These Are Me Thinks

Earthfakes and Faux-rraris

2008-04-18T17:54:00.000-07:00

By now, many of you have heard about the earthquakes that rocked a good chunk of the eastern Midwest. We were about 182 miles or so from the epicenter of it all. I happened to wake up to it around 4:30 a.m. this morning.

Image courtesy of U.S. Geological Survey

I heard the house creak and pop a little and felt as if the bed was being gently shoved back and forth. It was only a few seconds. My immediate thought… was that an earthquake? Or did I imagine it?

And why would I think the latter?

Because I’ve woken up before and felt “earthquakes” before. Very minimal ones, mind you. More subtle than this one. And I thought for sure the next day, someone would corroborate what I perceived. This has happened, maybe twice before, according to my fault-ridden human memory. And if I asked someone, “did you feel the tremor last night,” I was met with perplexed looks. “Army, it’s just your imagination!”

And what if it was? The mind and body do strange things during sleep. You know what I mean. Most of all is the weirdness of REM sleep in which your body is paralyzed and brain activity rampant. Perhaps I had some kind of body tremor waking from REM sleep and perceived it coming from my environment. I’ve had crazy visual distortions sometimes when I wake up truly groggy (probably stage 4 of non-REM sleep for that one person out there who cares). So body tremors aren’t unfathomable…

So much so, I’ve come to call them my earthfakes.

This morning on the shuttle bus, I saw S-Dub, and she mentioned the earthquake. I wasn’t crazy this time! So I proceeded to tell her about my previous earthfakes and concern this was just such a repeat. She replied in the mock-serious voice we have come to use, “Yeah right, Army, there’s a fault line that runs only under your house. That’s why no one else felt it.” To which I replied in the same voice, “Oh, so it’s all my fault?”

(Sigh) I just had to do it. Sometimes you have to mix your heady humor with your cheap laughs.

Then at work when I’m on the phone, the second quake hits, and everything kind of sways back and forth. And I continue on with my conversation as if nothing has happened, all the while, up and down the hall, I hear the chatter from my co-workers, “Did you feel that? Did you?”

Mamabean was like, "Maybe we live above a Hellmouth." LOL - And why not? Is that so strange?

Then I read online today about these fake Ferraris made from Pontiacs and Toyotas. HAHAHAHA!!!! I don’t know why I love this story so much! Dubbed as “high end fakery” orchestrated by a “fake Ferrari gang,” I mean… you can’t help but laugh. Mostly because the buyers knew they were fakes and were doing it purely for the status symbol. Silly Sicilians! You felt the boot kick of the Italian Polizia, eh? Eh? I suspect the authentic Lamborghinis that pulled up during the police bust outmatched your Faux-rraris, no?

Ciao, baby!

Stuff White People Like

2008-03-06T21:38:00.000-08:00

I've recently been turned onto this hilarious blog entitled, Stuff White People Like.

Each entry is a window into the funny, the folly, and the fascination of white people (and really more to the point, white American folks). I find myself cracking up to each entry I read, either thinking of myself or someone I know.

I haven't made my way through many posts, but the few I've read are pure genius.

I've particularly enjoyed the following entries:

* The Idea of Soccer
* Modern Furniture
* Multilingual Children
* Threatening to Move to Canada (ah, so American)

Anyway, check it out, feel the culture, have a chuckle.

On Tour

2008-02-23T22:23:00.000-08:00

It seems that for the last three weeks, I've been on tour. Or perhaps more accurately my body has been a venue for all manner of rock star illnesses, mystery plagues, and other general cootie-type activity. And one thing is for certain...

I am sick of being sick.

Apparently I'm not the only one. Everyone I talk to tells a story of how their family or office has something nasty travelling around. It's the Dark Passenger, sneaking rides in vehicles that don't want it. Like Marty McFly in Back to the Future hitching tows from passing cars on his skateboard. But I don't find this scenario quite as amusing.

From a sociological perspective, it is rather fascinating how such things spread and survive. One person on an airplane could easily infect 200 other people on their way to dozens of final destinations. Schools, work places, even the doctor's office. How do all those people working at the hospital manage to stay healthy? A built-up tolerance? It hardly matters right now. In light of my intellectual interests, the reality of the last three weeks has left me anything but intrigued. I'm fed up.

The latest incarnation is a severe sore throat that has left me unable to really talk. Perhaps a relief to some, I don't know. But it's painful to swallow, eat, drink, or talk. Very annoying. I'm decked out with remedies: hot tea with honey, organic throat drops, humidifer in my room to keep things "flowing," throat numbing spray, and antibiotics. All the tools of the trade. They have to work. If I have to watch one more f*cking DVD from the sofa, I'm going to pretend to scream!

The one funny side story was when I went to see my D.O. on Friday. The assistant who took me back to the doctor's office (i.e., waiting room #2) was Boyfaux's boyfriend! We recognized each other and were chatting about various things. Man, is he cute. I noticed every detail when he took my pulse. When he measured my weight on the scales. When he took my blood pressure and I slipped my arm out of my sweatshirt. It felt oddly intimate. I wondered if his thoughts ever strayed. I kinda have a crush on both of them now. And why not? Why break up a relationship when I could work the angle on both of them? Right, as if I would ever do such a thing! However, if they made the proposal to me... it would be rude to refuse. I am a gentleman, after all : )

But that will all have to wait for another day. A day when I can abandon the Dark Passenger, find a ship off Leper Island, and find my way back to normalcy. Back to health. My escape is already under way.

An Idle Mind...

2008-02-04T21:17:00.000-08:00

Conversation transcript from this afternoon:

JP the British Boss: "I rather like the book and think it will be a great text for the class."

Army: "Sounds like it. I've always wanted to read it myself but never got to it."

JP: "I looked over some other books, but they didn't really stand out like this one. There was one by a guy name George Siemens, and it was okay. And you know, his last name, well... (trails off)"

Army: "It isn't very becoming, is it?"

(Childish laughter from both parties)

An idle mind is the devil's workshop! And I'm living proof : )

I've This Creeping Suspicion

2008-01-21T21:39:00.000-08:00

We all have our routine or familiar scripts for going to bed each night. I brush my teeth, remove my contacts, and if on a "school night," I make sure to set out my clothes and prepare my lunch for the next day.

But what about the mental routines? Those nagging thoughts? The worries that come to mind as if they are on some kind of whisper campaign? Softly.

On most nights, as I slip into bed, I wonder what would happen if a car lost control and crashed into my house. I imagine how it would likely happen. Where the car would make its impact. I figure it will come from the street corner, right into my front bedroom. I'd be safe, but the crash would be deafening. I'd shoot up in bed with startled fear, teeth clenched so hard my teeth feel like they could break. Thankfully I wear my bite guard religiously.

I've woken up before in a panic, because of a loud noise. Once I felt like I was experiencing an earthquake. No one else had felt it. And on all those occasions, I saw flashes of red against the muted tones of night. Hallucinations, I'm sure.

And what does it all mean? Unconscious fodder my next therapy session, no doubt. Perhaps it is my phantom hitchhiker revealing himself. He knows as sleep nears, he can spring to life. Perhaps because my mind is clearer. No distractions from the world.

If fear in animals is linked to learning, then where did I learn this fear response? When I was in kindergarten, I remember a story about a garbage truck that rolled from a parking lot down a hill into someone's house. I can't remember if someone died from it or not. I cannot separate the reality from how I worked it over in my head.

Then of course, there's my fear of tornadoes. All things I can't control. So is that what it's about? Or is just my overactive imagination? And if that's the case, do I have such loss of control fears because of my overactive imagination? Without all that, could I come up with half the yarn I spin on this blog?

And therefore, is part of my head just one big mess of creativity and neuroses, mashed together like mounds of Play-Doh, inseparable?

So there you have it. The logical conclusions to the emotional cocktail party mingling inside of me. Think of it what you will. I know I do.

Man, Oh, Man

2008-01-16T21:53:00.001-08:00

So BW and I went to the Illini basketball game this evening. But as prologue, we had a tasty dinner at our favorite BBQ restaurant.

And it wasn't only the brisket that was smokin'. So was our server. At first he was rather quiet, but then he broached the subject of the game, an easy topic given our orange hoodies, and soon it became the foreplay before game play. Ahh. Sports Talk became quite chatty, and we were happy for him to return several times for some table talk. I have visions of a "full court press" in my head... such imagery. I wanted to ask him if he needed a ride to the game. Or a ride before the game?

Scandal.

Let it be known that BW and I actually share two boyfriends. Well, one is a boyfaux and the other is a beaufriend, but I'm getting ahead of myself here.

Our first bachelor is Hot Nuclear Physicist. Such a thing is a rarity in this universe, possibly more so than Mendelevium or antimatter. But let it be said, that this Cutie McCutieson is adorable, smart, and actually gay. And BW and I both lust for him. But then, he's pining for a 19 year old who has out-of-the-closet issues, which basically means he's untouchable. Ah, gay soap opera. As a result, Hot Nuclear Physicist is our boyfaux. He just doesn't know it yet. I was working on a joke about penetrating his valence electron shell, but it was hopelessly abandoned.

Our second bachelor is UberNice Guy. Have you ever met someone that is so nice, you think this person is TOO nice? That's UberNice Guy. I mean... he's such a nice guy. BW and I had to decipher the riddle of his persona, and we could only come up with that it doesn't feel genuine. I believe he is genuinely being friendly, open, and quite generous. But relationships of any kind generally flourish because of step-wise, reciprocal intimacy. And once he meets you, he's your best good friend. And he wants to include you in anything going on. Which is fine, I suppose, for some people. But BW and I don't roll that way. And we think that he has a crush on the both of us, which is probably really true. But neither of us feel the same. So he's our beaufriend. And BW needs to court him so we can upgrade our seats to the floor. Just one game. Full court press. Do it, BW. Take one for the team.

I bring up these two gents because they were topics of discussion this evening. BW and I come up with plays on words to try and make the other laugh. Tonight we had some good ones, but I can't remember any specific ones. Most of them are situational, anyway. Then we say stupid things, like calling for certain plays. "Time for the Triple Lindy!" or "The Annexation of Puerto Rico!" If you get either of those references, big ups to you. Hey, it makes us laugh.

And speaking of men with drama, the Illini are no longer the worst team in the Big 10 after tonight's game. We now share last place with Michigan. Luscious! In the words of Dorothy Large Marge Zbornak, "S-GOOOOAAAWWWWW!"

Been Thinking...

2008-01-14T19:58:00.000-08:00

I'm sure most of you are familiar with the cuisine term Tex-Mex. You know, most people refer to restaurants like Chevy's, Chili's, or (back in its day) Chi Chi's as Tex-Mex. Hmm. Chi Chi's. That place was a celebration of food. Or at least that was their slogan. I still remember it, only because it's my useless talent to remember jingles, song lyrics, and movie quotes. And clearly I remember them forever. Thank you God, genes, and environment.

Anyway, while at a more authentic Mexican restaurant this weekend, I had a thought during our conversation. Why don't they just call it Texican food? I mean, Tex-Mex is cute and all. And it rhymes and all. But I think Texican is a better play on words, and as a self-professed wordsmith, I'm inclined to say I'm right on this one.

Just a thought...

Call Me Uncle

2008-01-12T23:24:00.002-08:00

Well, it's official!

I'm going into my second week of being an uncle! My brother and sister-in-law had a lil baby boy, which they shamefully did NOT name after me. But I won't hold that against them... much : )

Lil AJ was born on my Mom's birthday, matter of fact. So he and Grammy will have to share the day. At least it will be easy for me to remember... as King Forgetter of Anything Numbered.

I've only seen the small guy in pictures, and those were only supplied from his date of birth. You know, smashed face, squeezed through a birth canal after soaking in amniotic fluid for 9 months. Not his photogenic height. So if any of my shrinking but loyal readership happens to have more updated pictures, say, a photo-happy grandmother with a DSLR Sony camera and a captive grand-progeny for a subject, well then, perhaps those could be sent to me care of my email address.

Wink, wink.

Fortunately for AJ, I can play the role of uncle well. Much like pets, if I can hand kids back to someone else, I'm good with them. Though I have a fear of dropping babies. I know it has to do with experience. Perhaps the real fear is that once I have them, it will be forever. Now that's a prospect to get the heart racing.

Now this has me thinking. The real fear is not losing hold of them once I have them; rather, it's the fear of holding on and never being able to let go. Now how do you like that?

And things are starting to read like a metaphor for other issues in my life, so we'll go to a commercial break. But this note's going on a sticky as a discussion point for my next therapy session.

Sad News

2008-01-03T21:05:00.001-08:00

I received a phone call this evening from a dear, close friend of mine that his mother passed away unexpectedly. I was in shock. I couldn't speak. She had always been the nicest, most inviting person she could be to me. She had treated me like close family. And now she has passed.

I didn't know what to say to my friend. Is there anything "right" to say? People say it's important to be there for the person, and I very much wanted to be that for him. But somehow, I wonder if I failed him.

A month ago, another dear friend of mine came to me because a close friend of hers had lost his mother. She was upset, and I wanted to convey I was there for her, but at the time I wasn't able to. If it's true that what you say isn't important, what if you fail to let someone know you are there? To be what they need in that moment. That is why she came to me? It has bothered me to this day that I couldn't be what she needed me to be. Sure, I know she knows I support her. But in that moment, I had missed the mark.

I trust that I was able to support my friend this evening. And as much as I want to be a supportive friend, I also want to celebrate my memories of his mother. Because she was a dear, sweet person.

When we were younger, she would take us to work with her at the university and my friend and I would have adventures. She let us camp out in the front yard. She was compassionate about animals, especially horses, and she raised several on her farm. She had a curiosity about the world and wasn't afraid to get in there and experience what she could. She believed in her community and was a strong supporter of the needs of her town. She had a passion for preserving the culture and history of Native Americans. It was because of her that I learned more about the traditions of the Apache. I was even able to spend time with a descendant of the Chiricahua war chief, Cochise. She welcomed him and his family into her house just like she had me for all these years. I hadn't seen her in many years, so I feel blessed to have visited with her last March on my trip to Arizona.

Unfortunately, she had severe asthma all her life. And it finally took her away. But I believe she has left the world a better place. She made her family and her community better than they could be without her. I know she has inspired others to do the same. And that is all any of us can ask for in this life.

So to my dear friend, I will always be there for you. However you need me to be there. Just call on me.

And to you, Sue. I am better for having known you. Thank you.

Fey, Fi, Faux

2007-12-16T16:53:00.000-08:00

Last weekend, I was invited to the moment I had been waiting for. The moment to sing the jingle of Army's tune into the ear of a good looking, sweet young man. And in his brain, that tune would be lodged -- gestating, vamping, tickling. And slowly it would grow on him until he realized what he could have with me. And then, we'd make sweet love... er... music together.

Of course, this young man was non other than Jay, my new boyfaux. Who happens to have a legitimate live-in boyfriend. Meh, details.

Rules of Engagement

Jay had invited Feyonce to a Christmas party at his place, and she was able to bring along a friend or significant other... or in our case, her signifauxcant other. It was my shot to size up Jay's boyf to see who this character is, what state of bliss (or discord) they shared, and how I could wreck it all with my charming ways. Yes, neo-conservative so-called Christians... this is truly the only gay agenda out there. And it doesn't concern you at all, so go fear things up elsewhere.

So Feyonce and I rocked out another party before hitting this all-important one. And like any Army, I needed to devise specific rules of engagement:

Rule #1: Make sure I get on Jay's radar.

Rule #2: Employ defense mechanisms when necessary. For instance, it was imperative going into this knowing that his boyf was quite inferior to me. Their relationship had to be in shambles.

Rule #3: Lots of ammunition. You can't win the offensive without being loaded. Inhibitions slide, your guard is down, and maybe some action is seen.

Rules in mind, we get to Jay's apartment complex, and basically everything is covered in ice. No salt in the parking lot, on the sidewalks, or anything. So we're sliding our way to his door, when we encounter the frozen steps from Home Alone. And no railing to grab hold of. So Feyonce and I are crawling up the steps, praying we don't land jaw first on concrete, cracking up the whole way there.

Let The Games Begin

We make it alive and Jay greets us at the door. He looks adorable in his collared shirt and sweater. Jay makes the introductions to the seven other people there (one of whom I knew already), and I spot the boyf. The enemy. The distraction. And he's well, kinda cute. But somewhat of a stereotype. Little bitchy. Little sassy. In my unbiased opinion, I think Jay could do much better.

I crack open a Guinness. And out comes the dreidel. For a drinking game. I felt a bit at ease that a Jew was in the group, like it was kosher and all. And thankfully, Jews don't believe in Hell. Let's just say that "Gimel" meant everyone drank. I forgot the rest. I was focused on making eye contact with Jay whenever it was appropriate. My message was subliminal, an unconscious code.

Jewish Girl mentioned something about Yiddish, and I commented that Feyonce and I were beschert (meant to be). We laughed about that for a while. I broke out a few other choice Yiddish words I knew from my viewings of Seinfeld and Sex and the City. My mis-education.

Then came the wine. First red. Then white. Then more white. And then things loosened up. We played some other game that didn't work out too well. I was certainly feeling tipsy. I kept hitting the food like it was nobody's business. The pepperoni, cheeses, spicy pigs in a blanket, cookies, et al. -- I was Bogarting the buffet every bit as much as I was "Beau-guarding" the boyfaux.

As a subplot, Feyonce was interested in one of the other attendees. She, too, had gone into the evening with some intentions to reconnoiter this gentleman. We both made sure to dress as dapper and smart as we could. A couple of sexy fauxances ready to divide and conquer our men. I had my Jay. She had her Billfriend. He seemed like a cool guy. Feyonce confesses to liking slightly nerdy guys, and he fit the bill. Literally.

Now the rest of the evening is pretty much blanketed with some of the most bizarre things I've ever said. And sadly I have forgotten most of them. So I'll attempt to recreate the few I recall with the following vignettes:

****************************

Jay: "I want to sing karaoke, Feyonce."
Army: "What would you sing?"
Jay: "Something from the ballad genre."
Army: "You can't sing a genre, you have to give us actual song names!"
Fey: "Whoa now, Fauxance. Well what would yours be?"
Jay: "Yeah?"
Army: "Love Shack and Grace Kelly by MIKA!" (a bit too self-satisfied)

****************************

To Feyonce: "Yuck. I'm burping gross weenies."

****************************

Not a specific quote, but I used the words fabulash and luscious way too much. Sometimes luscious meant "tasty" or "excellent." Other times, it meant "drunk."

****************************

So the short of it was, I got sauced, and then I got saucy. I ended up doing this dance in the kitchen as Jay air-conducted to the marching band music that was playing. It was as if we were both vying for Feyonce's attention... but we didn't know it at the time. She had to keep sober because I had imbibed a bit too much of the wine. So much for my gay agenda.

In all, it was a great evening. I enjoyed the group's company, I got to interact with Jay and the boyf, and have more fun with my Feyonce. I felt better knowing the boyf had some flaws, and it actually made me move on a little. Thankfully when I'm wined up, I don't become a depressed boozy old fairy.

Driving Miss Hazy

So the night ended with me scooting down the Home Alone steps and then "walking" with my hands and sliding on my feet across the ice rink. Thankfully, Feyonce drives manual. I gave her mild sass for stalling Andrew right away, to which she deftly replied, "the drunk person cannot criticize my driving." Touche.

I crashed at her place and woke up at 5:43 a.m. to record the details that eventually became this entry. In the background, freezing rain was pounding on the house, encasing my car in a shell, and creating a new layer of danger to the world. But I had no hangover. Nor did I have any hang-ups about my boyfaux sleeping with another man.

Margaritas En Masse

2007-12-10T21:31:00.000-08:00

If the term en masse is defined as "in a single body or group," then the powerful potion I imbibed on Friday was contained in my single body. And by powerful potion, I mean the 26 oz. salt-rimmed frozen mug kind.

It was my Friday "girls" night out with the Lovebrarian and my humor twin Watson. First stop was authenticate Mexican (for the Midwest) and a little love potion #9 - the frozen margarita. Or in my case, the sleep potion. Tequila is my slow-acting roofie. Guess I drugged myself. Bad rule of thumb if you plan to take advantage of yourself.

Not that I was planning on such a thing...

Anywho, Watson heard about this free Christmas concert going on that evening and thought it would be interesting for us to attend. It took place in a Catholic church, which is generally a no-fly zone for yours truly, but to be honest, I was desperate for a blog entry. What a "writer" will do for some good material!

Little should I have known the clue in the title... it was a Christmas concert alright. In a beautiful church. Where the congregation was so stoic, I thought it may have been a funeral. At a cemetery.

I can only imagine that I wasn't struck by lightning because my thoughts were too clouded. I confess: I may or may have not been tipsy. In a church. My margaritas en masse had become margaritas in Mass. And my head was swimming in a dazed haze, crawling through the strange passage of time, set to the sleepy backdrop of stoic caroling and chanting. If being boozy in church is bad form, then being dozy is just plain uncouth. I slipped in and out of consciousness. My powers were useless against them.

I don't know how the hell long we were there, but at one point, Watson, who was noticeably uncomfortable for us the whole time, said we should roll. And roll we did. She felt bad, being the only religious one of our trio, because the concert was a joy-bust. But hey, how would she have known? It wasn't her usual church.

After the spell broke, I did come away with a few thoughts. No more tequila for me. I passed out by 9:00 p.m. Bad news bears. And secondly, it was reaffirmed that I truly do not understand organized religion. I get that it moves people and provides meaning and inspiration. I can see how it lifts up others. But it just doesn't do anything for me... even when I've had a few.

Then again, maybe this visit wasn't the best example of a dry run (in more ways than one!).

Things That Were Said

2007-12-06T19:54:00.000-08:00

Army: "I don't know, there's just something about a jockstrap that I find... creepy. (Pause) I'm not sure why... I have to get to the bottom of it."

B-Dub: "There is no bottom of it!"

**************************************

Army: "There's just something about long hair on a guy that I find unattractive. Cut it short already! Long hair is for girls!"

Mamabean: "I think he's hot either way."

Army: "Oh c'mon! That's not even a hairdo... it's a herdo."

**************************************

Mamabean: "I'll make the general's chicken and you can bring over some eggrolls."

Army: "Deal. Should I also bring over some pot tea?"

Mamabean: "Um, pot tea?"

Army: "Yeah, that was supposed to be hot tea, but who knows after today. (stops to ponder) Can you even make tea from marijuana?"

Lil' known fact to me: Actually, you can.

Facts and Figures.

2007-11-14T16:07:00.001-08:00

Yeah okay, Army sure knows how to pick them. I have an uncanny ability to pursue ambiguously straight men, yada yada. Firmly established.

If you're new to the program, check out my Beaucoup of Beaus.

So of course, when I met Feyonce's classmate a few weeks ago, noticed his good looks, sweet charm, and genuine quality, I became immediately skeptical. How could he be available AND gay?

Our first meeting was serendipitous, really. I had worked until about 7 p.m. and on the shuttle bus to the Parking Lot at the End of the World, my Fey boarded with a small group of others, including one dashing young gentleman. I was at the back of the bus and she didn't notice me. So I just observed their group talking and made eye contact a few times with Classmate.

At the Parking Lot at the End of the World, Fey saw me and we started chatting. She introduced me to Classmate, whom I'll call Jay. We exchange hellos and Fey is quick to casually explain the Feyonce/Fauxance bit is just an inside joke, thus debunking any idea that we're anything more than good friends. Good one, Fey.

