly when it's going to happen. But if you don't hear from me for a couple of days, could you send somebody over to check the bathroom, please? Don't leave me there too long, with the foamy mouth and the blue lips and the cold water running in the sink. Oh, and one more thing -- try to ignore the fact that I'll be naked, and resist the urge to 'sneak a peek'. I'm sure there's gonna be some shrinkage -- yeah, 'shrinkage'; that's what it is -- and I'd like to go out with as much dignity as a naked, dripping, addled dead guy can.
Hmmm. Yeah, that doesn't sound so good, does it? Shit. Maybe I'll start brushing my teeth with my boxers on, just in case. That's one less thing I'll have to worry about, anyway.
Oh Sure, I Can Have That Tomorrow! No Problem!
Sometimes, I think I'm too eager to please.
Oh, it's okay to be that way around here -- I can set up outlandish expectations for myself, the better to entertain you, or bore you, or confuse you with. And that's fine. I'll post every day, and blab as many words as I can, whatever. I'm here for you, folks. I'll find a way.
But I think I've got to stop being so eager in other areas of my life. Take work, for instance. I remember, back in the day, when I was just a wide-eyed young pup -- I could set too-short deadlines, and promise the moon and the stars, and actually back that shit up and deliver. I was ultra-motivated back then, hungry. Sleep meant nothing, I laughed -- haughtily, even -- at deadlines, and spent much of my considerable energy on getting shit done. I was a monster... a go-getter... an unstoppable, focused dynamo. (Yeah, fine -- I was a cocky, brownnosing weenie. Shaddup. Who's tellin' this story, anyway?)
Well. How things have changed.
Oh, I still promise the moon and the stars.
(Sometimes, even a planet or two. I especially like to promise Uranus. Heh.
'Dude, how 'bout if I give you Uranus, too?'
'Would you like Uranus, while I'm at it?'
'Hey, let's just buckle down and get Uranus on the schedule, too. Whaddaya say?'
Yeah, the chicks dig me. Why do you ask?)
All right. What the hell was I saying? Oh, being a putz at work. Of course.
So, anyway, I say I'm gonna get these Herculean feats accomplished... but usually, my mouth is writing checks that my brain... well, let's just say my brain has spent all the cash on cheap booze, high heels, and lacy panties.
(And if you can picture my brain, wearing a pink thong and sipping Boone's Farm out of a fuck-me pump, well -- you're better off than I am, believe me. The therapist hasn't been certified that can exorcise that shit outta my head.)
So, instead of delivering 'the moon' and 'the stars', I sometimes can only manage 'an asteroid', or 'a pile of gravel'. Or I'll manage to get the moon and stars together (often pulling them out of Uranus... yeah, you just knew that would come back to bite you in the ass, didn't you? So to speak, of course.), but I'll get around to it late. And I'll be cranky, and need a beer, and it's just not the same.
I suppose there are two ways to go, here. I could always try to recapture the energy of my youth -- I could exercise more, and read up in work journals, and map projects out, and dream about whatever I'm working on... maybe I could get into that magical tantric yoga crap, while I'm at it. I hear there are some, um, 'added benefits' to that stuff, too. And maybe, with all that effort, I could do all the things at work that I used to do, way back when.
On the other hand, I might fricking collapse from exhaustion, and fall into a vegetative coma. (Mmmmm... vegetation...) In any case, I wouldn't have time to do the other things that are currently a part of my daily life -- blogging, practicing standup, watching TiVoed shows, kicking the dog's ass, tickling my wife until she pees... and those things have become rather important to me. In some cases, more important than whatever I'm working on.
(Especially the thing with the wife -- if she doesn't get her daily cootchie-cootchie-coo, we've got to put the rubber sheets on the bed.
Not that she would necessarily have a problem... but who knows? You can never be too careful. And she won't wear the Depends -- apparently, they chafe.)
Anyway, the other option would be to just stop being a damned putz, and make estimates and promises that involve working less than fourteen hours a day, sleeping and eating at my desk, and injecting Jolt cola into my fricking bloodstream. So far, though, it hasn't happened. Old habits die hard, I guess.
But if this one doesn't die soon, I'm gonna get out the butcher knives and ice picks and kill it myself. We'll see how 'hard' you die, bitch. This shit's gotta stop!
Sunday, December 07, 2003
Eat Your Heart Out, Florida! (aka Suck It, San Diego!)
Well, the Nor'Easter of '03 has pretty much wrapped up here in the Boston area. Now, I'm not much of a photobug (Is that what they're called? Shutternuts? Piccy-clickers? Webcammin' perverts? Whatever.), but I thought I should probably document the early-winter shenanigans that went on around here.
You know, for you 'less fortunate' folks in warmer climes, who don't get the privilege of having two feet of white shit dumped on your head. And your house. And your lawn. And your car. And... look, I could do this all night. Let's just get to the pictures, shall we?
First, let's have a look at just how much snow we got. The weathermonkeys around here tell us that the greater Boston area got anywhere from ten to thirty-four inches of snow. But what the hell do they know? It's all crystal balls and voodoo dolls with those people. (And I'm pretty sure the guy on Fox uses voodoo balls... but he was never the sharpest bulb in the chandelier, if you know what I'm saying.)
So, how much snow did we get here, in Watertown? And more importantly, on my block, and especially, on my property? Well, I did the most scientific, well-controlled, reliable test that I could think of. I measured the pile of white crap on the top of my car.