Jay's all, we've met before. And as it turns out, I gave a presentation at Illinois State a few years back and he was in attendance. I thought he looked a little familiar but who knows when you see so many people every day. Hmm, so he remembered me, eh?

Anway, as soon as I part from them, I watch from my car until Fey is alone so I can call her up. Laughing at my haste, she says she doesn't know about his "status" and promises to keep an open ear and eye, thinking we would make a cute couple. And um yeah, we would!

Now it's speculation at this point, but I may or may not have joined a social networking website run through our university to find out more about Jay and imbed myself into his unconscious mind. I'm playing it like George Constanza... remind the person of your existence in small ways. It's a subtle approach, a whisper campaign, as I like to call it. Soon enough, I'm like a radio jingle he just can't shake. He'll be humming my tune.

Plan now engaged, I lay low for a bit as part of the hush phase. Today, I get a phone call. From Feyonce.

F: Yeah, I have some bad news.

A to himself: Great, he's another ambiguously straight man. I'm going into rehab.

F: Your "boyfriend" already has a boyfriend. I befriended him on Facebook and there it was with photographic evidence.

A: Figures.

I finally find one of my own people that I'm attracted to and want to pursue and he's taken. But that's the second story of my life. You know the first.

A: Is the boyf cuter than me?

F: (laughing, placating) No. Of course not!

A: Do they look happy? Or is there some discord underneath it all?

F: Well the boyf goes to Arizona State.

A: Oh please. I can work myself into this one. The long distance thing never works.

F: That's not tacky!

A: Desperate times, desperate measures.

In all seriousness, who's to know their true status. Fact is, I've known people to maintain an "in a relationship" status on MySpace et al. simply because it was uncomfortable to change it. I tell you, these websites are life-support for failed relationships of every measure and kind.

He still seems like a guy worth knowing. And I'll just see what happens. If it's merely a friendship, then great. If I attack him in a fatal attraction kind of way, well, I'll write you guys once I'm out for good behavior.

The Balance of the Universe... On My Middle Finger.

2007-11-05T20:44:00.001-08:00

I suppose some would say it isn't good Karma to extend a middle finger to the vast universe out there... but then again, I am the universe (as are you), so in a way, I'm merely flipping off my greater self. And well, Karma can kiss it, too.

Why the dramatic huff, you ask? Why, let me tell you, in even grander throes of blopera (um, that's blog opera to you)!

Don't trust The Universe. Just when you think everything is in its place, there is balance, and the answer to the meaning of life is 42, The Universe steps out from behind the curtain with a guttural "Mwu-haha" and the episode is over...

Seems now the meaning of life is 50. Because of inflation? Nope. Hazard another guess? Well, it's because that's how old you have to be to join AARP... and I JUST GOT INVITED!!!!

That Benevolent (or should I say, Malevolent) Order otherwise known as the American Ass-ociation of Retired Persons (now cowering under the acronym of AARP) sent me a damned Membership Order Form today! ME!

Look at this face? Is this the face of a retired person? Or of a pretired person? I'm not even close! I still have my allure... my twinkle! In fact, at a conference this past week, my fellow colleagues from across the nation kept mistaking me for a student.

Usually, I have to do what I can to be seen as a professional because of my youthful appearance. Especially on campus when I have to belly-up to the bellies of Provosts, Directors, and Deans, oh my. And now, this Undistinguished League of Biddies wants to set me on a course for the planet Geriatrix at warp speed? I think not! Check the records and your trifocals. I haven't made your short list yet, pappy!

So listen up, AARP, you old fogey. Take back your lousy AARP-SVP and the offer of a free pedometer when I join or renew. My clutch purse is off limits to your coffers (and incidentally your coffins). And rest assured that whenever I aimlessly aim my finger at The Universe, you will forever be at the center of my affections.

iRant: Highway Musings

2007-11-03T21:41:00.000-07:00

Are We Where Yet?

So yeah, I'm skeptical of a lot of technology when it first comes out. I always have to ask the question, why do we need that? And why shouldn't I ask that question? Lord knows there are plenty of solutions to problems that don't exist out there... Someone has to police this techno-crap and gripe about it.

Here recently, it seems everyone needs some kind of navigation system in their cars. Whether it's TomTom, Magellan, or some other dude's name, folks need that GPS like never before. On a recent trip, I couldn't help noticing the numerous glowing screens in so many dashes and suctioned to the windshields. How did we suddenly become so directionless? Just a few years back, people rarely consulted paper maps, and those were usually road trippers. If you didn't know the way, you went to MapQuest or (if you know what you're doing) Google Maps. Now, we can't go to Walgreen's without depending on the robo-broad bossing us through every right and left turn. I mean, seriously. This is a perfect example of how technology has made people passive and responsive instead of planful and (dare I write this trendy word) proactive.

Out of no where, we are constantly lost and at a constant loss of where to go... Thank god we took thinking out of the equation.

The Unofficial Pace Car of the Highway

Why is it that whenever people see a Highway Patrol cruiser, they immediately jettison their brain, as if it was a smuggled illegal cargo? My favorite response comes from the lead-foot nosedive brake-job guy. Good one, smooth operator. The Statey will never suspect your speed correcting tactic, only, he's already clocked your dumb ass. See, when you notice the Statey from about 100 feet away, yeah, he's already clocking ten cars behind you. 'Member? Back where you ejected your common sense? Perhaps if you weren't on the phone while changing tracks on your iPod and finishing that Star-too many-bucks coffee, you wouldn't look like the ass hat you are.

And my favorite witnessing this week is when the Highway Patrol car pulled out into the fast lane from the median. And suddenly no one will pass him. Even when he's driving under the speed limit. Hey morons, we aren't in the first lap of the Indy 500, and besides, I don't think your P.O.S. Chevy Aveo would even qualify for a go-kart race. He's not the pied piper, you Lemmings. Pass him up! He's probably doing 60 MPH just to laugh at you idiots with your timid little toes tapping the pedal.

If you aren't blessed with the ability to split your attention and still operate your vehicle, don't do it. Maybe you should let TomTom take the wheel.

And Another Thing...

The entrance ramp exists so that you can achieve the speed of the highway by the time you reach it. Do I really need to say anything else about this? It seems that I do...

Hit Me Baby, One Maher Time

2007-10-23T23:17:00.000-07:00

As you may know from way back when, I already professed my intellectual crush on Bill Maher. Well, my love-o-meter recently flew skyward when I caught a rare and captivating piece of live television last week. I'm speaking of the recent episode of Real Time With Bill Maher.

Now, I don't normally catch this show on TV because it's on HBO. But I do subscribe to the free podcasts of the show and listen to them religiously. Much like folks like their news and debate from Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert, I get my fix with Bill. Let's face it, the only way to cut to the heart of matters is with humor.

Anyway, Bill's show was hijacked this past week by several (perhaps four?) heckling kooks preaching about none other than 9/11 Conspiracy Theory. In case you missed it, our faithful digital friend, YouTube, has graciously time capsuled it for your viewership...

Now imagine watching this unfold in live TV. I happened to be away for a conference and flipped through the stations as the show was coming on. And then this went down... at first, I thought it was a joke or part of the show. A bit off-kilter for Bill's sense of humor, but who knows. Then it just kept going on with the ranting until Bill breaks open his emergency can of pissed-off whup ass and kicks these kooks out of the studio!

Kill, Bill, Kill!!

You can say a lot about these 4-some minutes of television. This is what I have to say...

1) I won't credit the bush administration for much, but I'll put it this way. It's stacked with conniving people who have done some fecked up stuff, but their lies and their exploits are consistently as see-through as Britney's under drawers. They couldn't manufacture a plausible case for war, produce WMDs, make a plan, organize a rebuilding effort, plan to plan, and on and on. You think they can orchestrate the destruction of a building with little preparation in the wake of a terrorist attack when bush is trying to read to children and sits there for 7 minutes "dumbfounded?" Or as I like to call it, his normal face.

And if by miracle they somehow did all that, we'd know about it because these guys can't cover up shit. And if you think they put together the whole attack, bitch please. Take your meds, find some evidence that we didn't go to the moon, Hitler is still alive, and Jesus has signaled His returned in the reflection of a puddle in front of your local Subway.

2) I'm sure these Truthers thought they had a victory, but here's the reality. You made yourself look like bigger asshats than you already are. And you'll only attract more asshats to your cuckoo cause; not sane and rational thinkers. Which your cause clearly needs. And the reason you have to resort to guerilla tactics like this is because no one will listen to you in a normal forum because of your already-established dumbassery and general detachment from this thing we like to call reality. Pop some more pills, mix it with booze, repeat.

3) I applaud Bill for what he did. I think there's no tolerance for stunt-tactics like this. Once again, people in this country have proved they are so aching for attention, they'll do anything to get it. As for me, I'll get my attention the old-fashioned way... from the few people who choose to read my blog and listen to MY meandering rants and conspiracies.

Now, about that gay agenda we've been working on...

Got It Bad

2007-10-16T22:32:00.000-07:00

Got it bad, got it bad, got it bad/
I'm hot for Teacher!

Yes, sing it along to the classic Van Halen of my youth. With Dave. "Sit down, Waldo." LOL

Today our campus's Teach for America rep came to speak to our group about the amazing opportunities for our ambitious, motivated, and compassionate students to make an impact in our country's most impoverish schools.

And this guy was a dreamboat. I'd guess he's in his mid-twenties. Nice sideburns. Dressed smartly. And such a charismatic speaker. I like how he used his nonverbals. Yeah, I like a good gesture. His were well-placed.

I think he made us all want to sign up for our two year stint! Yes Mr. Teach for America, I'll drink the poisoned Kool-Aid. Your wish, my command. All that. Now let me take another look at ya.

Yeah so, he did mention this alleged girlfriend at one point during an anecdote. But it was likely in the context of a comfortable friendship. Words of endearment. No more. I didn't see any ring on that finger. So he's available. And he's gay until proven straight in my court of law. LOL

Boy, that man was a tasty beverage. Got it bad, got it bad, got it bad. I'm hot for Mr. Teach for America!

I've been Touched...

2007-10-09T20:40:00.000-07:00

No, not like a "I've been touched by the bad man in my swimsuit area" kind of touched!

I mean, I've been Touched. No guys, not Touched by an Angel in a holy spiritual sense. Get with me, here, c'mon! Do I have to spell it out, already?

I am now the owner of my very own iPod Touch, e'rybody! And it's suh-weet. I can't keep my hands off of it. Literally!

If you haven't heard of them, think of the iPhone without the phone and the camera. So it's even slimmer yet still has twice the capacity with a 16 GB flash drive. And unlike the iPhone, this one has a WiFi antenna, so when I hit a local hot spot of wireless fun, ka-ching. Free internet access. Download a song from iTunes Store at the Espresso Royale? Don't mind if I do! Watch YouTube clips on my lunch break? Yes-huh! Stare at hours of porno while at work? Heck y... er, of course not!

The screen for watching movies is killer. This will be my new travel companion when I fly to Baltimore and Denver this month. I dropped a little extra skrilla for this software that converts DVDs to iPod video format, so I can have all my faves in my hot little palm. Oh yeah, babies!

We're talking Kill Bill, Clue, Grindhouse, Maverick, Big Lebowski, Groundhog Day, Dodgeball, The Prestige, Glitter (but not really), and the rest of the oeuvre!

And switching up from my Mini to the Touch, I have to give big ups to Apple for an awesomely improved interface. I feel like I'm in the future where everything is a touch panel. And I'm quite impressed with the sensitivity of the screen. I thought I'd be mistyping on the little keyboard, but it works very well.

It's such a thing of beauty and a marvel of science, I shed a tear. What can I say? (sniff) I'm touched.

The Next Room

2007-09-28T22:44:00.001-07:00

In my previous post about the death of Robert Jordan, I mentioned that he had stepped into the next room. I wasn't familiar with that turn of phrase until the passing of my step-mother. Her good friend spoke at her memorial service, and she read aloud a piece that mentioned this idea. But that was several years ago, and I have only that vivid image in my memory. The name and everything had faded.

After some internet investigation, I uncovered the full passage:

***************************
Death Is Nothing At All

Death is nothing at all. I have only slipped away into the next room. I am I, and you are you. Whatever we were to each other, that we still are. Call me by my old familiar name, speak to me in the easy way that you always used. Put no difference in your tone, wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow. Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes we enjoyed together. Play, smile, think of me, pray for me. Let my name be ever the household word that it always was, let it be spoken without effect, without the trace of a shadow on it.

Life means all that it ever meant. It is the same as it ever was; there is unbroken continuity. Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight? I am waiting for you, for an interval,somewhere very near, just round the corner.

All is well.

-- Henry Scott Holland
***************************

Now I'm not a religious person. I'm spiritual to a degree and after a fashion. But even if I put all of that aside, there is something poignant and fundamental from this idea that our passing is merely a transition into the next. That death should not diminish us, even though it causes sadness. That we are better for knowing the people we know and knew. And that their finality is not an end if we celebrate who they were and what they meant to us.

I'm reminded of the series finale of Six Feet Under entitled Everyone is Waiting. As if to say everyone who has passed is in the next room. Ready to ask how we've been. I imagine Darlene, my grandfather, and even RJ himself entertaining each other with jokes, sitting around a small table, an intimate and quiet affair. I peek in on them and smile to myself. Such characters. They'll be in there till all hours of the night.

And off to bed I go, knowing that they still have life. That they'll be saving a seat for me one day. And that we'll carry on, as if only time had passed, and nothing more.

So Long, Friend

2007-09-19T16:10:00.000-07:00

Two days ago, I found out that one of my favorite authors passed away. His name is James Oliver Rigney, Jr., but if you know him at all, it most likely by his pen name of Robert Jordan.

He wrote the amazingly rich and detailed series called The Wheel of Time. And if ever there was an opus that told of a fictional world, his main series of 11 novels, a prequel novella, and various companion pieces was near the top of them all. With nods to Tolkien, mythology, and world cultures, he borrowed familiar bits of what we know and wove them in with his own creations of magic, cultures, characters. Oh so many characters. No seriously. Lots of characters!

And while the series began to slow after the sixth book, the eleventh really picked up the pace. And RJ, always devilishly coy at book signings, would remark that the series would end with however many books it took to tell the story. As you may surmise, he had not intended it to last as long as it had. But after the last book, he had clearly stated that book 12 would commence the main series. And if it was a 2,000 page tome that required a hand truck, he said, that's what it would be. LOL

It would be the end of over 17 years of storytelling. But he never got to see it end.

See, RJ recently developed a rare blood disease, amyloidosis. And if ever there was a fighter, it was RJ. He kept in touch with fans via his blog. Fan support was incredible. But in the end, the disease caused complications that led to his death. We knew his time was limited, but the suddenness was unexpected.

It feels like a betrayal that a creator did not outlive his own creation. So often, you assume the person will keep going on long after the ink has dried and the paged dog-eared. But sometimes it isn't the case.

I remember at book signings how particular and funny he was. I'd drag my family and friends along to get the books signed. My friend Aaron and my step-dad Greg were hooked, too. So we had an entourage. RJ would always correct people for mispronouncing the names and terms he created.

My big bro, Jim, cracked us all up once when he turned to us and remarked, "Robert, you had me at Seanchan." You probably had to be there, but it was hilarious. And then you get up there and feel compelled to ask the big man something about the series as he neatly and purposefully signs his name. Every time, the old sass, he gave me his patented response, "Read and find out." Curse you, RJ! His slight smile would follow.

As I understand, the last book will be published. He's committed the bulk of it to audio tape or paper. Selfishly, I'm happy to hear that. Like any reader, I'm invested in the story, the characters, and the outcome. I want some closure!

But I keep coming back to the fact that, even though he had the final scene of the last book locked in his head all along, he won't get to see his readers respond. Or hear their thanks for the enjoyment he's brought. Or the ideas he's given. Or the inspiration for future storytellers.

I suppose he's stepped into the next room now. Wherever it is that everyone goes in the end of this life. Who's to say what that is. We all have to read and find out.

Hey man, nice TWIKE!

2007-09-13T20:56:00.000-07:00

After work today, I ran into (not literally) one of our computer guys, M@. Our relationship started off a bit bumpy because right after my promotion was official, I came into work that night and moved into my new office. LOL - What can I say, I get antsy with transition and just feel comfortable having all that stuff done and out of the way. Plus the new office is much bigger : )

Needless to say, I jumped the gun and the computer tech guys weren't ready to set up my new computer, the internet port wasn't working properly, and basically I caught them off guard. After a bit of email to-and-fro between the main tech guy and our associate director, things were "settled." Fortunately, I ran into two of the guys over lunch that same day and went over to them to apologize for what I did. They took it well and said they should be able to get to it that afternoon.

Well, M@ and I ended up chatting it up while he set up my computer, and let's just say, we have a bunch of nerdy common interests to seal over any troubled cracks in our professional relationship. It was actually a bit uncanny how many TV shows or book series that he mentioned that I'm also into. So now we're basically the best friends on earth.

Anyway, back to this afternoon at the elevators. We're chit-chatting on the way down, and Mama Bean parts ways with us. M@'s all, "where are you off to?" Taking the bus to the shuttle lot, I respond. "Want a ride there?" To which I'm all, hecks yeah.

Come to find out, his mode of transport 'round town is an electric/human-powered hybrid. It's called a TWIKE, which basically sounds like Elmer Fudd named it. But you know, it's German. Those crazy kids with their language!

He owns one of less than a dozen TWIKE's in the US. Most of them are in Europe, natch. And they cost quite a bit of dough. Nevertheless, it is a cool set of wheels! He has it parked right in front of the YMCA. He pulls the electric cable from the building and shows me how to get inside the cockpit. You can't step on the floor because of it's light body construction. And you feel like you're riding in the future.

It can run either completely electric or you can pedal to ease the drain on the batteries. It can run pure electric for about 40 miles, which extends under pedal power. He got it up to 50 MPH once, he said, which seemed crazy!

The controls are more like that of an airplane / sail boat. And there's this neat little control panel in the center that reminds me of the time circuits from Back to the Future.

The TWIKE turned quite a few heads and produced many smiles. It drives on all the regular streets because it's classified as a motorcycle. I'd be a bit afraid of being clobbered by Soccer Mom in her Monstrosity or even worse, a bendy bus. But M@ piloted the TWIKE with ease. It was a bit bumpy on the rougher spots but otherwise accelerated smoothly and quietly like any good electric engine should. And the braking system is regenerative, so stop and go traffic made the batteries rather happy.

The ride was an enjoyable and exciting end to my day. M@ said he's on the waiting list for a new one, which he's been twiddling his thumbs over for 2 years. Each TWIKE is hand built, so production is quite limited.

As I watched him skim away, I overheard a bus driver waiting at the lot calling out to a pedestrian, "No, no. He's pedaling it. It has pedals." They probably thought it was some fancy enclosed tricycle. But then again, I guess it sorta is.

Too Freaking Funny!

2007-09-12T20:42:00.000-07:00

Yeah, so this is my first attempt at adding a YouTube video to my blog... let's see if I can keep from blowing things up!

Anyway, thanks to The Lovebrarian for revealing this MADtv clip to me. I love the clever humor!!!!!

The Moment of Truth

2007-09-04T21:40:00.000-07:00

As you may have read, I rocked out my interview last week, or so I thought...

While at work today, my coworker HH got a phone call when I was chatting with her in her office. It was from one of the committee members contacting her as my reference. Ooh! Good news? Sure, but not a done deal. They could be contacting all of the finalists. Still, it distracted me even more. I knew I would likely hear back today either way.

After lunch, I overheard a quick conversation about the search chair leaving a message for JP the British Boss. They were both on the committee for this position, and the timing seemed right. Perhaps she called to finalize the deal and make the offer to their candidate? But was it me?

I had been nervous all weekend and just wanted the Band-Aid ripped off. Job or no, I needed some answers. No matter how well I thought I did, you just never know with these things.

It figures that the call came through when I was with a student. So I tossed my little kiddy out of my office (no, not really), grabbed my cell phone to listen to the calm and unrevealing message from the search chair, and quickly dialed her number.

The secretary put me through...

"How's it going, Army?"

"Hello Search Chair, good to hear from you. I'm very nervous."

Chuckle. "Why should you be nervous when we're offering you the position?"

Laughter. "Are you kidding me? That's wonderful news!"

WOO-HOO!!! I was ecstatic! I had been wanting this promotion really badly for so many reasons but tried to not get my hopes too high. But it all worked out in the end!

So I'm basically jazzed : )

And that's all for now!

Neighbors

2007-08-30T18:45:00.000-07:00

So I've been very "vocal" about the jacked-up old house we used to work in. But I haven't mentioned much about the swanky new space, which is awe and then some. I have my own office with brand new furniture and a window out into the hallway (though sadly no windows to the outdoors). But I thank my lucky stars for what we ended up with. It's really amazing. No more stench vent. No more weird sound tunnels. No more everything creaking.

And right now, we don't have the full space. We had kicked out some folks for this space, but one department had to stay behind until their new space is built. We were concerned upon moving in that these folks would hate us. I mean, we're a loud bunch. We have 18-20 year olds busting in with their cell phones and their sometimes less than courteous manners. These people never make a peep over there.

But they've been awesome. We did a formal breakfast meeting this week with introductions, and they are all really hilarious. Well, except for a few sour apples. I'm thinking of this woman I can only refer to as Scowlella. She has this permanent frowny face and doesn't make eye contact. I think she needs sex. But then, that's my mental solution for anyone who's fussy.

And speaking of which, one of our "neighbors" has this smoking husband I like to call Hottie McHotterson. This man is sexay! He has nicely defined arms, perfectly tanned, great smile, sideburns (and I love a good sideburn), and today he was wearing this t-shirt tucked in behind his belt, board shorts, and sweet little Keen shoes. I was praying right then for a show called "Husband Swap." But then, I don't have a husband, so let's just call it "Husband Snag."

Then of course he spoke, and if I hadn't known better, his mannerisms and speech softly whispered "gay" into my ear. Damn these hot ambiguously straight men!

He's usually in our shared break room for lunch, and today we had this nice chat. they were telling me how great Keen brand shoes are and he says, "I can let you use mine for a while. Are you a 10.5?" For you, sweetie, I'll be anything you want. But much like Cinderella's wicked step-sisters, my foot was too big. "No, I'm an 11.5." But for you, I'll be anything you want...

Then home today, I noticed my not-yet-legal teen boy neighbor running down the street shirtless. Here we go again. Totally not fair. He runs into his house, and then I see him going in the opposite direction shirtless, underwear exposed, skateboarding. Today has been pure torture! Yeah, I know, call the police on the homo pedophile, right?

Certainly a break at my favorite coffee house will provide a needed respite from alluring men. And right into the den of estrogen I go. And no Barista Boy in sight, thankfully.

But instead I'm sitting, as I type, next to this table of 10 angry cheerleader moms arguing about fund raising for their precious lovelies. From what I gather, there could be an inevitable showdown between them and the skanky football moms. Take out your earrings, ladies, and get the Vaseline. It's time to take it to the streets, old-school. Cranky booster betches. This one mom, the outspoken ringleader I'm calling Momzilla, is a bossy sort. These women need sex.

But that's my answer to everything...

An Inner View Through An Interview

2007-08-28T17:29:00.001-07:00

So why aren't interviews called inner-views? Why, when you get to know a person's thoughts, cares, interests, fears, and all that crap?

Who makes these rules, anyway?

Anyway, today I had a big interview for an Assistant Director position in my office. Army's moving on up (only on his hopes right now, but perhaps in reality very soon)!

It's a great position, and I'm really jazzed about it. But today didn't start off so auspicious...

The Swarm

Apparently, today is one of the worst days ever for pollen count. Like 1.21 jigawatts!! of volume in the air. I heard there was even a warning! Good lord! Thank god for my generic Claritin, or as I like to call it, Generitin. But even that didn't fully come through as my nasal passage bouncer. I had to down some immediate relief stuff and take some ibuprofen for the pressure headache. So I ended up a pill head with a throbbing alien in my forehead trying to hatch from the larvae beneath my skull.

I just imagine the air thick with tiny yellow tennis balls invading my airspace and landing on the surface of my insides and outs. Curse you, pollen! Curse you, I say!

The Punisher

I knew that when I got up early and my head was soupy, today would be trouble. So it came to no surprise as I was cautiously speeding to work that Punishment Light was up to its usual antics. Sticks and stones, Punishment Light. You shall not have your day of victory!

Still, I felt completely out of sorts and beat down for my afternoon interview. Perhaps time was on my side...

The Karoshi

The Japanese have a term for death from overwork. That was my morning. I was fussy and fuzzy, and here come the students. And the projects in between. And the notes from the previous day. And the emails piled in the inbox. If this was my pre-test to handling stress, boy was I failing.

Lunch out of the office with a little sody pop helped. I finished up a project and headed home for my impending interview.

The Sun Not Suiting Me

Let's just say that men don't have many options for business wear in the summer. Women have skirts, cute tops, and accessorization. Men just have hot suits with piled-on layers topped off with a noose... er, tie. Mind you, I looked stunning in my suit with my new Express for Men shirt and tie. But it was a sweat tent inside. Thankfully my drug cocktail of pills and sody had cleared my head! Merciless sun, curse you, too!!

The Inner View

With the exception of a few questions, I rocked out the interview! I had a scenario in which I need to make a decision between two candidates, and my reasoning for person B was solid. My mock presentation was creative and engaging. And my answers came out as I had pretty much wanted them to. I get nervous being put on the spot, but it helped that I knew all these people and they knew what a rock star I am.

It's hard to interview with JP the British Boss because he has a poker face during interviews. I remember that from way back when I got my current job. He gives almost no feedback. Before and afterward, he's his regular jovial and talkative self. But in this venue, it's hardcore JP, Wales Hold 'Em style.

The To Be Continued...

So now comes the wait. But only for a week. It's out of my hands, and I did the best I could. On the way back home, Punishment Light stopped me again, but it couldn't keep me down. My tie was loose, my top button undone, and one of my favorite Radiohead songs had just released itself from Andrew's speakers. The song is called "Let Down." But I'm not expecting one of those next week...

Sign Language

2007-08-23T19:15:00.000-07:00

As you travel around the world or your neighborhood, surely you've run across an odd or out of place sign before. Signs are everywhere. I shared a few of my found favorites a while back.

So naturally, I love it when I was referred to a couple of hilarious websites by my co-worker crew member, S-Dub. There's something about the generic airline safety brochure drawings and the WWII-era poster style that gives me the tingles. But of course, the captions hold the humor!

Check them out:
Safe Now
Air Toons

I dare you to try to not laugh your ass off! It can't be done. Shout-out and mad props to Dub for her sweet hook-ups : )

Oh yeah, and now for a shameless plug of a little creative sign I came up with...

I'm Not an Addict... Maybe That's a Lie.

2007-08-15T19:51:00.000-07:00

Who would have thought I could ever find a simple little board game that I love so much more than Settlers of Catan?

And then I met Carcassonne. I was at a mall game store looking for something like Settlers but a bit different. I asked the guy if he had suggestions, and he pointed me to this little blue box flanked by many smaller, similar boxes -- the collection of its add-ons.

My eyes locked, and at first, it wasn't all fireworks and dazzle. I checked out what junk it held in its trunk. I read over the back captions and checked out the pictures. Like a deceiving singles add on Match.com, I was unconvinced. Even the praise of Store Guy did little to sway me. He was like a good friend desperate to have his odd friend be shown a good time. And then Store Guy made a sweet offer: if I didn't like the game, I could bring it back. It was like I could erase it all if we had a bad date. Store Guy was a good game pimp. I slapped down my cash.

Like any good date, Carcassonne came with instructions. This is how I work. Don't do this with me. If only boy dates were so easy. Still, though. The instructions left me skeptical of a promised good time. Fortunately, I had reinforcements to play with me. Vick (Army mom), Lola (the grand ma-ma), and Egg (the step-daddy-o) indulged me due to their past Settlers enjoyment.

And then something magical. The game rocked! It's relatively basic in its design, but like any good game, the strategy is in the nuances. And the add-ons (which I've since laid down fistfuls of cash to procure) help to build larger maps, add new strategies, and insert other rules and impending chaos. The nice thing is that you build the map as you play, so it will never look the same twice. It's always fun to see how it will come together.

Guinness World Record for largest Carcassonne game

Everyone who plays is skeptical at first. Only after a game does it get under your skin. And like any good drug, it gets better with each use. Now I'm a fiend for this game! I just can't get enough. I even drove Pops to buy up the whole shebang himself. I've got my friends and family hooked on Carcassonne's sweet love. My next victim will be the lovely Gouda herself! Mwuhahaha!!!

If you are looking for a fun game, check it out. If you love Settlers, I guarantee you'll love this game just as much, if not more. Highly recommended.

Dr. Lovebrarian

2007-08-01T15:35:00.000-07:00

It's time to share another of my free therapy sessions with Dr. Lovebrarian.

So The Lovebrarian has managed a hook-up --> long distance segue with Sports Illustrated Guy. She met SI Guy in the most random way, and now they are "love" partners. And for her, it's the best scenario -- he lives a little over two hours away, so there's no clingy factor. It's just enough attention to be sweet and to carry on a regular single life during the week.

Which got me thinking... perhaps I've been approaching this dating thing from the wrong angle. We're socialized to believe that long distance relationships are difficult and rarely work out. But let's face it, for independent coots like me, sometimes you just want your space. I need to take a nod from my human resources background and attack this issue like a job search. Do we need to conduct a local, regional, or national search to find the right applicant pool? I've been doing the local thing, but clearly I need a regional search.

Plus it totally lends itself to expiration dating. Things get boring or just fizzle, you can blame it on the space between. I like the idea of a time stamped relationship. Maintain until freshness date. Promptly dispose : )

So SI Guy has this total librarian fantasy thing, in which The Lovebrarian is considering to cast herself. We came up with the cheesy lines like "do you know what the fine is for an overdue book, bad boy?" or "shame on you for forgetting your Dewey decimal system." LOL -- I pioneered the idea of an edible body stamp with the script "FINE" on it. My imagination is tweaked...

My two favorite Lovebrarian quotes this evening:

1) Matter-of-factly spoken: "I mean, I don't want an STD."

2) Regarding the kooky roomie's man: "And her boyfriend is on our couch watching America's Funniest Home Videos... and he was actually laughing at it."

I LOVE it when people get offended by the most inane details! That's a brain-share moment.

In a less common bout of serious talk, we explored the topic of spending money and materialism. We both agreed that spending money on experiences is more enjoyable to us than getting the latest and greatest thing. If you think about it, what is more memorable to you? A beautiful or exciting vacation, or that brand new iPod?" Now granted, I love my iPod, but when I reminisce about my favorite times, they don't involve hanging out with the little silver guy.

And in a way, spending money on experiences is a kind of savings account. An investment in the future. The Lovebrarian shared that when her grandmother was 101 years old, she couldn't see well, couldn't walk, and had trouble hearing. She told The Lovebrarian the only thing she had left were her memories. At that point, the objects we collect mean very little. But the peak moments of our lives have power. And when we're all old and gray, the most solid part of memory and cognitive function is long-term, episodic memory. An investment, indeed.

This is one way our society needs a course-correct. For birthdays, I take my friend or family member out to their favorite restaurant, and we have an excellent meal. To me, that's worth more than any thing I could buy for them.

So I guess what they say is true. You can't buy me love. But at least I can enjoy a free moment with The Lovebrarian.

iRant: Pedeadstrians

2007-07-29T14:03:00.001-07:00

Motoring home around 10:00 p.m. this evening seemed innocent enough. We've all done it before. Little did I realize it was amateur daredevil night.

First Encounter:

I'm on a four-lane avenue (two lanes in each direction) with a speed limit in the neighborhood of 40 MPH. That's roughly 63 KPH to my non-American ~~readers~~ reader. Mind you, it's night. And I'm not exactly in a well-lit stretch of road. Then who should be cycling against traffic in my lane but some punk kid on his BMX bike. What the fook? Are you trying to die? Or is this some X-treme audition for the sequel to 80's B movie "Rad"? I had to swerve into the other lane to avoid damaging my precious car. Oh yeah, and to avoid killing someone's dear son.

Look, I know the term side"walk" conveys a certain misconception of its purpose, but rest assured it can handle non-motorized vehicles quite well. This isn't Europe. We don't want to share our roads in this country. And most people value their lives. So take note, Travis, and pedal your arse onto the sidewalk or you'll be the hood ornament for some late-night soccer mom's land frigate. End of story.

Second Encounter:

I didn't think independently-operating idiots could one-up each other, but wonders never cease. On this same avenue in a busier and faster section, I motor upon a guy on roller blades (yes, roller blades), swinging back and forth in the entire lane at a break-neck 10 MPH. What the what? Are you kidding me? Hey Caleb, see that unused stretch of pavement five feet over? That's called a bike path! It will accommodate your wheeled shoes with relative ease. And best part is, there aren't death machines with people distracting themselves from driving poised to turn you into road kill on the bike path. We call this a "win-win scenario."

Jackarses.

Maybe we could keep these half-wits in line if we took some cues from Death Race 2000 and Carmageddon. I'm just saying...

Kaputccino

2007-07-28T23:25:00.000-07:00

Friday was certainly an eventful day. I'll have to shelf my synopsis with Therapist because it was a doozy. Let's just say it involved tears, albeit good ones. Necessary ones. I'll get to that story later on.

Friday afternoon, I ended up at my coffee stop to do some work, and at first, Barista Boy was there. Nothing much happened, as his shift ended shortly thereafter, but who better to replace him than Spy Girl. My informant. And what did my femme detective have in store for me? Or is a female detective called a detectess? Hmm...

Anywhen, as I was leaving, I went up to say hello to her, and she opens with, "I asked Barista Boy if he was gay, and he claims he's not." Interesting. So she has her doubts. She said he wanted to know why she asked, and she mentioned that she'd never seen him with a guy or a girl before and was curious. He had gotten a bit defensive, I gathered, asking if he gave off some kind of gay vibe or something.

Then she went on to say that he honestly isn't worth the time because his life is a mess. And the more you know, the sadder it gets. He really needs to get his shat together. Which is a shame because he does have a lot going for him. I guess he's been adhering to a strict drug regimen to keep his mind limber. Wow, tragic and straight. I'm shaping up to be some desperate amalgam of cliches, and that can't end well.

I thanked her for her candor. And her speedy work. That was one quick junket! Still, it would have been nice to have a "rendezvous" with him even if he is messed up. Dysfunctional people can be passionate, you know. Or into crazy outlier sex that involves a rolling pin, mood swings, and maybe even pedal pumping. I think I'm better off.

Well, maybe.

Sigh. So let's chalk him up on Army's big board of Disappointingly Ambiguous Straight Men. Wow, I'm racking up some list here...

- Barista Boy
- Ambiguously Straight Guy
- Pac Sun Tyler
- Red Robin Tyler
- Hot Server Guy
- God knows who else I'm forgetting right now...

My people really need to work out some system or code. Something.

This is getting ridonkulous.

Espresspionage

2007-07-23T21:58:00.000-07:00

So I finally worked up the nerve (or the noive, as the Cowardly Lion would pronounce) to do some detective work on Barista Boy at my new coffeehouse hangout. I appreciated everyone's suggestions on how to find out if he's one of my people, but in the end, I took a safe circumnavigation approach. Ask the co-worker.

The setting was perfect this evening. Closing time, and it was just me and Spy Girl. Barista Boy had been in earlier, and they were chatting for a while. In fact, I've seen these two chat on previous visits. So she has to know at least a little about him.

My opener was innocent enough: "Can I ask you a strange question? How well do you know Barista Boy?"

Spy Girl: "I guess fairly well, but only from work."

Army: "Do you happen to know if he dates men or women?"

Spy Girl: "Actually, I'm not sure. He hasn't really said anything about that. I've wondered myself. Maybe I can do some investigation for you."

Say what? My own mole within the organization? And a free agent at that? How could I be so lucky? And she promised not to connect her questions to me. Too good to be true? Can she find out who he "sleeps" with? Ah, she's my sleeper agent, hehe!

Afterward, we hit it off and came to find out we know several of the same people. She's also pursuing my undergrad major of Psychology. So it wasn't awkward at all, and I established myself as the nice and casual guy. So she has to be vested in getting two sweet young men together for (some hardcore action) a nice old-fashioned date.

So Army has dispatched his spies to get the "lay" of the land. I'll report back if I can muster some action along his borders.

Stimulating Conversation

2007-07-22T21:25:00.000-07:00

So it's time to introduce a few new folks to the ol' Me Thinks blog.

Rather recently, I befriended a nice Canadian librarian. I call her The Lovebrarian for numerous reasons. Love is part of her name. She breaks the librarian stereotypes by being young, attractive, and socialable. And the name just sounds hilarious!

Our lunch chat topics tend to cover areas of relationships. For example, she has many (what I have termed) friends with caveats. We all know about friends with benefits. Friends with caveats are those friends who you like, but... fill in the blank. For instance, "Sally is a true friend, but she does tend to be a control freak." You get it. Well, The Lovebrarian, come to find out, has a social calendar booked with friends with caveats! I love it : )

And of course, I've shared with her my many fauxships with clingy guys (Back Stories A and B) and my uncanny knack to come up with nicknames on the spot (like the guy who sat in the corner at this party nursing a glass of milk. I named him Cal. You know, for calcium. This is what I do.).

So The Lovebrarian invited me over for a lovely dinner this evening, and I got to meet her friend Mary Louise Parker (who really looks and has similar expressions to the actress). The best part is that I thought she did, but didn't mention it to her. And then we talked about the TV show "Weeds" and she brought it up. I was like, HELLS YEAH YOU DO! I had a bit of red wine, mind you.

And we had a wonderful conversation about sexuality. I needed this kind of stimulating conversation (pun intended) because I've been stagnating recently in more ways than one. Socially, intrapersonally, and well... in other areas.

Mary Louise Parker has sexpertise, oh yes. She counseled me on the ways of doing the deed. Because I have my issues in that arena. And this country shames such discussions because we're a bunch of closeted Puritans from the Victorian era with lace poofed out of our collars and sleeves, and other such nonsense. No wonder there are people getting off to pedal pumping! Gracious!

Then we got to talking about commitment, cheating, and all that. My favorite Mary Louise Parker quote of the evening was on the topic of schooling a guy who has basically no experience: "I won't do any more f*cking charity work!" Classic. And then The Lovebrarian won for inspiring the best screenplay idea: My Big Fat Green Card Wedding. Because as she put it, "The only failed marriage worth having is one in which I get my green card."

I shared more this evening that I usually do, and it felt great to be open. Being prudish is bland and against human nature. Too much shame and secrecy.

Boy howdy, I have some great conversation pieces for Therapist this week!!

NOAA Meets Noah

2007-07-18T21:19:00.001-07:00

So, we've had some weather lately.

Well, we have weather every day, I imagine. But lately, it's been, like, more than just weather. It's been weather!

Mutha Nature has been nice this spring and summer so far. Temps haven't been crazy and we've had no big storms. But this week, well, she's a bit more nasty.

Like two nights ago, I woke up to what I could only describe as the belief that paparazzi were outside my window snapping photos of me in bed. Don't ask why I decided to pose and pout. My motives are my own. But what it actually ended up being was a lightning light show akin to Laser Floyd or something. And then the wall of water came down.

And more downpours last night. I half-expected Noah to row by, and in fact thought I saw an elephant lounging upon an arc, but it was just a big dude in a moving truck. Mistakes.

And then there was the hail storm. Which literally came on the heels of a discussion at work in which I expressed I didn't believe in the tenants of Christianity and shared my general displeasure with organized religion. Like part of the discussion, the heavens opened up, and it was almost End Times. I had my eye out for Kirk Cameron to show up, but bullet dodged.

Speaking of bullets, the onslaught of marble sized hail was pounding against our House of Cards, which we expected to cave in at any second. Worst of all, my dear Andrew was helplessly left to his own devices in the Shuttle Parking Lot on the Other Side of the World. I was fretting that I'd find him to be a pile of scrap metal, but nary a ding or dent. Every cloud, a silver lining.

Then again, Andrew recently received a safety recall in which the car could quite literally lose control at any given moment, so that's fun. I'm motoring in a zoom-zoom deathtrap until next Wednesday. Perhaps I could make it death proof?

This post has no structure whatsoever. Last bit -- the National Weather Service would do well to issue storm warnings and watches before they occur, not so much after. Just a thought, NOAA. Take it as you will...

Gimme A Brake

2007-07-11T21:04:00.000-07:00

Today I was thrust into a whole new genre of human special interests. I've always lived life with the outlook that "folks is crazy" and I'll be damned if they don't prove it to me each and every day.

It all started innocently enough, as these kind of tales often do.

Smartens sent me a little Youtube video of their wee bebe, lovingly referred to as Baby J. I feel safe in sharing this nickname for two reasons: there are 50 bajillion videos on that site with little ones named Baby J, so his anonymity is maintained. It is also crucial in the big reveal of this tale.

Or should I say, the big revv-eal. Read on.

Youtube is so nice for listing "related" videos for us. Or as I like to call them, further distractions from life. It gives us that "just one more" hook we love to hate.

Well, this time round, I noticed a "related" video (and I'm using these quotes for good reason) was entitled "Baby J Revving the Cadillac." Hmm, did Smartens and Rasmatic let their little one take the wheel with such poor gross motor skills? No no no. As I clicked on the link, I was introduced to a whole new world of fetish. Or as it turns out, foot fetish, or as I like to call it, a footish.

That's right. It's a six minute clip of some woman "pedal pumping." I can't make this mess up, folks. As the whole thing unfolded before me, I noticed a bevy of these pedal pumping videos on the sidelines. All of them with women clutching, braking, and giving it the gas. Sometimes in pumps (pedal pump pumping?). Sometimes barefoot. Sometimes in pantyhose. Full foot. Big toe only. Toes spread out. This little piggy was grinding with the brake pedal. This little piggy caressed the accelerator. And THIS little piggy stared in disbelief. I had to show my co-workers. We were all perplexed, yet drawn in. It must have been the bizarro nature of it all. What arousal could someone get out of this experience?

I don't get the whole foot fetish thing. Or any fetishes, for that matter. I'm trying not to judge, but c'mon. Get a real fetish. Pedal pumping? That's pretty lame. Just rent a porn. Why all the innuendo? It's not even good innuendo.

Although, my favorite was a clip where the woman was making all the trite porno screams and pleasures while thrusting the pedals, being sure to whine, "this always seems to work when a man is in the car." Oh please. This isn't a fetish or a footish. It's a faux-tish.

It's like those lame phobias people have. Okay, afraid of heights, enclosed spaces, even clowns? I get that completely. But a fear of clocks or of the color white? Gimme a break. I mean, as I live and breath, that's what I call a fauxbia. Get a real fear, then let's talk.

Same goes with fauxtishes. I'm putting my foot down right here and now.

Ooh, did you like that, baby?

Recent Conversation

2007-07-09T21:29:00.000-07:00

Army: "So I'm attracted to the guy that works at this coffee shop I hang out at. But I'm not sure if he's gay or not."

Bishop: "Just give him a little smack on the butt."

Army: "Well, that would clear things up, for sure!"

Bishop laughs.

Army: "See, he talks to me a lot, but he does that with everyone who comes in. Although he seems to take a special interest in me when I'm on the phone or with someone else. What do you make of that?"

Bishop: "This is pretty difficult, actually. It's not like you can invite him to join you for a cup of coffee. He already works at a coffee house."

Army laughs: "You're so right. I don't think I can crack this case. Maybe that butt smack wasn't such a bad idea..."

The Punishment Light

2007-06-30T22:34:00.001-07:00

If you drive a car, you have no doubt encountered one of these roadway adversaries. It's the mechanical bully that abuses its power. It wants to make you suffer. Worst of all, it does it without intention or desire, but you know deep down there is a method. That's because its hostility is systematic. It's the product of shatty programming and ass-hat engineering. The middle finger directed at your comfort cruise.

I'm talking about the punishment light. You know what I mean. That one traffic signal on your daily commute that defies all reason. You know its there to make your life hell. The red light of rage.

Backstory:

Earlier this year, I got into the first season of Weeds on DVD. It's a hilarious little show with clever stories and writing, interesting characters, and of course, is full of wordsmithing, like when they refer to the fake bakery as a fakery. How can I not like such a show?

Anyway, in one episode, the main character gets caught at this traffic light that stays red for several minutes for no good reason. There are no cars in any direction. But the light simply doesn't change, and she's left to wait it out. She calls it the punishment light.

The Duel:

I have my own punishment light. On my commute, there is a signal that intersects the main thoroughfare that I take with another side road that leads to residential areas. This side road is very lightly travelled. As you may know, many traffic lights change when a sensor plate in the road is tripped. Which generally make sense. Unless a dumbass flunky calibrated the sensor. Or an evil genius.

See, my punishment light will IMMEDIATELY change over once a car hits the trigger. No delay whatsoever. So if one stupid car pulls up to the light on this side street, they get an immediate green light. I get a foot full of brake pedal. And I hate to have my motoring interrupted. Especially in this godforsaken town of lousy traffic clusterfuckage.

And invariably, some sonofabetch will trip the damned thing every time I motor toward the light. It never fails. And the winner of the blood boiling contest goes to the city bus as it makes a wide turn to clear the curb and trips the damned thing. So I get to wait while the light goes green for NOBODY!

Jackass engineers! While I want to throttle all the people who don't deserve the privilege of using our roadways because of their thriving ineptitude, the punishment light and me... ooh, it's become personal. Man v. machine.

Deus Ex Machina:

This week I had a small victory. A bizarre power outage at midnight left my neighborhood without electricity for about five hours. It wasn't a big problem, but bothersome nonetheless. Anyway, on my way to work later that morning, I cleared the rise in the road to descend upon the punishment light as a cavalryman charges his enemy. And there, rendered useless and adorning a fold-down stop sign, was my powerless foe. It was divine intervention. My deus ex machina - god from the machine. The solution to my problem was found.

Sure, the punishment light was shortly reinstated to its former bullying status. But coasting through the intersection that morning was my betch-slap across its three-eyed face. It was my way of showing that light I knew it wasn't invincible. That I knew it answered to a higher power (no, not God, the power company). And from now on, I will see my punishment light as a tragic figure, tethered to is faulty mechanics, stuck in its ways, and never able to truly move on.

Lost In Translation

2007-06-27T22:31:00.001-07:00

Have you ever looked at someone and just thought, "Are you a dork in your country, too?"