(Hey, look, I said the most scientific thing I could think of... what do I look like, Watson and frickin' Crick over here?
What? Oh, sorry, it's a biology thing. Go look it up. I'll wait.)
Anyway, I should probably tell you about my 'experimental methods', so you can go reproduce the results, if you like. Here's the summary of how I made my measurement:
I stuck a tape measure into the snow on top of my car, pushed the end down until it stopped, and read the number sticking out.
(Yeah, like I said, that's the 'summary'. The 'long version' is... um, well, it's about the same. I think I used a 'Stanley' tape measure. The car's a Maxima. There's really not much more to it than that.)
So, let's have a look at my first foray into the world of automotive-assisted meteorology, shall we? First, I took a picture of the snow-encrusted car:
At least, I think it's my car in there. Honestly, I can't really tell. It could be anything -- a Maxima, a Honda, a Chevy... I might clear it off in the morning and find Roseanne in there. It's like Han Solo in carbonite -- I can tell there's something in there, and it looks familiar, sort of, but it's not really identifiable. But whatever's in there has my car's license plate stuck on it's ass, so I'm hopeful that it really is my Maxima.
(And praying that it's not Roseanne. The last thing I need in the morning is to be prying my plates off that snowy cow. And god knows where the front plate would be attached.
Ooh, I am not gonna sleep well tonight. *shudder*)
Anyway, I decided this white lump of stuff was probably my car, so I plooped the tape measure into the snow on top. And this is what I saw:
Well, to be fair, that's what the camera saw. I'd already been shovelling for a while, so what I personally saw was quite a bit blurry, as my vision was smeared with snow and sweat and tears. And, quite possibly, snot. Hopefully mine, but I'm making no promises. Anyway.
As you can see, the car's sporting just under nineteen inches of frosty goodness.
(Yeah, you know, there's something disturbingly sexual about that, isn't there? 'Nineteen inches of frosty goodness' -- sounds like a line out of 'Frosty the Blowman', or 'Winter WonderWang', doesn't it? But I digress. And disturb. And, um, disturbingly digress. Let's circle back around, away from the Christmas porn, and back to the snow, okay?
And let's never mention 'Winter WonderWang' ever again. Nobody has to know.)
So, if you can believe the local weather weenies (and you can't, of course), then our little burg is solidly in the area of the map that got between twenty-two and twenty-eight inches of precipitation. So, if anything, I'm underestimating my accumulation. (Hey, just like with the IRS. Heh.) Maybe the car's leaning or something, and some of the snow fell off. I dunno. In any case, I'm pretty comfortable saying that we got 'around two feet of snow'.
(See that? See how nineteen inches becomes 'around two feet'? That's using the 'Willie Johnson method' of estimation. So named, of course, because that's the same sort of thing guys do when describing the length of their 'willie', or their 'Johnson'. It's sometimes called the 'penile exaggeration rule'; maybe you're familiar with it. But, of course, most people don't back up their claims with an actual measurement, like I did.
Well... okay, that's not true. Actually, most guys do. Almost all of us, in fact. But most guys don't take a picture of the measurement.
Um... all right, I can't back that up, either. But some guys don't post their pictures to the internet.
Uh... yeah, I'm gonna just let that one go. Otherwise, I'd have to do a Google search and see whether I'm right or not. And there are some times when you would just hate to be wrong. Ick.)
All right -- where the hell was I, anyway?
Ah, snow. Okay, moving on, then.
So, speaking of twenty inches or so -- though I obviously really shouldn't be any more -- the snowstorm left us with another cool remnant, besides the 'two tons of snowy fun' I shovelled off the sidewalks. Namely, we've got some kick-ass icicles hanging off our house. I don't know how long they'll last, but they are damned cool. And huge, too -- we used to get icicles on the garage when I was a kid, but these... these things make the old ones look like cocktail weenies. Little, frozen cocktail weenies.
(Jesus, what is that? 'See how many phallic symbols we can fit into a post night'? What the hell?)
Anyway, have a look, and see what you think -- to me, they're pretty damned impressive, but then, I'm biased -- after all, they're hanging off my porch. And impressive or not, I'm not standing underneath them. Forget putting your eye out -- if one of these puppies fell on you, it'd spear your head right off. Here they are, from near...
and... um, I don't know -- medium? Between? Shit, that Grover dude on Sesame Street only did the 'near... far... near... far' thing. I never found out what's in the middle. Rats.
So, there you have it. This is about as close as I'll ever get to a 'fotoblog', and I hope it was entertaining. And hey, at a thousand words per image, this might qualify as my longest post ever! Of course, the really scary thing is, it also might not. A wordy windbag be I. Arrr.
Okay, I've spontaneously regressed into pirate-speak. (Specifically, 'Captain McAllister from the Simpsons' pirate-speak, if you're scoring at home. Or even if you're by yourself.)
All of which means that things have gotten irretrievably silly. (Yes, again.) So, I think it's time to sign off for the night. It'll be time for bed soon, anyway, and I need to get a good night's sleep. I'm gonna need all my strength tomorrow to dig out whatever the hell is sitting in my driveway. And I hope to hell it's my Maxima -- I'm not about to climb into Roseanne and drive that bitch to work. Monday mornings are bad enough without that nightmare. Yick.