I saw this Asian guy on campus today who (god love him) was all decked out nerd-like in a mismatched way with crazy bad hair and 80's glasses, and it hit me. This guy cannot be cool in his own country. Or can he? Is it possible for someone to be a complete goofus in one place and a total mack-daddy studcake in another? Could two cultures really view the same person in such a totally different way?

I'm not sure that's possible. But then again, he did have a girl. And there I was. Casting my judgment and working my joke angle on this guy. It reminds me of this particular song...

It goes something like, "I started a joke, that started the whole world laughing. But I couldn't see, that the joke was on me." Hmm.

This post started out funny in my head... and now I've been sabotaged by my own line of thought. Somehow the geeky guy has upstaged me. Stupid brain.

Mental Manufactory: A Stiff Drug Cocktail

2007-06-23T21:17:00.000-07:00

Does your work or personal life require overexertion of emotional investment? Do you feel under-aroused when listening to others? Can you simply not get it up for other people when you need to?

Performance fatigue is not your fault. If it isn’t one thing, then by god, it’s another. Yes, tell me again how smart your child is. No, I didn’t realize that was every detail of your afternoon, but please continue. Sure, I want to hear all about the melodrama that is your train-wrecked life.

You no longer have to suffer in head-nodding silence. Ask your doctor about Liagra.

Liagra is a medical miracle that lifts your spirits, engorges your attention-focus areas, and brings to your lips the phoniest smile you could ever muster. Now you can achieve the erect emotional wherewithal you have always wanted without the mental fatigue of putting your mind into it. And the best part is, no one has to know you are faking your “Oh?” face.

Side effects may include making your face stick that way and inexplicable death. If your over-interest in other people persists for more than eight hours, consult your doctor immediately. Liagra should not be taken if you are emotionally imbalanced or Tom Cruise (which is partially redundant).

Boring and tedious people are everywhere. And as of now, killing them is still illegal. But that doesn’t mean you should have to fake your arousal on your own. Just a little white Liagra is all you need. It will be our secret.

Liagra is endorsed by Allcock and Dickerson.

iRant: Clearing the Air

2007-06-18T19:55:00.000-07:00

Okay, everyone. Read closely, jot down some notes, and spread the word. I don't want to say or type this again...

People do not buy hybrid vehicles to save money.

(Read that sentence again and do a double-take. Did it sink in?)

Yes, they cost more than their non-hybrid counterparts or equivalents. Thanks, Captain Obviouses of the nation. I agree that you shouldn't buy such a car with your prime goal of safe-guarding your clutchpurse. But please, stop mentioning this little "tidbit" when the topic comes up, like you are so enlightened with your devil's advocacy.

Yet speaking of devil's advocacy, take note that the most expensive Pruis is around $30K, which is far less expensive than many larger troop transports and hoopties busting up our roads. But still. People don't buy hyrbids to save money. So shut up.

Yes, they save fuel. There are many cheaper non-hybrids out there that get fairly similar mileage per gallon, like the Toyota Yaris and Corolla. Honda Civics do well, too. And others. But that's only part of the reason people buy hybrids.

Focus, Sally. Pay attention.

People buy hyrbid vehicles because they are environmentally-friendly! While this seems to be a Captain Obvious statement itself, I'm continually disappointed when no one seems to remember this aspect of these cars. In my estimation, it's a big selling point.

And in this way, hybrids are statement cars. But not status symbols like Cadillac Pimpcalades and Hummer busses and Chrysler 300 land yachts. And to me, a statement car is far superior to a status car. We don't need to know how small your "friend" is or for what inadequacy you're compensating. Just go develop a drug habit and give the ozone a break. Or go work out until you look like a cartoon super-mutant.

Are we clear?

Final Thoughts

If you want to save money on fuel costs, check your tire pressure. They should be inflated to their safety maximum. Tires that are fully inflated can increase fuel efficiency by about 10-15%, according to a test run by Senior Automotive Editor, Mike Allen, of Popular Mechanics. Also, use your cruise control when possible.

Remember, it's not about having the most efficient car on the planet, it's about using what you have wisely.

And Another Thing...

I almost forgot. Nobody is allowed to continue to compare the price of premium fuel to standard, as if the price gap is a bank breaker. It's 20 cents, people. You can pretty much count on that. So in a 13 gallon tank, that's a huge $2.60 price difference at the pump.

Likewise, stop driving an extra five miles for fuel that's a whole 5 cents cheaper. You just saved 65 cents to drive farther, Dr. Economist. When you taking the trip to Disney on that sweet payola?

Now stop reading and look at that iced mocha latte frappuccino freeze you just bought. How much did you pay for that daily treat, hmm? Nuff said.

Shameless Plug 01

2007-06-10T08:16:00.001-07:00

I was just thinking back on some of my favorite posts from the days of yore and feeling it was a shame they are buried in the nebulous archives of the blogosphere. To the realm of forgotten. I hope someone can invent a clever way to sift through this kind of material. Because so many bloggers out there have excellent past posts. How can we bring them back?

Labels can only do so much to categorize...

So my quick fix is a Shameless Plug! Self-promotion is the key to any successful purveyor, performer, pauper, or poet.

Anyway, after motoring home last night -- window down, elbow propped, caressed by the wind
-- I was reminded how much I love motoring through cities at night.

And it brought me back to one of my memorable posts that eventually spawned my Mythology of Life series.

So check if out: Night Motoring Through Cities

I've updated the music selection. The rest is preserved in its original packaging.

Motor on,
Army

What the Butler Saw

2007-06-06T22:18:00.001-07:00

In one of my random and meandering web searches that probably included Google, Wikipedia, and XTube... er... I mean... um... other stuff, I stumbled across the phrase "What the Butler Saw." For some reason, it intrigued me. Don't ask why.

No, seriously. Don't ask me.

So I know what it refers to, but I'm curious what you all think it's about. Behave now... no Googling. Or more appropriately, don't Ask Jeeves what the butler saw. Hehe.

I'm so funny...

Mental Manufactory: Syndrome Syndrome

2007-06-05T20:30:00.000-07:00

Do you suffer from chronic time-wasting?

Do you find yourself putting off important tasks until the last minute?

Do you put the "pro" in procrastination?

If you answered "Yes" to any of these questions, you may already be one of the millions of Americans that suffer from Dragging Feet Syndrome.

Dragging Feet Syndrome is a debilitating set of non-specific symptoms that include restless thought, distraction, idleness, and procrastination enabling behavior tendencies.

Now is the time to actually do something. Now there is both help and hope.

Ask your doctor about Azingear. This drug works at the laziness sites in your brain to stimulate miserly activation cells. Or something like that. Does it really matter? We've probably just created a clear capsule chock full of neat sugar beads so you think something is really going on. Or we're poisoning you for our profit. But nevertheless, your well-being is at stake. Dragging Feet Syndrome is a gateway condition that may lead to such scary things as Volitional Affective Syndrome or Productivity Disruption Disorder. And that's when the bad shit goes down.

Why wait?

Do you want your family and friends to hate you?

Because they may already...

Don't join the Future Procrastinators of Tomorrow. Get your Azingear today. And find yourself on the road to recovery, consumerism, and drug-driven happiness once again.

iRant: Two Wrongs Making Right?

2007-05-31T21:21:00.000-07:00

I'm a video gaming fan and spent more than my fair share of time at arcades as a teenager. You know, back in the day when arcades were at their prime. We're talking the whole arc of Pole Position to Rampage to Street Fighter and the Mortal Kombats. And so so many more. Then, much like video killed the radio star, console stations killed the arcade star. An era ended.

But hark! The arcade spirit has been revived, possibly in the worst way conceivable. That's right, I'm here to diss the "participation" games that boggle the mind and bog down my strength -- Dance Dance Revolution and Guitar Hero.

First off, I want to say that Nintendo is totally immune to this rant. First off, they were kicking it cool way back in the 80's with the Nintendo Power Pad, that orange gun, and the Power Glove. And now they revolutionized gaming with the Wii console, which even old folks enjoy. Bless you, Nintendo for doing your own thing : )

Compare that to Dance Dance Revolution. Which is basically Exercise Exercise Revolution. And while this country desperately needs such a thing, let's call it what it is. Cuz I've seen people stomping around on those things. And that ain't dancin', Sally. Not only is it a Power Pad rip-off, but people already lacking rhythm can muster up the perceived confidence and hope that they can bust a move. Problem is, off the dance pad, you'll look like (more of) a jackass doing your new-age hopscotch. I'd even take line-dancing over this, which is saying a lot. Aaaaaand I just vomitted in my mouth.

And damn you Best Buy for prominently featuring Guitar Hero in every single store you operate. I can't browse new CD's or movies without having to elbow past the lurking crowds of Guitar Hero on-lookers. And I can't decide what's more lame - playing the game, or being fascinated by watching someone play the game. First off, there's nothing to watch, except a Star Wars "Long, long time ago..." scrolling representation of "guitar tabs." Wow. Moving sheet music. C'mon, people! Someone has managed to make air guitar MORE lame and profit from it! Which is the basis of capitalism, sure, but I don't have to like it! Secondly, guitars have strings, not four giant colored buttons -- that's called a toddler's toy. Which is probably the aisle of Toys R Us where that faux-tar belongs.

So I've decided the only way to respect these games and their gamers is if someone can master them both... simultaneously. That's right, I propose Dance Dance Guitar Hero as the next sensation. People must coordinate guitar moves whilst dancing out a certain pattern... whilst on drugs. That's right, if you really want to shred like a rocker, you need to be on a poorly balanced regimen of booze, pills, and blow. Then you can bust out your phrenetic "Dance Fever" moves until you smash your guitar into your equipment, cuss out your fanbase, and have casual sex with several groupies. Then you wake up hammered, apologize on national television about your inappropriate behavior, and declare you are going into healing.

Then, and only then, will you be a true Dance Dance Guitar Hero. Otherwise, get the hell out of my way at Best Buy. Dorks.

The Rabbit-Hole to Home

2007-05-28T19:41:00.000-07:00

Sunday I fell into a vortex.

I found myself in a sea of colors and shapes. They appeared in combinations and forms that were dazzling. The gravity was keeping me there, but I didn't fight it, no. I was content. I was elated. I was visiting Ikea.

Every showroom was a presentation. A possibility. My bedroom could look like that. I could be sitting on this couch amidst the accent lighting and the artistic color patterns and shelves and cabinets that seemed to float in mid air. My packing problems were solved. My spatial understanding of the world erased and redrawn. Each showroom, a promise of novelty. Each showroom, another finished puzzle in which all pieces snapped perfectly. If I could fit all those pieces in my car, surely I could complete my puzzle back home.

But why leave? When I entered the model apartment of a mere 377 square feet, I thought it was an illusion. How could they complete a living space like that? It was engineered perfection, every nook with a purpose or a function. Space had been mastered. I wanted to kick these strange people out of my home, close it off from the showroom, take it away and put it in my ideal neighborhood. It was mine now. MY-kea.

Jay and the Bus

2007-05-24T19:03:00.000-07:00

It's high time I let you all in on my newest musical and movie obsession, which are co-linked, co-mingled, and co-ol.

A while back I had read up some buzz on an indy flick called "Shortbus." Being a fan of good indy films, I couldn't resist checking it out. Of course, I now know why this film never was or will be mainstream. Because it's too good. But more to the point, it has unsimulated sex scenes that don't leave the imagination much material.

So I know this isn't everyone's movie. And that's fine. But a few things to dispell as readers will no doubt jump to conclusions (like the floor game in "Officespace"). First off, it's not softcore porn. Porn has sex for the sake of having sex. Or for arousal purposes. This movie doesn't use sex in that way. It's difficult to describe, but I honestly cannot imagine this movie without it. It would feel like a cop-out. And I just realized I could rearrange that sentence to come up with "cop a feel." Gutter mind.

Serially though, it's an honest portrayal of sex. From the couples counselor who has never had an orgasm to the dominatrix who just wants a real connection with another person, there's honesty in this movie. And the sex isn't pretty. It's messy, it's awkward, and it doesn't always end with two people showing their "O" faces in a simultaneous climax (because that happens so often). And now I've made it sound like this movie is nothing but intercourse. Which is not true.

The characters and the dialogue have heart. My favorite person in this movie is Jay Brannan, who plays Ceth. There's something so inviting and charming about Jay. His smile and his laugh can ease my darkest mood. And then I found out he's a musician. The song he sings in the movie (Soda Shop) is intercut with one of my favorite scenes because it's funny and touching. It's just about a conversation between three people. Jay's voice sets the mood, and it's beautiful. After the movie was over, I hunted him down on the internet and found out he has a ton of videos on YouTube and songs for purchase on i-Tunes (including "Soda Shop"). God bless modern distribution technology.

There's so much more I love about this movie. It's set against this rather memorable moment in recent history (I remembered it, at least), but I won't give it away in case you want to see the movie. Some of the best lines go to Justin Bond, who runs the sex salon called Shortbus, a place for the gifted and challenged, as he puts it. The soundtrack really rocks in a "Garden State" kind of way, only with less-known artists. A few highlights include "Language" by Scott Matthews and "If You Fall" by Azure Ray. And of course, "Soda Shop" by Jay.

This movie really affected me. It made me think about a lot of things. And I feel the decision to have explicit sexuality was a way to make the actors, and thus, the characters more vulnerable and accessible. And that takes guts and guile for those folks. And it makes the experience more real in a way the mainstream can't reach. I appreciate it for that.

So check out my new Fake Boyfriend Jay! I've included links to a few of my faves:

- Body's a Temple (official video)

- On All Fours (with some Jayspeak)

- Soda Shop (from live show)

- Blowin' in the Wind (Bob Dylan cover)

The Intersection at the End of the World

2007-05-17T22:20:00.000-07:00

Okay, if I have to creep forward into the middle of an intersection just to see around someone’s SUV Monstrosity so I can make a right turn, I’m going to scream. Leave the land barge at home, you jackoff. Or better yet, why don’t you pull up to stop lights, throw your tank into Neutral, drop your foot on the accelerator, and pump all those noxious fumes into the air. Maybe we can combat global warming with global dimming, and all will be well, so long as American Idol isn’t interrupted by some far-off school shooting. Oh look, a celebrity did something human. Let’s watch!

So this non-targeted rant was just a precursor for what is truly pissing me off. Stupid people who think this idea of global warming is a hoax, farce, and so forth by liberal scientists and God-less tax raisers. In case you’ve missed it, we don’t live in the Dark Ages anymore. Well, maybe we really do.

I mean, basically almost every country in the world (160 to be exact) has signed and ratified the Kyoto Protocol. That basically means that all those countries will play by the rules and take active steps to limit their greenhouse gas emissions. But wait, the two biggest gas bags of the world haven’t gotten on board with reality. China, for one. No shock. And guess what, President Stay-The-Course won’t ratify the treaty either. Because China’s exempt. Yeah, that's mature. You know, it’s like, “Billy dudn’t have to wash up before supper, so why should I hafta?”

Way to lead the world there, Jackwad. Isn’t this country supposed to be about progress, leadership, and moral values? I guess morality doesn’t extend to how we treat this planet. You know, our true Mother. I guess morality doesn’t extend to respecting our elders, like the oceans, the forests, the drinking water, and the limited natural resources. I suppose morality is reserved only for phony wars, political favors, and Jesus. And if you don’t believe me, here’s an insight. About 150 of those employed in the Bush Administration are graduates of Regent University, founded by the illustrious Evangelical profiteer Pat Robertson himself. Can I get an Amen? Or can I get a Holy Shit!? Maybe we’re being run by a shadow Theocracy after all. And in this Theocracy, holy water has been replaced with holy sweet crude.

But let’s get away from conspiracy and politics and focus on some facts. The statistics are (of course) my own brand of generalization:

- We are dumping assloads of CO2 into the atmosphere.
- We are sucking oil out of the earth at a continually increasing rate.
- Glaciers are disappearing at a more-than-glacial pace.
- There are islands of trash (flotsam and jetsam) floating around in the oceans.
- The oceans are becoming more and more acidic.
- The Southern Ocean “sink” is literally clogged. It can absorb basically no more CO2 at the current rate.

No logical person can dispute these observable events. And how many can we brush off as non-human influenced? You may like the politican spin, but I prefer to get my spin from a know-it-all. Like a non-partisan atmospheric scientist who didn't graduate from Messiah College. I'd rather hear ideas from someone who's paid to empirically investigate, not someone who's paid to push agendas. Everyone take their places and stay out of shoes you cannot fill.

I take pause to look around me and want to break down. People have the audacity to pretend there's no issue? Or better yet, claim conspiracy? And who would do such a thing? Loyalist Conservative Republicans? The same people caught in a big fucking bottomless pit of quagmires? The same people running this country…into the ground?

And who’s letting them? Consumers. Producers. SUV drivers. Did you know that states with emissions checks for automobiles are unable to properly test the Toyota Prius? And why’s that? Because the Prius cannot be registered by the instruments. That’s right, the car fails the test because it’s a super ultra low emissions vehicle (SULEV). It emits almost nothing. Look at the emissions guides on the sticker next time you check out a new car. Look at the Chrysler 300. Or the Lincoln Navigator. Or my favorite, the aptly named Nissan Armada. If you choked at the abysmal results, maybe it wasn’t surprise that strangled you. Perhaps it was a smog cloud.

So call the Prius ugly and its driver a hippy. And call the person who buys into reality a conspiracy theorist. And call the person who carpools, takes the bus, or finds ways to limit consumption, an idealist. But call the people who ride their bikes when they can (you know, that Zero Emissions Vehicle (ZEV ) you have in the garage)... call them contributors to a healthier society. And if it saves a few dollars by not consuming gasoline, I’d say this sounds like a policy any conservative would get behind, right? Wrong.

Because we don’t have those kind of conservatives in power. We don’t have those kinds of conservatives as the majority of the American consumer public. I’m talking about the fiscal conservatives. The conscientious spender. You remember them don’t you? Along with the dodo bird? What we need to spend more of is time. Time spent thinking about the decisions we make. Because the lure of shiny objects is blinding. And the deep pocket of credit debt is a siren’s song. And It’s calling us to shore, but worry not about running aground. For the shores are eroding and the glaciers are melting in an acidic cocktail stirred by super-hurricanes. We won't stop until our existence is the shithole movie that was "Waterworld." And that, friends, is one sobering possibility.

So drink up, whilst you still can. Because the next war will not be fought over oil. It will be fought over drinking water. Soon, that $2.50 bottle of water will be little more than the mirage in the desert.

Here’s to you, global warming non-believers. Your ignorance is bliss.

Here Comes The Judge

2007-05-16T06:02:00.000-07:00

So I'm here to report another fascinating visit with Therapist. This time around, I had packed up my emotional baggage and dropped it at her curbside. "Porter, help me with my things!"

Anyway, we got onto the topic of social evaluation. For many reasons, I'm hyper-sensitive to being evaluated negatively or criticized by (and here's the strange hitch) people I don't know. Most of that stems from being born with alopecia and having basically little to no hair until fifth grade. As I'm sure we all have experienced, kids can be relentlessly cruel for anyone who stands out. Sometimes it made me want to disappear. Oh yeah, and being nerdy and a late bloomer didn't help either!

Enter the coping skills. I have become a consummate self-monitor and understand my obsessions, faults, and quirks so well. To the point that when I realize I'm overanalyzing too much or being grouchy, I'll make sure to verbally recognize that part of me. I do it so that other people don't have to say it, and if they are thinking it, they know I'm aware of that character flaw. How kooky is that?

Therapist agreed that it had a protective function for me. It's my way to garner acceptance and maintain self-esteem. She called it The Judge. See, The Judge is a part that starts off with a purpose. I listened to The Judge, befriended him. But soon The Judge became something more sinister and malevolent. He tries to take over the true self, gain power. He's digging down into my core, trying to become the real me.

I can totally see this. I'm hardest on myself, but I'm hard on other people, too. It's easy to point a finger, roll eyes, and pound the gavel. Guilty. It's easy to sit in that high leather chair and look down at people from behind the oak monolith desk. But is that really me?

I think I mentioned that Therapist utilizes Gestalt techniques. Primarily, it's important to Gestaltists that people work toward a unified, whole self. That's my crisis. It's me and The Judge.

But how do you erase those old tapes? You hear the voices so much it becomes a song you hum in the shower. The annoying pop song. You don't think about the lyrics, you just sing. And though you can't stand it, something catchy won't let it vanish. The brain is hooked. So what to do? Record over it? Flip it over to the B-side?

I told Therapist it was like being in a fun house of mirrors. I can point fingers all I want, but the reflection is always me. Now I realize it's The Judge who is pointing back. He's the reflection that looks at me and sees the flaws. The imperfections. And in every direction, he's there.

Now that I know what he really represents, it's time to keep him in check. Limit his authority over me. And kick him in the junk. I've had enough of his poisonous whispers. This head isn't big enough for the both of us.

My Baby's A Winner!

2007-05-06T07:59:00.000-07:00

I know, like, two people will care about this post. But then, only ten people consistently read this thing, so whatever!

Like a proud father, I've just learned that my lil' darling Andrew is a true winner! The Mazdaspeed 3 was pitted against some steep competition by Cars.com - MINI Cooper S, Honda Civic Si, and the Volkswagon GTI. And my car was king of the streets : )

Of course, Andrew is black (the only color worth having)

I don't know why, but it made me feel better about my purchase. I'm by no means a gearhead, but I certainly appreciate a car that performs well. And because I enjoy the experience of motoring, I like to know I'm doing it in a machine that is well-balanced and fun to take through the bends.

AND it's ironic because I sold my MINI for this car. The funny part is that many folks at the MINI discussion boards are conceding the truth about the Mazda, which is odd because MINI people are big-time believers in their cars. I know, I was one of them.

Anyway, that's about it. If you're interested, here a link to the Motoringfile website that will take you to the full Cars.com review. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to grab some pavement.

Happy motoring!

The Peering Eyes See All

2007-04-29T15:09:00.000-07:00

As I revealed in my previous post, I’m the proverbial guard on the watchtower. Well, there's more to my sordid little tale than just so whistleblowing tendencies. See, my eyes are regularly searching around, which probably bothers people when they are talking to me. I’m a people-watcher who enjoys it too much to give it up.

Of course this has obvious problems in interpersonal communication, as eye contact is a critical part. For some reason when I’m listening, I am distracted by people or things in the environment. I’m still covertly listening to my chatting partner, but they probably think I’m some flighty flake with adult ADHD.

When I walk down the street, I like to look at everyone walking the other direction. But then when they look at me, I immediately look elsewhere. That’s partially me being paranoid and me being a Midwesterner. We don’t like our direct eye contact with passing strangers here. You should try an experiment someday in a Midwestern town. It’s a social norm to not look! We’re weird.

And of course my greatest offense is hard-targeted, generous scanning of young men. Mostly I zoom in on their arms, face, sideburns (if he has them). But I’m all about the elevator look, too. The trick is to do it in moderation and to be strategic about it. As Seinfeld said, it’s like looking at the sun. You get a sense of it, then you look away.

Which brings me to the confession portion of today’s program. I have new neighbors. And the young man’s window faces the front of my house. On happenstance one evening, I was walking past the front bedroom window and saw him dancing around in his room. I stopped to watch him, like some lecherous homo. He’s probably in high school, tall, and thin. And I found out later he’s a skateboarder. If I had to say there’s one “type” out there that gives me a case of the vapors, it’s the skateboarder guy. The T-shirt that just fits, exposed boxer shorts, and thinly muscular.

Sigh. It’s all true. I feel creepy watching him, but it’s not like I’m going to do anything to him. I’m sure that’s what all the gross old men hanging out at the schoolyard say, too. I could never do anything with someone that young… but I can appreciate their appearance. And appreciate, I shall!

Anyway, I’m sure I could tease out some meaning for people who are constantly looking elsewhere, searching, seeking, wanting more. Maybe I’m not happy with what I have. Or perhaps I’m keeping an eye peeled for an opportunity to strike.

Nope, I think I’m just horny.

I Spy With My Little Eye...

2007-04-19T20:32:00.000-07:00

Dear Little Miss Hit-n-Run,

Member that parked car you backed into today? Member how you didn't even have the decency to check the damage, sat there in your car for twenty seconds wondering what to do, and then drove off around the corner?

Having total recall yet? Me too!

Guess what? Time to fess up. Because the sheriff's coming, deputy's got you running, and they've been sent by the Army to getcha. That's right, love. You shouldn't have done it in front of my office window. And on a day I was feeling like a good Samaritan and harbored the notion that justice would prevail in a world of fairness.

BUH-BUH-BUH-BUSTED!

I got your license plate number, color and make of car, and time of incident. And the car you hit belongs to a co-worker of mine. Tsk-tsk, for shame, know your name. Daddy gonna take the T-bird away. Did you have fun fun fun?

And guess what else? The officer gonna hunt you down is named Armstrong. Yes'm, you crossed Armies on two fronts, which is so bad news bears.

Ready or not, here we come. Come out, come out, where ever you are...

Bad girls, bad girls/
Whatcha gonna do?/
Whatcha gonna do when they come for you?

From the panopticon,
Army

A Golden Age?

2007-04-16T18:49:00.000-07:00

In many ways, I believe my workplace is in the middle of a Golden Age. It’s a time on the precipice of exciting changes: a new building, a new name, our own offices, additions to our staff, a chance to make our own template for helping (truly helping) our students, and creating an environment where students can get the services they need and not feel like they are in the realm of the forgotten.

We have been recognized officially by the university for what we do so well, and we are being rewarded for that. It all started with sweeping change on our campus: a new president, chancellor, provost, and college dean within a year’s time. It was an unprecedented opportunity and the new state of things was – let’s shake things up and do it right. The old ways of budgets and priorities won’t fly; unless you can prove what you do is crucial to the strategic plan. It was our time to be noticed. And that is what we did. Our years of profound impact on student success with the meager resources we had at our disposal had a payoff.

There is a kinetic energy about the place. With three wonderful people joining our staff, our veterans became rejuvenated. Old factions broke down and a new sense of working together was born. The buzz of leaving behind The House is both exciting and saddening. True, it was condemned. True, we have to share offices while discussing sensitive and confidential information with out students. True, we could never hire someone who is in a wheelchair. And true, we have strange phenomena like odd sound tunnels, close encounters with bathroom follies, and fuses blowing out when we turn on two space heaters at the same time. But we’ll also be leaving something behind.

We will be leaving behind little things, like having our own building, plenty of metered parking out front, and the “warmth” that being in a house connotes. Most importantly, we’ll be leaving behind the closeness that our space has created. We have been forced, in a sense, to work side by side, and that proximity has branded a kind of camaraderie that a suite of offices cannot forge. While we will carry that spirit over with us, will it persist in the same way with our new staff?

The very thing that is so wrong about our office makes things work so right for us. Therein lay the most fascinating duality I think that we encounter in this world. The House, with all its bitter faults, sustains our spirit. Without it, can we be the same? The new familiarity will create a new dynamic, so the question remains:

Is this the beginning of our Golden Age, or are we at the end? No one can say until it is in retrospect. The very idea of a Golden Age is a mythology of life that is recognized only by peering backward and remembering that feeling in the air that we mistook once as our daily life. Never noticing that those days were laced together by a sense that everything has a pattern, that life was good, and that energy and creativity could build anything that wasn’t limited by imagination. Possibilities dangled all around. An ideal work world was on the cusp of discovery. Nothing could stop us.

Every Golden Age ends, as is the cycle of order. We ourselves cannot control it, as it exists beyond any one of us. Nor we can force it to remain. We can only experience it as a moment of transition, something fleeting, that we were fortunate to be a part of, and hope that what we do in this high time will persist beyond our reach.

“Put your hands on the wheel, let the Golden Age begin.” ~ Beck

Dirty Bomber

2007-04-12T18:48:00.000-07:00

Picture it…

You're an academic advisor sitting with a student, discussing his major interests, having a candid conversation, and suddenly…

A dirty bomb goes off. From all the way down the hall. In the bathroom. Behind a closed door. And you can hear it loud and clear from 30 feet away. It sounds like pthpthfppthfh-pthfpthpfhttthhhfpffth-pfphfphfpfhffffhthtph. That's right. Explosive, uncontrollable, jackhammer diarrhea.

You continue your conversation with the student, hoping he didn't notice the sound or perhaps, if lucky, misinterpreted it for a nominal intermittent office noise. You try your hardest not to crack a smile. Fortunately, the conversation is lively, so you can slip in a misdirected grin and get away with it.

Until the unseen wall of stench attacks and slowly strangles you. Is it possible this student has a poor sense of smell? A stuffy nose? At this point, ignoring the stank elephant in the room is the only option. It's too late to address the issue. But the gas bomb continues its effects with dire consequences. Mouth breathing is your life preserver.

That happened to me on Tuesday. As if our office, the Condemned House of Shat, needs any other reasons to be loathed. Some random guy dropped by, sh*t out his a$$hole, and quietly left. The dirty bomber has escaped and is loose. There's no telling where he'll drop in (literally) next. My sources tell me it was the father of a student. He was either totally embarrassed or completely without shame.

Everyone on the second floor heard it. Every single one of us. And apparently the stench crawled down the stairs and into the garage (yes, some of us work in the garage). The worst part of it is that Mulva's office is right next door. She was at ground zero. She literally repressed the event. Once we talked her to a safe emotional place, she was like, "If that was me, I would have jumped out the window rather than step foot out that door." Tell me about it!

Blurt McLoud and Mama Bean were in the kitchen, so I waved them over in a way that connoted I had a story to share. Blurt's all, "Ahh, you got a juicy tale for us?"
Mwuahahahahhaa! "How true your words are!" I quipped back.

Advaganoush was lucky - she was home sick.

When I told Feyonce about it, she pontificated that mass quantities of Taco Bell were involved. I added White Castle slyders into the suspect line-up, too.

Clockwork was trumped once and for all in the epic game of Battleshits. Dirty Bomber sank her entire fleet.

None of us want to set foot in that bathroom again. It's like an altar has been desecrated. And that's saying quite a bit, considering where we work.

P.S. This whole scenario reminded me of a funny SNL skit involving Robert DiNero.

Additional Shout-Outs

2007-04-07T21:29:00.000-07:00

To 15 Year-Old White Kid in Mall on Cell Phone Acting Like a Pimp-Daddy:

The gig is up, young man. You are still in junior high. You look like a poser. The food court is the closest place to a ghetto your suburban behind has ever been to. And yet, I'm sure you're getting more action than I am. Who's the pathetic one...?

To Woman Asking Me For Gas Money in the Meijer Parking Lot:

The exasperated tone of your voice was better suited for someone asking for food. You sounded desperate or strung out. And as a side note, don't get back into your running car, waiting for your next shopper to approach, when your schtick is asking for gas money. Hone your craft dear, or simply be honest. I want money for booze, drugs, or both. I prefer to reward truthfulness.

Shout-Outs

2007-04-02T17:44:00.000-07:00

To Ms. Toyota-lly Clueless:

Green means go. It does not mean slowly roll to a stop and wait at the green light... especially when cars traveling in the same direction pass through the intersection. This town is slow enough with the Red Light Infinity, and yet, you've somehow managed to make it slower. I both applaud and gnash my teeth at you.

To Lounging Guy Who Keeps Adjusting His Ballcap While Talking on His Cellphone:

The driver's seat is not a La-Z-Boy recliner. If the hat itches, take it off. You look silly chillaxin' back like a smooth operatin' old-school playah. I thought I was being tailed by the Headless Horseman. At least the old ladies have no choice but to peer out the windshield between the gap in the wheel and the dash. I'm not trying to playah hate. But c'mon, man. Safety first.

To Guy Driving a Mazda 3 Whom I Could Lip-Read Saying "Mazdaspeed 3?" In My Rearview Mirror As I'm Waiting to Back Out, Too:

Yes, my Mazda 3 is better than yours. It's newer, faster, and black. Those make it better. Now get your purple car away from my tailpipe. I'm hauling ass out of this parking lot with the windows down and "The Killers" blasting. That's right. I've got some motoring to attend to.

Existential Advising

2007-03-29T23:23:00.000-07:00

When I stop to think about it, my job is way existential (as Cher Horowitz once said). My students are in search of what is meaningful to them. A purpose to their own existence. A reason for their place and time. An answer to the question, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” but more importantly, I believe, an answer to the question “Why?” Why is it something you want to pursue?

Oddly enough, this is rarely explored by students. Should I expect teenagers to know what they want to do with the rest of their lives? Hardly. I don’t expect people in their 40’s to know. You can plan and guess, but it’s only that. As Alanis once sang:

You may never be or have a husband/
You may never have or hold a child/
You will learn to lose everything/
We are temporary arrangements.

How existential of her. But how unexistential of my students. It’s one thing to expect a product from someone, and another to expect a process. And that is where the system has failed. The system being family, schools, communities, and self. There’s not enough questions like:

What fascinates you?
What strengths do you want to enhance?
What are you passionate about?
What do you want to learn?
What kind of problems do you like to solve?

But there are plenty of these “results-based” questions floating out there, muddying up the murky waters of self-discovery:

What do you want to be when you grow up?
What’s your major?
What kind of job will you get with that degree?
Will that make you any money?

And that last question holds part of the answer. Money. Consumerism. We have gotten to think too much about the purchase of a product, the sale of a good or service, and we’ve entangled that ideology with education. It’s become a business, like everything else in the world. People equate earning a degree with becoming a finished product. Freshly minted from the education assembly line, I’m stamped for approval, my work here is done. Time to cash in my degree for a lucrative career. No more learning required.

Too bad we can’t return the unsatisfying portion for a full refund. There are a lot of partial graduates out there.

And I don’t voice this concern merely to grumble. That’s the easy part. I say it because I’m a believer in tough love when it’s needed. And in so many ways, people of this nation need to wake the fuck up. Kids may be so overly active with extracurriculars and after-school lessons and enrichment, but they are mostly for the wrong reasons. It’s for a game of one-upmanship over peers or for self-promotion. Volunteer work is done for selfish reasons. The altruistic hook, as the cynics would say. And this time, the cynics have hit the nail.

I say this because teens haven’t suddenly become more selfless and aware. Oh, that exists, of course. But more often, parents have bullied them into these activities for vicarious and victorious purposes. The bar has been raised. The competition is fierce. Everyone must be a winner. Everyone is above the mean. Everyone is a princess or a little emperor. And if you don’t think so, by god, I’ll call you up and tell you how fucking fabulous my son and my daughter truly are. Because I’ve groomed them that way. I’ve sacrificed my life for their betterment. I’m creating a winning scenario for them. I, I, I… Hmm. Another hook of the individualistic consumer culture we live in? There’s no “I” in “asshole.” So quit being one, parents of the world.

The point is ultimately a positive one. I’m issuing a call to the process of thinking. Oh, it doesn’t sound so fancy or edgy, and it doesn’t pop. But I’m not an advertiser getting paid loads to create fake syndromes and then name the drugs fabricated to cure them. I’m an academic advisor of the existential order. And as such, I urge the parents of the world to ask the real important questions of your children. Find out what they are passionate about. Provide them with experiences that will help them find their interests. Follow their lead on what they like. And my favorite, encourage them to understand there are no guarantees.

That’s right, there’s no insurance policy on happiness. People have to follow their passions and seek experiences in life, and dare I say, fail a time or two. The most successful people in the world have had mega-failures. They weren’t afraid to fall down; they were courageous enough to keep getting up.

As a Japanese proverb goes: Fall down six times; stand up, seven.

We cannot insulate our youth from the trials of life. If we do, they will create their own conflicts and they will be petty ones, trust me. I’ve heard numerous cell phone conversations about “she said that he was all and I was like and he said um well and so like I don’t know.” There’s something to be said about knowing who you are by having to overcome your obstacles. In the olden days, we called this character-building. And it’s a strong character who can dodge the punches, take a few, learn for the next time, and move forward with that wisdom.

We all have the ultimate responsibility for our choices. We cannot fault others in the decisions we make. I preach this axiom every day. But the corollary is this – we must also model the responsibility of choice - both the positive and negative. I believe that leading by example and providing a script for how to make choices can encourage others to do the same. That doesn’t mean they must make the same choices; again, it’s about the process, not the outcome. If we can achieve in this process, perhaps then understanding will become more valued. Now there’s a commodity worth selling. If only I could package it up and sell it for a mint. Think of the disease and disorder that could be treated with a prescription of understanding. And it comes without the laundry list of side effects, spoken faster than the speed of sound.

But where was I… I digress.

When I stop to think about it, my job is way existential. I am paid to help people realize their purpose in life. Sure, it isn’t always glamorous as that. Often it’s routine and verbatim responses. And some students are not willing, ready, or able to have that deeper conversation. But for those who get it or those who I see getting closer to getting it, that is satisfying. The truth is inside waiting to be drawn out. The genie wants to be out of that bottle. But once free, he’s going to take stock of his existence, furrow his brow, and ask, “What will become of me now?” Feel free to send him my way. I have a few things to say…

Back from Arizona!

2007-03-26T22:34:00.000-07:00

Hey all -- or should I say, hello to my one reader, Allie!

I made it back from Arizona after an amazing trip. I plan to put together a website to share pictures and experiences that I had during my extended visit. Until then, I hope you enjoy these panoramic shots I put together using the wonderful PhotoStitch. All hail its wonderment!

Grand Canyon

Saguaro National Park East

Splish Splash Therapy

2007-03-13T22:07:00.000-07:00

I Like Them Long and Hot

Since my childhood, I have taken long showers. Like 15 minutes long. And I got in trouble by my Mom and Dad because I was wasting water. Which I can't blame them for saying that. Thing is, I wasn't really wasting that water. I was enjoying ever single drop that ran down my chin, massaged my back, and caressed my feet. It was my home-spun therapy.

Oh, I didn't know it as that back then. My entire life, I've been addicted to hot showers. It's my full body massage. A comfy warm refuge. It's my space to unwind. To think. To sing. Yeah, you do it too, so no judging. In fact, everyone sounds good in the shower. Which leads me to a new invention, the Shower Stall Karakoke Booth! Inside that baby, we're all a little Billie, Frank, Janet, or Seal. Every note is in perfick pitch. Acoustics dazzle the ear.

Sometimes I'll be standing under the streaming jets for five minutes and realize, oh! I haven't gotten any business done yet. I've just been standing here. The soothing streams salve the soul. It makes me alliterate. No, not illiterate!

Those Who Need No Showers To Sing

I came across this YouTube link recently by happenstance. Doesn't the internet operate on that principle of randomness? Anysuch, I've never paid much attention to Peter Gabriel, but this song, Sky Blue, piqued my interest. The voices coming together in the outro are hauntingly beautiful. It gives me chills every time I listen to it. Which has been like 30 times. Take a listen - a worthy 8 minutes of your time.

The Lid Upon My Head

2007-03-13T21:29:00.000-07:00

Open It Up and See What's On My Mind

A bit ago I shared my profound interest in visiting my neighborhood head doctor. Or should I say tour guide. Sometimes I think Therapist's living inside my brain, like in that movie "Innerspace" with Dennis Quaid. Then she comes out to tell me what's what.

This time round, we talked about my recent restlessness. This town is killing me. I'm going to flat line. More specifically, the flatness of this place has pushed me over the line. I've realized how much I cannot stand stagnation. In life. In my environment. From me. From others. Sure, I resist some changes like anyone else; but if you know me well, you know I cannot stand routine. I do not like to tell the same story more than once. I get bored telling it. That's how my job has felt. And my life. All's a routine. Mixed in with a February strangle of winter doldrums. It's no coincidence that Seasonal Affective Disorder is acronymed as SAD. Although if they could lengthen the name to call it STAGNANT, that would be more apropos.

Therapist and I have fallen into this parternship -- see, she's big into Gestalt tactics. So when I make a meaningful (yet unconscious) gesture, she'll just mimic it back to me. It's funny. Now I make sure I repeat it back to her and make a comment on it. Had to be there, certainly.

Anyway, as we talk, the connecting lines are drawn - not only am I feeling stuck because of the physical environment, the SAD, and routine of my job, I'm feeling creatively at rest. As it turns out, it's not enough for me to be creative -- I thrive off of it being a participative effort. I feed off the energy of others. I like to bounce ideas and beebop and scat all over the place. Like when I performed in that spoken word event - that was great stuff! Sadly, it's too scattered and random in this town for those kind of events.

So perhaps my trip to Arizona will help me to rejuvenate energy, commune with nature (which is powerful), and gain a new perspective to deal with the realities waiting for me when I get back home. Oh, give me the strength!

Go Figure

I've done a little thinking on a few things. Some ideas are starting to swirl about in the old noggin. One idea comes from "Stranger in a Strange Land" by Robert Heinlein. His main character, Mike, is a Martian-raised human, who has different perspectives than his Earth counterparts. At several points, he tells other characters, "Thou art God." As another character notes, in a way, God is in us, with us, and of us. Hmm. So stay with me here...

My second source comes from my favorite sci-fi show, Babylon 5. Several characters in the show share the idea that we are the universe made manifest, working to figure itself out. We are made of the same matter that composes the stars, the planets, the trees, and water. Another fascinating notion.

I've never felt that a higher power pokes, prods, or tests me directly. To me, it sounds kind of egocentric. But that we are all an element of a creative force... I like that idea. We are a part of a whole that often works alone; but when working together, can accomplish greater achievements; greater understanding. Our quest to understand God is a quest to understand ourselves.

I'm close to starting my own cult religion, you see : )

The Reverend Boss Hog

2007-03-08T20:26:00.000-08:00

Sunday evening, I was greeted by the warm Florida air. Where Illinois had left me with melting snow, cloudy skies, and barren trees, Florida offered lush greens, dots of red, violet, and yellow, and a peaking sun (careful to break me in... softly, now).

It was my first time in Tallahassee. As explained to me, it's more like Georgia than Florida when it comes to the cultural landscape. And at the Atlanta airport, I was called "baby" casually, greeted with a smile, and Heintz and I even garnered a "how y'all sweeties doin?" I could take this Georgia-ish Florida town if that was the trendsetting pace to expect.

Enter the Reverend. There's not much imagination to stretch, hear? Picture an older, more portly Boss Hogg from the Dukes of Hazzard. No no, the original one. Yeah, this guy! Now imagine Boss gained some weight, traded in his white suit and cowboy hat for a flannel and foam cap, his Caddy for a Ford LTD. Cigars replaced by the foul stench of cigarette smoke infused into every interior surface, every pore, every fiber of a dirty flannel shirt. Exchange the generic Southern drawl for that of a Southern Baptist minister with a bit more of a pious bass twang. There's our Hog, a few notches looser in the Bible Belt.

When we exit the airport for the taxi parade, there's Hog hanging out the driver's door, hands folded atop his belly. "This'll be fun," I think.

"Y'all need a taxi?" belches Hog.

"Yessir!" I say back. He pops the trunk. Guess I'll put my own cases back here. He manages to Jabba slide back there just in time to tell me, "Looks good." As if loading a cavern of a trunk with two suitcases is rocket scientry...

Inside, the Baptist minister shouts repeatedly from the radio speakers, "Deliver Him unto..." something or 'nother. Hog hops in and switches off the stereo. "Deliver him, deliver him. That all he knows how to say? Where to?"

"The Double Tree Hotel."

"AH, the Trouble Tree! Going to the Trouble Tree." Hog's humor needed a two drink minimum. If he smoked weed instead of cigarettes, I'd have a contact buzz by this time. The cab was a gas chamber. Heintz was so ticked, she said nothing the whole ride! But it gets better.

Hog asks why we're in town. "We work at a university and there's a conference."

"Ah yes, the educated. Mm-hmm. I'm sure the elitists are getting together to tell us poor souls how to run our lives. They talk about religion, but they're preaching they own agenda. That's right." He pauses and serenades us with a little Hog Hymnal - "Doo-doo-de-doooo." That's his own brand of segue.

"Town's got lots of history, if you like that kind of thing."

I put him to task - "How so?"

"Well, firstly, it was the only Confederate flag that never surrendered during 'the War.' You Yanks never were able to capture it..." and he said something more about nothing much of value there at the time, something about the Reconstruction, yada. I always thought 'the War' was in reference to WWII, but apparently to the likes of Hog, there's still a chip on a Southerner shoulder or two about our Civil entanglements. Fortunately, he's moved on from that... He goes own about other interesting historical facts. "Doo-doo-de-doooo."

I ask why this school we pass is completely surrounded by a fence. "Oh, likely because this isn't the best part of town. This is a haven for your underprivileged, down-trodden, taken-advantage-of, uneducated, poor, and minorities. I'm sure they'd say they were owed something. That the blue eyed white devil is responsible. See "they" have their own school over there. It's about 85% black." I think we caught Hog on his way to a Klan rally. This guy was just full of material! Hurray for stereotypes. Again, Heintz sits there with a blank expression. She's a pot under steam pressure, I can tell. "Doo-doo-de-doooo."

Then he gets on politics. Makes another comment about Atheist educators. After that, he says something about the new Republican governor. I hadn't realized ol' Jebby Bush was ousted. Buh-bye. One more to go! So Hog says, "the new governor is a homosexual. Well, he's in the closet, but he's gay. If the Democrats have their way, we'll have a lesbian president and a gay governor. Wouldn't that be PC?" Belly laugh ensues.

I felt it was time to challenge his onslaught. I said, "Yeah, it could be a lot worse than that, right?" He stops and says thoughtfully, "Well, that's true. That's true. We could have some swindlers and crooks in there, that would be worse." Had I successfully reformed Hog's bigotry with my elitist ways?

Not quite. He keeps going on about Hilary Clinton (the lesbian, according to Hog), only he calls her HIGH-larious Clinton, with the emphasis where noted. Score one for the Reverend. We finally make it to the Trouble Tree and Heintz practically jumps from the moving cab. He putters off after I pay, and I bust into hysterics. I laughed about it the whole time - Heintz was simply livid, which made me laugh harder. Eventually she got past his backward bigotry and saw the humor.

Thankfully, The Reverend Boss Hog was our only brush with that old school South mentality. We met some great people at the conference and had a wonderful time on the town. Our cabbie on the way back was Jamar. He was the best! We told him all about Hog and he was cracking up and apologizing for that being our first introduction to Tallahassee. He's been all over the place and is getting ready to leave for South Korea to teach English. We had a fun time with him talking about culture, music, white people, black people, travel, doing what you love, etc. Jamar was our last impression of the place; and while he is a Wisconsiner by birthright, Heintz and I couldn't have asked for a better send-off back to the flatlands. Bless you, Jamar, in all your travels. And bless you Boss Hog, from one Atheist Yank to a salty old Reb like yourself.

Two-Spirited

2007-03-01T16:11:00.000-08:00

Recently I was introduced to the term "two-spirited people." It is derived from Native American cultures in which they believed in a third gender; that of a person who possessed both male and female spirits. This article quote encapsulates nicely what it meant to be two-spirited:

"Traditionally, the Two-spirited person was one who had received a gift from the Creator, that gift being the privilege to house both male and female spirits in their bodies. The concept of Two-spirited related to today's designation of gays, lesbians, bisexual and transgender persons of Native origins. Being given the gift of two-spirits meant that this individual had the ability to see the world from two perspectives at the same time. This greater vision was a gift to be shared with all, and as such, Two-spirited beings were revered as leaders, mediators, teachers, artists, seers, and spiritual guides. They were treated with the greatest respect, and held important spiritual and ceremonial responsibilities."

What an interesting notion, huh? That people who in our culture are openly marginalized and discriminated against held positions of honor in Native societies. They were seen as privileged, not told that they were an abomination, disowned from their families, felt like they had to hide their true selves, or sent to ex-gay camps to rediscover their heterosexual origins. It's difficult enough for people to feel comfortable in their own skin, let alone comfortable in their world. I wonder what both would feel like.

Sadly, this view of two-spirited people is not expressed in Native American cultures any more. So what changed it all? Any guesses? Not surprisingly, it changed when Europeans came in, snatched up some land, did some killing, and pushed their values and taboos onto those who came before. How Christian of them.

It's frustrating how people will say that Native American traditions are Old World, irrelevant, or backward. Then I read something like this and continue to wonder who the inferior ones are. Why are openness to difference, acceptance, tolerance, and understanding underscored in our society? Why does hate and fear get so much top billing?

It is easy to drive technology and call ourselves advanced. To live privileged lives and believe we possess culture. To not reflect on our ancestory and therefore, fail to learn from it. Can you disregard the past, skim through the present, and constantly anticipate the future - do all these things - and ever experience true humanity?

Maybe that level of understanding is the spiritual gift. Progress is change. It can lead to cures and revelations. It can take us further away from ourselves. We cannot live outside of either reality. But that shouldn't stop us from asking questions and learning from our world. It shouldn't stop us from expanding our understanding.

We are never finished products. We are imperfect. But we are capable of much more than we allow ourselves to be. In these truths, I hope for us.

Gone Wild Series: Astronauts Gone Wild!

2007-02-24T17:30:00.000-08:00

In our society, it's already old and busted news about Astronaut Lisa Nowak going bonkos over her rival lover of Bill Oefelein. Your average straight man would normally swoon at the chance for two women to fight over him, but craziness is an X factor no one signs on for. And maybe there's an armed forces rivalry at play... Lisa, the former US Navy Captain, saw this US Air Force Captain named Shipman (of all things), trying to cruise her not-friend/not-lover Navy man Bill. One blip of Shipman on Nowak's bitch-dar, and it's periscope depth for her!

Wow, love IS a battlefield. Thanks, Pat Benatar.

Anyway, there's something about the kooky cocktail of a wig, trench coat, BB gun, pepper spray, diapers, a knife, mallet, rubber tubing, trash bags, and two parts crazy that rouse my curiosity. Only MacGuyver could put such an arsenal to better use.

And then CNN decides to launch their own truth-seeking rocket to find out how NASA will neutralize AstroNUTS gone wild in the confines of a steel tube drifting in space.

The headline was just so campy:

NASA has a plan for dealing with a mentally unstable astronaut in space
* Instructions: Bind the astronaut's wrists and ankles and tie them down
* Inject the out-of-control astronaut with tranquilizers if necessary
* A gun would not be used; a bullet could pierce a spaceship and kill everyone

Investigative integrity be damned! Let's roll out the showmanship. Besides, bondage and syringes sounds like a typical week night at my place. I mean, seriously.

Personally, I think they should have called it "Stopping Astronauts On A Tang-ent." It's more tasteful, really.

A Beaucoup of Beaus

2007-02-19T12:53:00.000-08:00

I got an email from Ted earlier in the week. He was inviting me to a Saturday brunch with him. The invite was random, but I figured what the heck. I responded back and figured we'd work out the details. Thursday night came around, so I rang him to confirm our plans. We began chatting about ideas for location and time - everything going normally. Then I mentioned that I know someone he knows and doesn't like very much. Somehow, he immediately knew it was Martha Poppins.

[Back Story] Martha Poppins is this guy Foster and I know. He's a fairly nice guy, good looking, but also very into himself. He's a self-professed label queen (i.e., only premier brand named apparel will do) and worships Martha Stewart. Only shops at Williams-Sonoma. Looks down at people who are not dressed to impress. In short, a snob. His parents give him whatever he wants. He's a grad student who lives better than I do. He wanted to get his mother a cashmere water bottle cover. Yes, I'm serious.

He invited Foster and me to a dinner party he was hosting - this guy went all out. The food was phenomenal, but he made us pass everything to the right around the table, and even though he had an inadequate knife to slice the roast (Williams-Sonoma, here he comes), he refused to cut it "against the grain" because that was improper. And he never looked like he was having fun - meanwhile, Foster, the Roommate, and Two Other Friends had a great conversation. Martha runs out to get the 409 and spray down the table while we're still there chatting. Busy body. Foster and I joked that he had white gloves and a carpet bag, making sure things were practically perfect in every way. Thus, Martha Poppins was conceived.

Ted and Martha know each other and as it turns out, don't like each other. So I mentioned this to Ted on the phone, and he's going on about how Martha is self-centered and doesn't think other people exist. Then he asks if I think Martha's attractive and did I sleep with him. He goes on about Martha not being attractive and how he doesn't even know me, blah blah.

I know several people that feel Ted's a selfish punk, too. So I say, "Well, some people would say the same thing of you." We always joke back and forth, no harm. Or so I thought. Ted immediately says, "Maybe tomorrow's not a good idea. I've had too much stress this week and don't need any more." Then he makes an inappropriate comment just to get back at me. Huh?

So I explain I wasn't saying I thought that, I meant other people have said that (i.e., Martha). He dismissed that, to which I said, think what you want, I have no reason to lie about it. Then he asked if I had life insurance (awkward joke) and said that he always feels on edge when he's around me. Hmm. News to me. I carefully reminded him that HE was the one who wanted to get together. Anyway, we called it off and I respectfully hung up with him. Good riddance to putting up with his insecurities. Not worth it.

The next day, Royfriend (a.k.a., Maybe Single Guy, Definitely Single Guy) calls me because he wants to hang out. Red flag! He tells me he has had a stressful week (red flag!) and finds that when we hang out, he feels more at ease (red fla...wait!). I put him at ease? LOL - I had to chuckle to myself. How odd to get opposite and news-breaking information about myself within a 24 hour period. I always assumed Royfriend found hanging out with me an exercise in ambivalence, given that we never have hit it off famously. Who knew? Not I.

"The same fire that softens the butter hardens the egg."

So Royfriend and I met up for lunch at a local bakery on Sunday. We were there for 4 hours, chatting about all kinds of things - men, living in this town, the next stage of life, moving away, etc. It was refreshing to hear him talk about wanting to reach his potential and do what he is passionate about. Taking risks. Living a life he wants. Not settling, even though it feels comfortable to be settled. How comfort leads to stagnation. I emphathize completely. Sometimes my routines make me feel sedentary and I wonder what experiences I miss out on. That's why I try to take them up as they present themselves. Break free of the familiar.

I think I am almost free of the Phantom Hitchhiker. Today the temperatures climbed above freezing and the snow banks are receding. Spring is peeking in on us. Change is in the air. Ready or not, here I come.

The Royal Road in Need of Repair

2007-02-15T23:08:00.000-08:00

Dreams are more fascinating than cable and much less expensive. Why, just a nip of Bailey's before bed, and I can remember some elaborate and, dare I say, lucid mental episodes. As examples, I can remember getting shot by a police officer three times, taking a ridiculously long and (as it turns out) pointless walk, and a giant translucent head talking mutely in the sky. Yes, it's all true. And of course, my tornado dreams... a promise of syndication with spring around the corner.

Anyway, my favorite intrigue of the brain is how in a dream, things always make sense. Sentences are crystal clear and highly meaningful. Characters phase in and out of a plot unworthy of a B movie, and yet, the subconscious makes sense of it all. Or at least fool us into thinking it is logical and with purpose. I think the subconscious is pulling a fast one.

I mean, I know my conscious is an attention-whore, but who would have thought the subconscious would get jealous and vie for the spotlight. Twice this week I awoke from a dream in which words of profound insight were wresteled free from the murky depths. Behold the secrets of life! Enter the world in which ego is barred and only pure thoughts are cultivated. Here's what I scribbled down on the paper to preserve for the waking world:

1) "political sighance"

Clearly I've been reading too much of the Laughorist's clever word-trickery and decided to emulate. Is it the highest form of flattery or the lowest form of imitation? You decide.

And my favorite...

2) "cashmere - 'man handled' by God"

Yes, indeed. I love this one so much because I woke up drunk on REM sleep and obviously confused about the profound nature of these words. I can remember being excited about the revelation. It made perfect sense at the time.

You asked for it, and now you know - these are me thinks.

Snow Day!

2007-02-13T12:18:00.000-08:00

It's been a long time since I've had a Snow Day off school. As a K-12 boy, I'd get so excited at the prospect of a Snow Day at home. I'd wake up and switch on the radio, waiting impatiently for the DJ to utter my school's name. Or I'd glue my eyes to the TV as the school names at the bottom of the screen flashed by. "C'mon, c'mon, pleasepleaseplease," I'd recite under my breath.

There were of course the variations on a traditional Snow Day. One hour delays were a blessing and curse. Give the plows some extra shovel time, and typically the school would be able to inhale, sucking reluctant children into its knowledge-vacuum belly. The two hour delay, though, was just a layover to freedom. It was the last-ditch of a indecisive superintendent. Nothing was grander than the cancellation the evening before. Late night + free day = pure joy!

Fast forward to today's blizzard in Illinois. Granted, it's no 100+ inch dump like northern New York experienced, but for us, a foot of snow is above our threshold. Long story short, our illustrious University eventually ruled in the case of Class v. Closing. Or as I like to dramatize it, Death v. Bruised Ego. They ruled in favor of the people - thanks blessed University! Thou art wise.

Snow Day from work! It's like an 80's flashback worth remembering.

When shoveling the driveway this morning, I helped two people free their trucks from the drifts. It was fun to help them, and it allowed me to meet two neighbors I hadn't known before. And our first meeting cast me in the role of a hero, so that has to pay off somehow, right?

Now I'm listening to the "Songs for Polarbears" CD from Snow Patrol. How fitting, eh? It's 23 songs of compilation heaven. Next is hot chocolate with some mint Bailey's mixed in.

And yes, I purposefully capitalized Snow Day because I consider it a formal holiday worthy of celebrating. It's certainly more uplifting than that sappy capitalist day coming up tomorrow...

But as not to leave on a grumble, and in recognition of the holiday that shall not be named, I send you, my dear readers, well-wishes of love, tolerance, understanding, and compassion. Think fondly of your fellows and the rest shall follow.

-- We now continue with my irregularly scheduled Snow Day --

I Wish I Knew How to Quit You

2007-02-11T08:39:00.000-08:00

If there is one thing in this world that I enjoy, it's the chemical swill - soda pop. Soft drinks. Coke. Nectar of the Gods. I love it enough to even philosophize about it using mathematical equations. Okay, so it's my own brand of math -- let's call it falgebra -- but nevertheless. It takes my mind to new places.

Our Love is Like a Rollercoaster, Baby. But Should I Ride?

And sadly, it takes me to some bad places. See, it is a drug to me, and it's not just the caffiene. It's high fructose corn syrup. How can something so that sounds so nasty taste so divine? But alas, our affair is bipolar, for it sends my blood sugar on a rollercoaster of elated launch hills and corkscrews and boomerangs - obligatory "oh my" - into a brake station of break-neck whiplash. I get crabby, moody, fussy. And lethargic.

Sugar Will

That is why I have given it up once again. The first time was after I saw "Super Size Me." Seeing all the sugar in a 42 oz. drink churned my stomach. As Dave Matthews sings, "Sugar won't poison/ But sugar will kill you/ Too much of a good thing/ Maybe not so sweet/." I gave it up on the spot for 4 months. I told myself I'd have a McDonald's Coke (the finest on tap) on New Year's Eve. Then I was back on the coke (sidenote: when typing this initially, I spelled coke like cocke... LMAO, and when I just went to retype coke for this sentence, I typed cock again. Any Freudians in the readership??).

I'm Not an Addict, Maybe That's a Lie...

On a dare, I quickly again gave up soda for non-Catholic Lent. And after that, it's been a classic addict's on-and-off cycle for the past year or so. Because I can't have just one or two per week. It has to be all or none. But I have my teas and coffee-esque drinks, so all is not lost on the caffiene front! And when I'm off the nectar, I can tell a big difference in mood and therefore, quality of life. So this is something I need to do... My moodiness doesn't need any further assistance!

I had a little relapse last night when I went out to dinner with Foster. But it tasted bittersweet. And it made me not want it anymore. So I'm forging ahead.

Attitude Drives Behavior.

In mental preparation of my soda-independence, I have carried out my own Boston Tea Party. I am dumping all the soda from my mind. I must harbor no more thoughts of it as a choice. I will no longer be ruled by its subversive Parliament. Because it taxes my well-being too much. It's not worth the cost.

I think I can, I think I can.

Mental Manufactory: Fetal Walker

2007-02-09T23:13:00.000-08:00

Now I admit that I've never been pregnant or anything. Though there were a few close calls, let me tell you.

I can image it's no field day. I mean, I know what it's like to have someone emotionally cling to me, so I can only surmise a 10 pound meatsack leeching off your organs like some fetal Kato is worse. With the water being spiked with sperm propellant and the stars and moons aligned just right, I've encountered several pregnant women recently. And around 8 months, they all basically want "this thing" out of them. They pray for C-sections. They potty every two minutes. They have killer back stress. They wonder what salvation lies in their immediate future of "he did this to me" hell!

And then Army gets an idea...

Look no further than the Fetal Walker! It's like a hammock sling and an old-folks walker wrapped into one handy wheeled contraption. You'll feel light in your loafers as you scuttle with back-relieved ease!

And once the little brat wrecks your body upon its eviction, the Fetal Walker turns into a handy Baby Stroller! Now that's precycling and cost-savings! And you'll need it. Because Junior will be the financial death of you.

And I think it's clear Army is not ready for children. Especially considering my other anti-child invention of questionable ethics (yet remains popular amongst parentkind).

Those who can, do. Those who can't, think.

Vanishing Hitchhiker Phenomenon

2007-02-04T15:46:00.000-08:00

I sat up last night wondering what would happen if I disappeared. How long before someone would notice? Two days? A week? It's difficult to say when you live alone. Certainly it would be my coworkers who'd first notice my absence. Is that a shame or a sigh of relief? A mixed bag, I gather.

It's just a wintry mood.

Doldrums, my friend.

I battle an unshakable case of highway hypnosis. The world is rushing past me, yet I am unaffected. Numb. I come to and wonder how I ended up here. Unmotivated. Unmoved. Certainly I was on my way to somewhere...

It seems I have company after all. The phantom hitchhiker is no urban legend. He is the melancholy that resides within me as I go through the motions of day-in day-out. He is the inevitable passenger. I am tired of his presence. I wish he would disappear already.

(I wrote this about a week ago and didn't get a chance to post it. It felt relevant enough for me to share it. I am counting on Dale, Punxsy Phil, and Mutha Nature to fulfill their promises!)

<-- You Are Here

2007-01-28T09:32:00.000-08:00

During my last therapist visit, the conversation came to my upfront confession of having obsessive-compulsive qualities around organization. I do like cleanliness, but my big thing is organizing. I told Therapist I think having a bit of OCD in me is quite functional. She responded that she thinks a lot of that quality is a good thing (though not to the clinical extremes).

Hmm... has Therapist opened a neatly packed Pandora's Box? See, my secret delight is having"authority figures" agree with my seemingly warped view of the world. Oh, what validation it brings! And she's given me therapeutic license to stack, situate, line up, orient, file, and color-coordinate myself into a self-indulged coma!

Cue the satisfying exhale. Commisery loves company!

I live in what some people would refer to as neatly-arranged pseudo-chaos. No one has ever said that to me (in those words), but I'd admit it before anyone else did, so I come off as self-aware and modest. That's my other issue. Therapy is so much fun!! I've spent my entire life monitoring my own thoughts and behaviors (ranging from reflective to self-critical(<-- see, that's a monitoring statement right there(which means I need to comment on it, as I have clearly done))), searching for connective tissue, and then, POOF! I can hire someone to do that for me! With me!

She's like my internal tour guide, showing me the secret passages that connect all the attractions together. That realization makes me feel like a spectator to my inner workings. The proverbial stranger in my own house. And I assumed all along I was the director. Turns out, my control is limited, my input sometimes scarce. How laissez-faire of me!

Odd how I've lived in this body all along and never knew my way around. But I guess the corridors are ever-changing, stress occupies various waiting rooms, and thoughts wander through it all, as thoughts tend to do. Who has time to keep up with that? I have distractions to attend to! Truth is, the best we can do is sort it all out (in an orderly fashion) as best we can, and hope we are in control when we need to be. But being in control is my other issue. And that's for another post...

Land of the Free

2007-01-23T20:59:00.000-08:00

I was struck today by an interesting concept when cruising the attention-deficit highway. There's a group starting a new fuel station - called Terror Free Oil.

Let's not mince words, after all, right?

The group believes the step toward energy independence is through terror-free oil. Hmm. But they still import the oil from non-Middle Eastern countries, so I wouldn't say energy indepedence is the outcome, so much as supplier shift. And obviously, the name boldly exclaims the prime directive - no longer buying oil from countries that finance or support terrorism...

Now that's an oil slick of a slippery slope. For what is terrorism? According to my friend Wikipedia:

"Terrorism is a term used to describe violence or other harmful acts committed (or threatened) against civilians by groups or persons for political or other ideological goals."

Hmm... would the US government ever do such a thing?

Now of course, the straight-forward truth is that they don't want to finance Middle Eastern terrorists (such as al Qaeda). And those groups have become the face to the word, terrorism. It's no different from products names that become the objects themselves - like dumpster, kleenex, and coke. Perhaps words are minced, after all.

So then I thought about the concept of free. Everyone likes to see the word, but we know that even free things come at a cost. Somehow, somewhere, you have paid for it. Even free trial periods and free samples are just a hook. Maybe you can hold out. But I bet you've caved and bought. Fess up!

Civil Freedom. That has a continuing cost.

In what other things are we seeking an absence? We have the healthy stuff (fat-free, sodium-free, sugar-free). You all know my position on caffiene-free. Then there's conflict-free diamonds (thanks, Leo and Djimon). Wrinkle-free pants, that's a good one. But they don't always deliver as promised. Who can I sue about that? I want a free ride.

My dad's Ford Freestar wasn't so free.

I'm beginning to see the future of this concept of "free." Here's my wish list for future free-ness:
- Line-free grocery checkout lanes
- Red light-free cruising
- Freegan-free communities (they are scurry folk)
- A Get Out of Jail Free card (hey, you never know; I could be a lawbreaker)

Penny for your thoughts? Feel free to share your opinion.

Deafsided

2007-01-21T21:17:00.000-08:00

When it comes to attending a rousing exhibition of basketball, there are standard precepts one must keep in mind. In NCAA, the game is divded into two halves, not four quarters. The concession stand is overpriced. People have a sixth sense to know when they are featured on the jumbo-tron screen. White men can't jump. And you will always sit in front of the most loud and obnoxious fan this side of creation.

Fade into this Saturday. B-Dub, Foster, and I took to the flying saucer to watch the Fighting Illini square off against the Wisconsin Whomevers. Ferrets? Fowls? Something feral and ratty looking. The seats belonged to B-Dub's boss and he was gracious enough to lend out this trio... or was it graciousness he displayed? For Bossman had a dirty, annoying secret. One that was partially shared with B-Dub, but not so much as hinted to Foster and me. We were blindsided (blindsighted?), or should I say deafsided, by this ancient fossil of a creature with the most mind-splicing voice ever to be belched into my ear at point-blank.

Think of Dorothy Zbornak, the salty old thing from Golden Girls, played by the unparalleled Bea Arthur herself. Can you hear her voice? A bit mannish, yeah?

Now mix in a smidge of Large Marge, the undead truck driver from Pee Wee's Big Adventure. She had the look and the cackle to match.

Lastly, gingerly apply the rasp and grate of Gargamel, would-be destructor of the benevolent Smurfs. Nails on a chalkboard through a megaphone with screeching feedback doesn't begin to compare.

And the worst part is this old relic was a broken record. She basically had two banshee (or more appropriately, manshee) calls. When the Illini had the ball, she screamed "Let's Go!" But that's not really giving you the full effect. Because it sounded more like "S'GOOOHHHWWW!!!!!" And she managed to drag out the word into three separate syllables. Not sure how. When Wisconsin had the ball, she yelled "Defense!" But again, phoenetically, it sounded more like "Key-FEEEEHHHNNNZ!!!!" or sometimes just "FEEEEHHHNNNZ!!!"

As you know, the ball is run up and down the court many many times in a single game. When possession was turned over, Gargamel "Large Marge" Zbornak took it upon herself to belch out the same damned two phrases OVER AND OVER AND OVER at ear-piercing decibels within spitting distance. B-Dub should know, because he got a spittle bath the whole time. Serves him right for not warning us.

One time, she literally screamed "S'GO" for five seconds. Doesn't seem like a long time, does it? Grab the nearest child, spouse, or take yourself. Find a time piece, like a stopwatch or clock with a second hand. Now have your assistant scream as loud as he can for five seconds just behind you. If you are by yourself, find a small enclosed room to mimic the effect.

Pleasant, wasn't it?

Thus was our adventure with Gargamel Zbornak. It was both annoying and funny at the same time. I had to break out laughing on several occasions and try to mask it for something else. Afterward, we had the chance to talk about it openly (and without shame) and B-Dub said the last thing his boss told him on the phone was "S'GO! You'll know what it means." Did we ever!

Naturally, we had a field day coming up with her nicknames and making her say all the catchphrases of her character's likenesses:

"Tell em, Large Marge sent ya! S'GOOOOAAAAAWWWW!"

"Ma, the next time Stanley calls me, I'm going to belch in his face!"

"Azrael! To destroy those Smurfs, we must break through their Key-FEEEENNNNNZZZ!"

We were in stitches. There were two instances when she was yelling at some player to go or shoot the ball and they didn't make it (and there were plenty of didn't-make-it moments), she muttered ever so softly:

"Jeepers."

I think one of those was followed by a gutteral smoker's hack. We were surprised she still had a voice after that. And disappointed.

I'm all for yelling and swinging my rally towel 'round my head like a helicoptah, but let us all remember one thing. When you are in Section Way-The-Hell-Back-And-Up-There, feel free to yell, but don't banshee blast everyone at ground zero like they can hear you on the court. Because they most certainly can't. And you won't sway the game anyway. And I enjoy my hearing. And you aren't the sports commentator, else you'd have the job.

I've said my peace. And I'm finally happy to have hers, too.

Clockwork

2007-01-18T22:05:00.000-08:00

It's time for me to release a burden by grumbling about another of my kooky coworkers. This go around, I'll introduce you to the one and only Clockwork!

Clockwork earned her name because she is a robot. I think. I suspect if I was to open her up, I'd find at least a circuit chip in her brain keeping her on a routine. That's her speciality -- routine. She's even been on the verge of tears when asked to change a simple thing, like, no longer keeping the soda in the fridge in this annoying wooden crate. I told her we could fit half as many cans in there if we just took this thing out. And I did. And it lasted for about two days. Then it magically appeared in the fridge. She tells me, the plastic shelf was cracking under the weight of the cans... Yes, she said that. Solution? Put the heavy-ass wooden 5 lb. crate back in there because "it disperses the weight!" Full-on genius, I say! I'm all for people supporting their own disorders, but at least fess up to your craziness.

Watching her is amazing. Remember in Naked Gun when the ballplayer has the chip inserted in his head and the bad guy presses the remote control button, and the player instantly turns into this robotic slave mumbling "I must kill... the Queen." That's Clockwork. Remember Vickie the Robot from that sitcom Small Wonder? She'd be all "11:30 a.m. Vacuum under the sofa." That's Clockwork. 3:00 p.m. Click. She automatically goes into the kitchen to cook popcorn. 4:00 p.m. on Friday. Click. She grabs the can to water the flowers. It's like you can see the fuse pop and off she goes. Lunch time. Click. Off to McDonald's to get her giganti-soda. Click. Get huffy with her annoying family on the phone for all to hear. At least three times per day.

And the worst offense of them all: her daily dump. Yes, you read correctly. She number 2's in the house almost every day. What's the big whoop, Army? The big whoop is that we work in the House of Olden Days and you can smell it everywhere. Oh, and you don't just smell it, no. It's mixed with an aromatic cocktail of Cheap-As-Free Nast-o-Spray. The kind of stink spray that smells WORSE than the offensive odor it never covers up. That's the one. I'm getting all ill just thinking about it.

Deep down she's a nice person. But her inability to change even the smallest thing and her incessant routines drive me (and my sane coworkers) batty. I'll just have to love her for who she is. Well, as long as she goes next door to do her business from now on.

Motivational Hypnotism

2007-01-17T20:11:00.000-08:00

I find this term to be quite oxymoronic (or perhaps just moronic). I first heard about motivational hypnotism from Foster's friend when we went out to eat this weekend. He was talking about how some corporations bring in these motivational speakers (ugh) to essentially work their martial arts (or hackery) of hypnosis on the audience. The idea is that workers will be more motivated on the job. I call it shadow training... or perhaps it's just brainwashing.

As it stands, most people are already hypnotized by the boring work they have to do. And now we have to alter our consiousness into another state in order to go to work on time, be a good little crony, and continue our workaday lives? At least experiment with mind-altering drugs first, so that we might enjoy the experience! I mean, we as the workers reserve the right to go into our own comas or catatonic states at our leisure, right? It's called "seeking sanity by avoidance" in the classic "job that ate my brain" scenario.

But seriously. I know there are benefits to meditation and hypnosis. They have scientific backing. And that's not to say that a one-on-one with a hypnotherapist may not help someone to work out a motivational block. I'm open to that idea. But to pay ol' Kreskin his circuit fee to pop in for his one-man "act" and tame the masses on the edge of karoshi, eye-stabbing boredom, and sanity because of their Stepford Managers, I say enough is enough. Resist, brothers and sisters. The Empire won't be satisfied until you live at work, clapped in irons, maximizing profits by minimizing your life!

And to you, nebulous and impersonal corporation, I'm hip to your tricks. And your tricks ain't for kids. So let's have an adult moment, shall we.

[Army and The Corporation sit at a table opposite one another, each with their hands folded and ankles crossed. The Corporation looks smug, but Army knows its weakness. Loss margins.]

Army: I beg that pixel of compassion in your metaphorical heart to show some reprieve. You've taken enough from us. We see you more than our families and friends. You have sapped enough souls and created enough disorders (and then profitted on us because of the mark-up on medications, thank you much). Show us your mercy.

The Corporation: ...That does not compute... Enter proper language codes... Invest in the talent pipeline... You cannot boil the ocean... Collateral target leveraging drives the bottom line...

I could not respond to its meaningless onslaught. My words were useless against The Corporation because it only understands the language of buzzwords. A language I took an oath never to utter again... but at what cost?

I'll get you next time, Gadget. Next time.

The Mind's Errand

2007-01-14T23:17:00.000-08:00

The danger of a wish is it's fulfillment.

I saw "The Good Shepherd" this evening. It was an intense and confusing film, one that needs to be seen at least twice for it all to make sense. It touches on themes of trust, secrecy, truth, and loneliness. I found myself intrigued by each of these themes and how difficult it can be to make choices. Intelligence. Counterintelligence. Information. Misinformation. Friend. Enemy. The lines bleed together. The choices are never easy. Enemies become endearing because they know you like no one else can. They are your opposite number. Their choices mirror your own. All very fascinating.

A tiny little theme in the movie I took to came in a quote I hadn't heard before. It is from Ovid's Metamorphoses:

"...choose what you wish, and what you wish you shall have.” Pointing to a pile of dust, that had collected, I foolishly begged to have as many anniversaries of my birth, as were represented by the dust. But I forgot to ask that the years should be accompanied by youth.

Conquistadors searched America for the Fountain of Youth. Alchemists labored to create the panacea that would prolong life indefinitely. Even today, we have injections and plastic alterations to feverishly delay our aging. Since the time we have faced death, we have desired to outsmart it.

But who would, if by chance finding the genie in the bottle, tempted by the promise of long life, think to ask for those years in youth? And what would become of a person who aged to 200? Would we shrink into ourselves, unable to move, left to our thoughts? Is the fact that I frown at such a fate my own desire to resist the inevitably of aging? It's merely a fancy of mind, but one that captivated me nonetheless.

Can I muster up a lesson in this line of thought? Let's see... Think before you speak. Be careful what you wish for. Sometimes a nightmare is a dream come true.

Thinks 4.0

2007-01-13T23:41:00.000-08:00

If you know me well, you've no doubt learned that I can't leave well enough alone when it comes to websites. After a while, I get this itch to update, upgrade, and generally improve on what I've created. It's actually quite helpful in learning HTML, CSS, and about widgets, which honestly confuse me more than diet caffiene free soft drinks.

Besides this site, I've created three different websites for various purposes at work. It can be quite frustrating at times when you can't get the code to work out, but once I crack the case, I feel an intense pleasure at figuring it out on my own. And I've become a bit more savvy with Dreamweaver and Photoshop, though I know I'm barely scratching the surface of the latter software.

Anywho, the fourth major iteration of These Are Me Thinks is up and running! I spent most of Friday evening fiddling around in Photoshop, working on a new banner format. I finally settled on what you see now. I always struggle with color combinations (even when it comes to matching my clothes each morning) and the end result lay in front of you. I'd like to hear some feedback.

Over the weekend, I'm making some tweaks to the code and reinstalling the rotating banner. I also hope to add a few more features that I will keep secret for now and reveal once they are up and running. And I hope now that the holidays have passed, I will be posting more regularly than I have been.

Share your thinks with me. If you read often and haven't commented before, now is your chance to tell me what's what!

Take care, all.

The Crew

2007-01-09T21:23:00.000-08:00

I've been enjoying work very much lately, thanks to the addition of some hilarious jokester co-workers -- Watson and Toph. Watson is my new roomie since MamaBean left me for the sweet suite on the first floor of the House of Condemned Splinters. After a brief moment of seriousness (oh, it couldn't last for long), we fell into this step of bizarro humor that can best be described as askew.

Like we pretend to be really serious about something until one of us laughs. And we do it to this ridonkulous melodramatic level. We pretend to be offended by anything, like someone talking in the hall. Watson will say to me over the partition "Gosh, they don't have to scream at the top of their lungs." And I'll shoot back "They are always like that when their off their medication." It's so incredibly lame, it's funny!

Watson tripped a few times when we were walking on campus, and I accused her of being this histrionic belle who fakes accidents for the attention. We ran with that one for a while. We were talking about something once, and she bolted around the partition and said "if you ever say that again, I will slit your throat!" We're such dorks. I think I'm cheating on my Feyonce with another woman. Best keep this under wraps cuz she gets insanely jealous!

And I think my vocabulary is cancerous. Today Watson and I were getting soda-pops at The Mine and we were going on about something or other. Oh, we were talking about the giganti-soda for like, a nickel. And I said "Well if you haven't noticed, I'm trying to be a healthy purchase." LOL! What the fook does that mean?

And Ambiguously Straight Guy is mad jealous that I have an attractive young woman sharing my office. Of course, I'm not sure who he's jealous of... He's still giving me the mixed messages. When I told him about my new car, he didn't seem excited. I explained how much horsepower it had because I know he likes that kind of stuff. He says that's nothing and looks up his truck to show me how much more hp it has. So I'm all "I didn't realize this was a pissing contest." Last week, he invited me over to his place to watch Snakes on a Plane with him. Um, hidden meaning there? It's weird how I'm so put out by how un-complex and uncultured he can be, yet still find him (at times) quite smoochable that I want to pounce on him. Hhmm.

Which got me thinking... gay men have this way of bonding with straight women because we have no vested sexual interest in each other. But for me, it's more than that at times. I think it's easy to be myself and unfettered around friends (especially women) because nothing is at stake. In romantic scenarios, it's too easy to hold back because I don't want to show interest too soon. And there's the whole getting-to-know-you routine. If only I could parley that openness when it comes to potential romance... is that even possible without sending mixed messages of my own? Could it come off as interest when it isn't? It's worth investigating. I've got nothing to lose.

Well, I lost my writing steam, but there's plenty more to say about The Crew, including Toph, Advagounoush, MamaBean, Blurt McLoud, JP the British Boss, and the rest. I'll save it for a future installment.

iRant: Let's Get "Physical"

2007-01-07T21:33:00.000-08:00

If you understand me even a smidge, you know that I have a profound love for solutions to problems that don't exist. I relish in items of ridiculous convenience. And sarcasm.

Well let's be honest, I wouldn't run a blog if I wasn't at least a modest purveyor of salt n' sass.

And my latest target is footwear. Just when you thought the Reebok Pumps were a joke (and yeah, they pretty much were or else they'd still be around), here come two contenders for stupid footwear schtick:

1) Running shoes with automatic lacing system

ANGLE: Because your lazy ass cannot bear to pull at each criss-crossed lace point, tie a simple knot, one bow, wrap around, second bow, and through the middle, you can twist a knob instead. This tying process is so quick and effortless that in order to type the sequence, I had to visualize each step mentally. That took way more effort than it does to actually do it. In the dark. In the morning when the demons kick the inside of my head, my brain is swimming in a morass, and the world is a dull distraction. Even then, I manage. But thanks to North Face, I can take one more thing for granted, save no time, and pay more money.

COUNTERPOINT: But Army, don't you hate it when your shoes come untied? I have a simple kindergarten fix -- the double knot. I still do it. It's completely juvenille. I basically never retie my shoes.

COUNTER-COUNTERPOINT: But Army, you are a lazy bum who doesn't run every day. In fact, you avoid physical exercise whenever possible.

REBUTTAL: Shut up, me! Who's side are you on anyway!?

POINT BEING: Continue to use your preschool level skills and lace it yourself.

2) Vacuum Shoes

ANGLE: I was alerted to this technological milestone by fellow blogger Robert. The concept is quite ingenious - strap a vacuum cleaner to your shoes and clean as you walk. Not only is it completley practical, it's a fashion statement waiting to happen.

I've used a few vacuums in my time that managed to suck ass, but not quite successfully suck dirt. I'm sure this cheap-as-crap shoe system will top of the line and do as good of a job as your bagless Hoover. Because you'll either be walking like you have two cement shoes on (due to the necessary suction) or, more likely, you'll manage to walk rather normally and essentially lightly dust your carpet. Wow.

TRAGIC FLAW: Allegedly, we are in a crisis state of wasting 90 hours per year vacuuming our floors. And this must end. But if we are making up all this free time, are we really going to use it walking around our homes? Or are we going to sit our lazy asses in front of A) the TV, or B) the computer?

COUNTERPOINT: But Army, you're sitting your lazy ass in front of the computer right now.

REBUTTAL: Sometimes I can't stand myself! However, I did vacuum the floor today, and sweep and mop... and yet I continue to live.

THEN AGAIN: As Robert pointed out to me --

"Get a several pairs and tell your house guests that they are special shoes just for them to wear while visiting. They'll do your cleaning without knowing it. Except they might get suspicious if you ask them to move the couch and walk behind it."

Perhaps the man has a point. If we could harness this stupid technology and use it for the powers of evil and manipulation, then, maybe then, it would have some worth...

BOTTOM LINE: I need to get into the industry so I can put forth some real concepts and ideas, courtesy of my Mental Manufactory!

Other-worldly

2007-01-02T15:16:00.000-08:00

Caution: This post may contain some Lost spoilers. If you aren't caught up with Season 3 (that means you, Advagounoush), you will want to avert your eyes from the humorous post below. This post was also assembled on the same line that handles peanuts and other nut-like products. Tread carefully.

After I purchased my sleek sexy new laptop computer with a 17" screen, it ended up not fitting into the old laptop case, as I had suspected. It was the classic rectangular peg into a square hole conundrum... or some such.

Back to CompUSA I travel for a new bag. Let me just say that this industry is a money-making scamfest of highwayrobbery and jackdaw theivery. These computer bags cost kooky mad skrilla! It's a bigger heistjob than computer cables! It's like the $20 CD scandal of the 90's. Serially, you guys.

Anway, as I'm doing my shopping with my good friend Cliff Bigtime, this salesguy comes over to chat us up. We're riffing about the prices and the cutsie computer totes with pink accents, etc. The Salesguy asks me if I'm using the new lappy for business purposes, and I said, yes actually. And he's all, how's about a jiggy lil biz discount? And I'm all, heckyes!

Somewhere along the way, I realize this guy is a spot-on ringer for this creepy character on the TV series, Lost. A slow tingle ran up my spine. I'm being helped by Henry Gale!!! I'm being helped by one of The Others!!!

Courtesy of Entertainment Weekly

Cliff can back me up on this (that is, if you actually knew him). He had the same eyes, facial features, and very similar hair. Okay, he didn't have the bruises and cuts, but I think I've solved one of the island's mysteries. Henry somehow escapes to Ohio (via a pneumatic air tube?) to work as a CompUSA Business Retail Manager. I took my business discount, never revealing to him that I was actually not an Other as he thought I was. But as Cliff put it, I don't want to be thrown in a cage and fed fish biscuits either.

I wish he would have asked me to enter "the numbers" on my credit card. Too bad my number doesn't contain 4815162342... (sigh)

And if you didn't understand a word of this post, just laugh because it's funny, and be genuinely creeped out by the creepiness of Henry Gale.

...The Conclusion

2006-12-30T21:53:00.000-08:00

To catch yourself up, make sure you read the previous post first : )

So my trip to Florida was enjoyable, albeit short. The weather was overcast and a bit rainy, but the temps were in the 70's, I had no agenda, so it was an overall success. My poor dear grandmother fell at the beach and broke her wrist on Christmas Eve! We had to drive her to the hospital with her mangled arm in a makeshift splint, courtesy of the Baywatch life guard guy. She pulled through and celebrated Christmas with her stylish cast and swelled up hand. She's a trooper!

Anyway, enough of that. I get back to Ohio and get the same out of state call again. I just missed it, so I quickly pulled up the number and dialed. It was the moment of truth... the conclusion to my cliffhanger that I thought about often when I was taking my evening walks in the warm salted Sarasota air. Was it Hot Server Guy trying to call me? The call went through. Two rings. I heard the click.

By the way, I'm typing this entry on my brand new laptop! It's a hottie and looks amazingly like this. I purchased it for two "solid" reasons: 1) my old laptop was 6 years old and struggled to open a web browser. Completing my freelance editing work will be a snap with some slick new hardware, and 2) I really wanted to buy this game and enjoy the killer graphics! Of course, the former was the true reason... at least that's my story, y'hear.

So I'm on the phone, the cables worm to life, the satellites bow to their masters, the switchboard operators patch me through, and fiber optics bridge me to... my prince in waiting?

Nope. Another guess? How about a fooking marketing research firm?

** Ding-ding-ding **

"Tell him what he's won, Johnny!"

"Army's won an all expenses paid vacation to Chumpsville!"

The good news is, I took my name off their call list. The bad news is, they made a point of saying they are exempt from the no-call list. Up yours.

I'm not shocked it wasn't Hot Server Guy, but it would have obviously been nice to hear his voice. But he may still contact me... it's an infinite universe. Anything's possible.

Mean time, I'm going to play some Far Cry : )

My brain is attached to an idiot!!

2006-12-22T22:00:00.000-08:00

For the past two days, I've been getting an out of state call from the same number. When I don't recognize a number, I usually let it to go voicemail to find out who it is. Well, this was from a state in which I don't know anyone, so I was suspcious... some kind of telemarketer? A Mazda rep calling for a customer satisfaction survey?

Four phone calls in two days and no message. Mom's all, "just answer it already and you'll know who it is." Well, I could be all direct about it, sure. But I prefer to be obtuse. Truthfully, she said that right after the last call, so I've been waiting for the mystery caller to ring me again so I can enact her Napoleonic strategery.

I was in the shower just now thinking about all kinds of things -- this is where I dream up some Mental Manufactory ideas, if that gives you any comfort or concern. In fact, I want to create a karaoke shower stall booth because EVERYONE sounds good singing in the shower. I think I'm onto something big, but that's for another post.

Anyway, in the midst of either lathering, rinsing, or repeating, I have this mental montage. What if it's Hot Server Guy calling me! Think back with me. I left him my phone number. Check. And he mentioned it was his last night working before going back home. Check. To this neighboring state, perhaps? Question mark. And why leave a message on your first call because it would be awkward, right? Yep.

IDIOT! Now I'm DEFINITELY answering when this number rings! And not to be all Debbie Downer, but I'll be honked off if 1) mystery caller gives up, never to call again, or 2) it ends up some long-lost friend or whatever. How dare you try to reconnect when I'm hopeful you were a hottie hot hot! I'd rather you were a donation collector from the Benevolent Order of Antelopes. Now get lost again!

Anyway, you likely won't get any conclusion to this tale until I return from Florida next week, so I leave you with this cliffhanger. Dum-duh-dum!

To be continued...

On the road again...

2006-12-21T07:25:00.000-08:00

Army here, reporting in amidst the packing of saddlebags and gifts as I first head back to my ancestral homeland of Ohio. There I'll enjoy a gift exchange with family before my next journey to Florida!

That's right, Christmas is in Florida this year! Well, I guess it's everywhere for those who celebrate it, but I'LL be in Florida for some 70+ degree weathered goodness : )

So I'll be loading up Andrew, with Pops as my copilot, and down south we shall travel to see our family in Sarasota. Our arrival is a surprise for the grandfolks! AJ is our co-conspirator inside agent.

As you can imagine, my blogging will be sparse until next year ticks over.

Happy holidays, dearest readers, and safe journeys for those taking to the roads, skies, and waters to be with loved ones.

I'll rock with you peeps again in the year of Bond (get it?). Gosh, I'm still so funny!!

What the #$*! do we know!?

2006-12-16T09:35:00.000-08:00

A while back, I read that Not So Single Guy had experienced a movie that literally rocked his perception of self and the world to its core. It challenged his assumptions on issues of love, religion, consciousness, reality, physics, emotions, and perception. In short, the movie challenged everything he knows and left him thinking... what the #$*! does he know?

Thus the title of this movie, which came from the evolution of its making, as the directors constantly faced new ideas and new ways of thinking. As you can already tell, I rented this movie and watched it already. Just now, in fact. The psychologist in me was too intrigued, and I was amazed how many of the ideas I had formulated about what I think God is, how religion and spirituality are not one in the same, and how we are active agents in our own lives making choices and (in a sense) selecting emotional paths, were all reflected in this movie. And of course, they brought up so many ideas I'd never considered, ways of thinking we'd just assume were silly or new age, or too stuffy and academic. This movie brought out the interconnectedness of everything in a very accessible way -- it was a mixture of a fictional story with a backdrop of conversational interviews with people from various fields of physics, psychology, anaesthesiology, and theology. It's relatable, and in that, I think it causes anyone open enough to it, to start asking questions. To engage in conversation.

The interviews on the B side were an insightful companion piece to the movie, that brought out the intentions and thought to its creation. The directors touch on the control and the surrender of the process. Very fascinating stuff!

I especially liked the dialogue on our perception of time. As many of you know, I am intrigued by time: our perception of it, how it is explained by science, and the ways in which we use it to confine and liberate ourselves. In the movie, one of the interviewees talks about how we can only experience the past through memory and we have no control over it. Yet our actions can affect what happens in the future; we just have no conscious experience of what the future will be.

Think about that. We live with this duality in ourselves in the present now, as you sit here now reading these words. Think back to a past moment that caused you to stop and ask yourself if your life is more than you think it is. It was a defining moment in memory, yes? Yet that is the totality of your access to it. You cannot change what you have already done. But more importantly, as you close your web browser and step away from the computer, there is possibility for change everywhere, in how you choose to treat a coworker, how you respond to a friend's words, or in the route you take on your way home. I feel, if we are to change anything in this world we do not like, we start by changing ourselves. And that involves shaking things up, asking questions, and being open. I think that's a powerful gift we all possess. But what the #$*! do I know?

Mustering An Army

2006-12-14T20:58:00.000-08:00

I went to dinner this evening with a good friend, V-Dub. We hadn't seen each other in a while, so we planned a dinner and movie (which is getting nixed until Sunday. We're going to see Blood Diamond).

Anyway, we decide on Chili's and I'm stoked for the chicken club tacos. I know Ramblergirl will be excited to read that they do indeed contain her favorite magical ingredient -- bacon! Everything is better with bacon... especially at Chili's : )

There is this totally hot/cute/gorgeous server working, and I immediate say to V-Dub, I hope he's our server. I must have saved up some good karma, because sure enough he was! Very nice guy, tall, great arms, nice chest (viewed through his fairly tight shirt), sweet smile, awesome hair... as Feyonce and I would say, he was perfick!

We tried to guage his vibe with our gaydars and homometers, and the signals were mixed, which to me was no shocker. I live in the realm of ambiguously straight men. They flock to me in bevies and droves. V-Dub keeps coaxing me to say something to him. The prospect terrified me for various reasons:

1. uncertainty of his orientation
2. awkwardness of putting that out there
3. possibility of rejection, or far worse, the flattered-yet-not-interested brush-off
4. i'm a big ol' puss in these situations
5. he seems to me to be out of my league

But that didn't stop me from flirting with him. He was quite busy, so I played the empathy card to garner a connection and when he apologized for neglecting us, I asked to speak with his manager. We joked that he probably has a fake name on his name tag. When I worked at The OG, mine said "Luke." V-Dub noticed that every time he came by, Hot Server ignored her and her need for a refill and paid attention to me. A good sign for me. Also, he started squatting down at our table to chat with us... and I didn't observe him do that with any other table. The evidence was mounting. Had my observational skill and detective work paid off?

At the end, we talked a bit more and turns out he's a grad student at the university. I told him I worked there, and the three of us had some vague social connections. I had to do something. After more encouragement from V-Dub, I decide to take a more subtle approach. When I got my credit card receipt back, I wrote him a note that said:

***************
Hot Server,
If you are interested in hanging out sometime, feel free to contact me. If not, I completely understand. Take it easy, man.
Army
(insert phone number and email)
***************

I slipped the note to a noticeable angle behind the credit card slip and we casually got the hell out of there. V-Dub's all, let's go watch him pick it up! So we pretend to converse in the parking lot while watching for him to stop by our table. He came back and grabbed it quickly, but I noticed him look at it. As we circle back to my car, she notices him through a window and said, "he looks really excited!" We saw him pass the window as we got into Andrew, and sure enough, he was more smiley than he had been before.

I was impressed with myself. That was a big step for me, and I figure what the hell, it's an opportunity I took advantage of. If he calls, great. If not, no big whoop. But who am I kidding, I hope he calls me! He was a dreamboat <-- how awfully 80's of me.

Mental Manufactory: Drive-In Theater with Stadium Parking

2006-12-12T16:24:00.000-08:00

Intuition is truly born in moments of ah-ha and eureka. I only have to offer up Exhibit A as a fine example of said stroke o' genius -- and that invention of mind is this installment of the Mental Manufactory.

Feast your eyes and brain on the concept at hand -- the drive-in theater with stadium-style parking!

Yeah so, the drawing is not quite to scale, and it looks more like an abandoned rock quarry site... but follow me on this one. The olden days drive-ins are outdated and busted. And we can't likely bring them back because of the dichotomy of automobiles on today's roads. It's a mixture of SUV's and subcompacts, along the spectrum from this big ol' ridonkulous tank to this bitty thing that looks like the Little Tike car from my childhood that my family couldn't afford but I really wanted. Result? Obstructed view of the movie screen. Now, you could raise the screen, but then everyone gets cramps from neck craning because of low profile windshields, etc. Let's save the neck pain for generous hickey recieval, shall we?

And the sweet icing on this delicious cake? Pneumatic tubes (like at the bank) that deliver your snacks from the concession stand. Place your order, swipe your card, and receive your popcorn via those clear plastic capsules with the cool twist open tops. Now, we have to work on transporting soda-pops, but just give me a little more time. I'm sure your mind is sufficiently blown away at the moment.

If this idea's a-rockin, that's cuz it's shockin!

Imitation is Flattering

2006-12-11T19:13:00.000-08:00

A good friend of mine sent me an email recently with updates on his world. Amidst it all was his latest artistic creation, which he calls Ripping Off Army. I call it full-on genius...

I love it! Take a bow, Benny! He had other ideas, like These Are Me Drinks, but alas they never saw the light of creation because he didn't have a "D" to photoshop into the picture.

He also had a good idea for a new header for my website links on the left column. So I have ripped him off and given credit where it's due. Be sure to check out "These Are Me Links." Clever! Why didn't I think of that??

Buried Expectations: Red Planet

2006-12-05T20:10:00.000-08:00

Recently I had this urge to paint after being inspired by an episode of Six Feet Under. I followed my impulses and let expression take over. I reached for certain colors and brushes. The canvas changed before my eyes. How exciting! What would my mind and hand create without much censorship? Well, the answer is, crap.

Trust me when I say this wasn't a creator's self-deprecation... the painting was garbage. I have at least one witness to back me up. I can only partially blame it on the lack of various paint colors. Sometimes, reality fails to meet an expectation. I left the work abandoned in my computer room, scolding it every time I laid eyes on it. It was the burdensome Gregor of Kafka's The Metamorphosis and I became its embittered caretaker. Well, not really, but it sounds rather dramatic in those terms!

As it turns out, a metamorphosis was exactly what I had in mind. I would paint over the bad work and make it good. I bought a new supply of colors (specifically warm colors red and orange) and set out to cover up the past. I got this image of explorers on Mars uncovering something that should have been left buried. I'm not sure what it was, but I decided I had to keep some of the old work revealed, peeking from the depths like a secret, viewed only from a satellite's perspective.

That's my pretentious way of saying in mixed a bunch of colors together and let loose. And overall, I'm pleased with the results. I ended up covering up a bold color contrast that didn't look right... so there are many applied layers of paint. But that works well because the flaws create textures. Flaws aren't so bad.

Sea Change

2006-12-03T21:07:00.000-08:00

This has been a surreal weekend. It has involved flashes of moments in my memory -- opportunities to pursue, relationships to reflect on, life to examine, and enjoyment to be had.

Friday night I forced myself to go to a poetry slam on campus. I had mixed intentions to perform, as the theme was social justice and my more refined pieces do not relate to that theme. I flipped back through my writing journal to an entry I had made for the purpose of spoken word. Like everything I write, I'm usually ambivalent about it at first. It feels forced, broken, and incoherent. It comes out of me in a rush of ink and quickly I will close the book and turn off the light for bed. I had written this piece months ago. As I read back through it, I felt it was so much stronger. Maybe because it had a venue now, the words were clearer. I think it takes time to process, to step away, and come back to it from a different place. After showing up to the slam, I assessed the crowd of mostly undergrads (two of them were my students) and decided not to perform. It was short, with only six performers, but I enjoyed being in the moment of expression.

Afterward, I called Ted. I have been thinking about him for a long long while, at quiet moments or at times of sexual frustration. Recently we have been communicating more. I invited him to the slam but our schedules mismatched. I asked him to my place for a chat. He broke up with a guy recently. Ted proceeds to detail a story of this guy being too pursuant too quickly and not wanting to grow the friendship first. I listened with mock reflection, finger poised on my chin, nodding dramatically. "Fascinating. Doesn't this all sound awfully familiar to you?" He was living our past relationship from my end of it. Ted was the pushy take things faster guy for me. Had he come around? Grown to a center of more even-keeled relationships? He certainly looked as good as ever. The sexual tension was palpable, hidden beneath sarcasm and wit. Perhaps we have a second chance.

Saturday involved a unisex baby shower and a birthday party, both involving Feyonce and her Non-boyfriend. The shower allowed me to catch up and enjoy the company of many of my work friends. And to see Smartens and Rasmatic as the excited parents-to-be. They will be fun parents. I got to chat more with Feyonce and Non-boyfriend at the birthday party. We kinda ditched early for some Jupiter's pizza. We had a great time talking about travel, people, and our usual blend of salt, sass, juvenile humor, and wit. I love those two!

And today, a dear friend and I went shopping. We haven't had our old one-on-one days together, and it was like those times again. She bought these soft comfy bed sheets made of microloft that are heaven to wrap yourself in. Back at her place, we stripped the old sheets and tucked in the new. Nestled in a warmth, we lay there and talked about life, drifting on the brink of sleep and wakefulness. It felt safe and blissful.

The backdrop of these events was the final season of Six Feet Under. I ran through every emotion as I watched the characters I have grown to know play out their final chapter. Never has a television show affected me like this. The characters are full, even the minor ones. They are flawed. They feel real. A true testament to the producers, writers, and actors. The series finale left me in awe. The last scene particularly. The show was magic to me.

This weekend was magic. And I'm not sure how these words express it, if words ever truly can recreate emotion and context. Perhaps it was a "had to be there" experience. But I can say that it got me thinking about changes. The place where sea and land meet is a constant change - tides flow in, brush against land, and pull back beneath the surface. Does the same water ever return again? And if it does, it will meet new land, as sand is recycled, squished between toes, shoveled with empty shells.

Has Ted come back to a changed me as a different person himself? And why does my writing sound and feel different with the passage of time? Maybe it's a new perspective. Different facets have been unearthed and exposed. We are the sand that is changed, and we are the water that makes the change. Tomorrow is a new me. And a new you. That fact leaves me tickled with anticipation. And afraid of the cold rush of transition.

P.S. Be sure to check out the song "Transatlanticism" by Death Cab for Cutie. My mind is blown.

My Two Boys

2006-11-30T21:15:00.000-08:00

The unthinkable has happened -- I purchased a new car! For any of you who knew Tyler, my lil MINI Cooper, this is probably a big shock to your system. Trust me, I was just as jolted by the experience, and even after a week with Andrew, my brand new Mazdaspeed 3, I still ask myself at times, "What the hell did I do??"

Let's fall back to the expostition from that jarring climax. My family likes to test drive cars. For some time, I had been considering an upgrade to the new turbo-charged 2007 MINI Cooper S. I've always somewhat regretted getting the automatic transmission, yet didn't have the guts to get it with Tyler. Despite that, I loved my MINI.

Anyway, I was both impressed and a bit disappointed with the new features on the 07 MINIs. I won't boggle you with the details, but suffice it to say, I felt like I'd be settling on features that I'm a stickler about. What can I say, I'm a fickle old thing. I've had my eye on the Subaru WRX for quite a while, even when I was shopping around pre-Tyler. And now I was thinking WRX Sport Wagon. During Thanksgiving back in Ohio, I was set for a test drive. I looked up the consumer ratings on the WRX and they were abysmal! Even more disappointment. I noticed the Mazda 3 in the category of similar cars and checked it out. It was a recommended Best Buy with superb ratings, and new for 2007, there was a turbo-charged 6 speed manual model! I logged onto Mazda's website and built my very own Mazdaspeed 3, free of charge. And it had all the features I have really wanted.

Next day, Vick, Greg, and I head to the dealership. As it's no likely shocker, I don't care for most car salesman. They can be a smarmy, slickster old bunch. I was fortunate when I met Mr. Knox because he was the best kind of salesman -- laid back, quiet, and no pressure. He said they actually had one Mazdaspeed on the lot, and he was surprised because they were very popular. I notice it is black, my requisite color. I check out the rap sheet, and it has every single feature I wanted, not one more or less!! Was this kizmet?

We drove the car and all loved it. This car has some g-force action when the turbo kicks in! It has nice leather and cloth seats, an ipod hook-up, sweet cockpit gauges, Bose sound system, xenon headlights, and some sexy lines and style to it. Well, things progressed, I decided to talk more with Mr. Knox, and everything just felt right. I was offered more for Tyler than I owed on him. Before I knew it, I had decided to move forward with the purchase and trade-in.

I have to say, it was hard to see Tyler go. We've had great times together. The Miss MINI Chambana 4th of July Parade. All the MINI rallies I've attended. The motoring experiences we've had. You can say it's only a car, but the MINI had a culture around it. It was truly fun. I met so many great people from around the state and here in town. They are my friends. In some ways it will be sad to not be a part of that. But in all, I now have a car that is sporty, practical, and even more fun to motor in.

As I said, everyone has been stunned at the change. But the story tells it all...well, that and a short race around town! I know that JP the British Boss was at a loss. He was impressed with Andrew, yet he was a little sad about my withdrawal from MINI culture. But that bum hadn't been to a rally in who knows how long, so work through it, old bean!

Mike took the sleek photo below of Andrew and his new friend. During the shoot, this black cat sauntered up to check out Andrew. She sniffed his tailpipe, and must have thought him a tomcat because she kept sassing around him. It's clear that Andrew's hotness transcends species!

And with each day, my driving improves. I was a bit of a clutch klutz in the beginning, but I'm on my way to being a pro. I've learned you can't really start off in third gear. You can't get flustered in traffic. Herky-jerky shifting is to be expected. Manual transmissions are indeed a lot of fun to drive!! I'm addicted to shifting now : )

Detective Army on the Beat

2006-11-24T10:00:00.000-08:00

I recently promoted myself from gumshoe to professional investigator (the peeps in our community are no longer hip to the busted moniker of private investigator). My comeupance was all due to my crack skills of sleuthing, observation, intuition, and a little thing I like to call artistic integrity. That's right, I am otherwise proficient in the clandestine arts.

I reported in a previous post about this epic dream my brain conjured one night. In it, I mentioned a particular mystery perplexing my home - I had been finding empty peanut shells all over my property. Not enough for an epidemic, few enough to evade notice at first. Once detected, I found them on my driveway, in my yard, in the back, in the front, on the side. Did I have a resident squirrel with a housekeeping problem? Was there an elephant in the room I wasn't noticing? Could it be a litterbug? I donned my Sherlock Holmes hat, lit my drop style pipe, and positioned my magnifying glass before my right eye. I was on the case.

At first, it was all red herrings and dead ends. I balked at my TV peers Angela, Columbo, and Perry. I couldn't wrap up this mystery in 44 minutes with commercial breaks. My thinking started to cloud. Everything became a clue to me. Everyone had a motive - the postman, the garbage haulers, the woman waiting for the bus. And they were all in cahoots. Suspicion became my shadow, following me around, always begging more questions and pointing fingers. I was in search of justice in an imperfect world. The case consumed my life. I had to crack the mystery soon, or I would become empty inside, like those broken peanut hulls.

I had decided to rake my yard to get my mind off of things. An idle mind wanders. I had to involve myself in some absorbing errand. During my respite, the neighbor behind me stepped out of his front door. He is an elderly gentleman who takes walks regularly around the block. He has this wheeled walker he uses to remain stablized. As he approached me, we started chatting about leaves, allergies, and weather. It was a pleasant conversation. He was so disarming, I let my guard down. The case took retreat from my mind. It was a mistake. Once your vigilance weakens, the criminal evades your gaze, slips into a shadow, retreating into the night, disappearing with abbra-cadabbra.

Perched within the confines of the neighbor's walking machine, I found the smoking gun. The nexus of my nightmares, the origin of the case. The beginning and the end. Peanuts. Shells and all. I had ignored the gentle "elephant" in the room. Any good detective will tell you that no one is above suspicion. I had overlooked Mr. Walker. With such a critical error, I called my own ability into question.

The case was solved, but the resolution was bittersweet. After I finished raking my leaves, I went inside to hang up my detective gear. Justice was restored, but at what cost? I'm not sure when I'll be ready to return to the beat. Perhaps I wouldn't. But deep down, I knew the call of the mystery would eventually bring me back. It was in my blood. For now, it lay dormant, waiting for soul searching, for an innter redemption of my resolve.

There Goes The Neighborhood

2006-11-20T20:36:00.000-08:00

Literally, my neighborhood is vanishing before my eyes. I received two separate letters from the city within a week of each other. The first letter informed me that a city tree on my property was being removed because of its poor health. Not sure which tree it is, as there are four "city" trees on my land, which I can only assume are the trees between the sidewalk and the street. It's either the big guy who sheds bark like my brother's sharpei... or it's the lil guy next to my driveway with the white circle on it. I think the lil guy has been tagged for the chipper... he doesn't look all sickly, but I'm not the City Arborist (yes, it was capitalized in the letter). So what do I know?

For a $20 fee, I can "apply" for a replacement tree and select from a list of choices. Then this fancy City Arborist will review my application, assess my land, and pass almighty judgement. If this Godfather of Flora approves, I'll get my tree replacement... WITHIN TWO YEARS! Let's not put too fine a point on it! Freakin' mob syndicate. Try planting a Gofuqurself Palm. Two years.

Then I get another notice, initially thinking its more shady dealing of this City Arborist, but I find a map inside. Hmm. I turn it over and see a House Moving Notice. One of my neighbors is applying to physically move their house. And I can make comments at some City Council meeting. How about, don't crash into my house while you're at it, but if you happen to doze through the sickly tree, no foul. I think it will be cool to watch the house uprooted and whisked away -- I'll definitely throw a House Moving party with some front-row seats!

What I find most humorous is that the house moving project will occur "sometime prior to December 30, 2006!" They can move an entire house within a month but the tree, well, may take a few years. Oh well. You can't fight City Hall.

Etymology of Inappropriate Things

2006-11-15T21:47:00.000-08:00

If you haven't read on the news wire, my boss JP is a bit British. He's a Welshman actually. And as a result, he has a penchant for busting out the Britishism, often leaving us with contorted faces, sideways glances, and the proverbial scratched heads.

He'll toss in words/phrases like mollycoddled, dross, knackered, cocking a snoot, smarmy, and loads others I can't recall. JP is a nut, god bless him!

Today was an especially funny/dirtay circumstance involving such diction.

Backstory: I bought the new Staind DVD for Sylvia last night whilst out at Best Buy and dropped it in her work mailbox today.

Story: I am doing my job, walking through our kitchen (in the House That Asbestos Built) and overhear JP and Sylvia talking about the word buggery. Yes, most appropriate work chat, but that's JP for you. Apparently Sylvia asked him about it because he dropped a paper and called out "Bugger!" She thought he said "Fucker" which is quite hilarious itself. Sylvia asks what it means in jolly old England, as its connotation seems different in the States. So as is often the case, JP (with his masters in History) waxes over the origins of the word and its changed meaning through time. In a nutshell, it has to do with anal sex.

As he's finishing his diatribe, Sylvia looks at me and says "I'm so excited about what you put in my box."

To which I reply, "And I'm so excited about getting my $14 from you."

JP, with his typical gutter mind, says, "Wait a minute. You're talking about him putting something in your box and now you owe him $14. You have some explaining to do." LMAO

Dirty ol' git! Talk about smarmy! Sylvia and I bowed our heads in shame while laughing... because he wasn't exactly quiet about it... and he was standing by the doorway that leads into the lobby where the students are waiting!!

This is the man who got on some tangent a while back about Koko the gorilla and how she sexually harasses her female handlers. Then he makes a comment about her putting her breast on the plate glass like in some movie...

Oy! That's my crazy boss! A regular J. Peterman!

Comedy Hour

2006-11-14T21:54:00.000-08:00

It's hard work to help the children. We're at the ass-end of a long autumn strangle at work -- registration time! It's when my job becomes a call center for the helpless, the procrastinators, those who choose not to read, and those who are not active participants in their education. What I affectionately term - the dregs. And it's bad when a procrastinator player-hates his own people. But c'mon people... please.

In the office, we constantly trade stories about student meetings that have left us shocked, dumbfounded, and downright pissed off. Folks, start weeping for our future now. We got some up-and-coming winners making their way to the job market. But don't worry too much... their parents are micromanaging it all, so it's cool.

Anyway, we always see students who either want business or pre-med or engineering blah blah blah. You know, the BORING AND TRITE majors. Choosing a major isn't free association, folks!

Me: "Say the first thing that comes to mind! GO!"

Student: **insert regurgitation noises**

I'm quite happy with the students who can cut it in those disciplines and have a genuine interest with the good to back it up, but for the dregs who won't let a bad nightmare end, you just want to scream, "What are you, some kind of idiot? What the fark is your problem? YOU CAN'T CUT IT!! Your grades are abysmal! IT ISN'T GOING TO HAPPEN! Now face reality or do me a favor and go PLAY IN TRAFFIC!!" I'm a humanist, by the way.

So a fellow advisor was talking to this business wanna-be who was getting huffy over his lack of skills for getting into the ivory tower of elitism. Diligent as she is, she tries to explain it's not an option and asks about his back-up plan. Crickets. She discusses some options in Liberal Arts and Sciences, to which he replies, "I don't want a useless degree." Jackass. It's people like this that I enjoy being their Dreambuster -- they get a proton-pack of reality jolted right in their face!

Like how many people in this world have LAS degrees? A bajillion. How many of them work in a company doing "business" stuff? A grillion. How stupid is this kid (and all of his ilk)? Infinity!

Today I invented a new reply to this kind of statement: "Yeah well, there really aren't any useless degrees, but there are some useless people who earn them." I want to take this one for a test drive so bad!

I'm determined to turn the pain of the job into a pleasure. Potential hitch: Can you have a comedy hour with no cocktails, though? Speaking of which, my Sis-n-Law got me hooked on pineapple rum and fruit juice. I may have to bring some to work in a concealed container for secret sipping. And a dime bag from Humboldt County.

Let the Dreambusting continue!

Creative Itch

2006-11-12T10:00:00.000-08:00

Recently I've been locked into a creative prison of sorts. I have felt inspired to paint and write and perform spoken word, but nothing coherent has been coming out. It's as if I can look outside at the freedom of expression, but I'm being kept away from it by forces unknown.

I should stop betching about it and just create things, even if they suck. But there is a trick to finding inspiration from the writing on Six Feet Under or blasting the powerful tunes of Beck and Thom Yorke -- they're creative geniuses becomes this unattainable quality, separated by a great divide of my talent and theirs. But why am I comparing myself to them? And why am I comparing raw expression to a "completed" and refined work? Cuz I'm thinking like a doody-head. And I'm convinced bloggers are mostly people who have to express their feelings as the experience them, as a kind of mental sketchpad to work out a solution... like the Wile E. Coyote Acme Blueprint for Certain Failure.

And come to think of it, he is a role model in his own bumbling way. He was blown up, shot down, dropped of cliffs, suspended in midair (just for torture and effect), and conked on the head with all manner of blunt heavy objects. And he persisted.

Back to the old drawing board...

Mostly Beta-ed

2006-11-11T14:08:00.000-08:00

I just completed the second part of my blog upgrade. It's taken over four hours to put together what you see pixelated on the screen. Can't tell the difference? Well, that's because there basically IS NO DIFFERENCE!! I've spent 4 hours getting my beta template back to how it used to be!!!

The new coding has taken some getting used to and almost everything in the code is formatted differently. It's actually better coding, but requires some relearning, delearning, and a few gutteral top-of-my-lungs screams of FUH-Q frustration!

The new template features are nice -- you'll notice the only big change is with the right sidebar contents. Hopefully it will be easier to view related topics and archived posts with this new update. I still need to fix up the Lines of Thought labels, but I need to eat right now.

I have some other updates to share, so hopefully another post will come along soonly. Later!

The Non-Dating Game

2006-11-05T23:11:00.000-08:00

Warning: This post is littered with really bad sports analogies.

I received a call from Desperate Not to Be Single Guy about hanging out because he's bored. That's what he always says, "I'm bored." I find the sentiment to be a medley of insult and flattery. Admittedly, I was in a funky mood because of an emotionally intense hour of Six Feet Under. I didn't feel like talking or making plans for today, so I called a "rain delay" and committed to hanging out tomorrow.

I had a convo with Feyonce a bit later to hash out the situation. We both find his over-assertion tinted with a bit of...desperation, if that's the word. It's an eagerness for us to be in the midst of a deep relationship, which I guess is normal after hanging out twice while watching movies. And all the hand holding was annoying. I kept wondering when my obligation was contractually over. At one point I balled my hand into a fist. He tried to break through. It was like the Battle of the Bulge (and not in a good way). My forces were surrounded by his army of fingers and I simply couldn't surrender. I didn't want to. I wasn't ready.

I told Feyonce I need a Get Out of Intimacy Free card. She said I could just pull my hand away, and with the other, produce the GOIF card without a word spoken. The card says it all. I likened it to the ref throwing the foul card on the field. I think Desperate...'s trying to steal the next base, hoping to get my backfield in motion, or maybe he just wants some high-sticking. No matter what, I'm calling his plays. I'm not ready for a doubles match that is love-all.

I have to admit I had a physiological reaction to all the handedness. As he held onto me, I developed a lower back pain. I withdrew myself, walked it off, and the pain vanished. I was pain free until he grabbed onto me again. Then it came back. I've allegedly developed a psychosomatic reaction to intimacy. My body and brain have teamed up to reject intimacy!

It's like I'm the goalie of this fauxship and he's the forward trying to hit one in. Can I ever get in league with someone who puts me on the defensive?

I had dinner with B-Dub and El Nino, and we also hashed, rehashed, and prehashed. Apparently Desperate... has been texting and emailing B-Dub to ask what I've said about him. Again, he's wearing too much of that new fragrance, Desperation. Not a fan of that smell. B-Dub has remained loyally quiet but subtly pointed out to him that Army is no fan of his clingy conduct. We think he's new to relationships like I am, but his tactics don't quite match with mine.

Well sports fans, it's not over yet, but we seriously have to exchange play books and level the playing field here. Open communication is important for any team, so tomorrow will be movie-free and more about getting to know one another. Maybe we can become teammates, but we aren't there yet. Time will tell.

Ex, Why, Zzz

2006-10-30T20:47:00.000-08:00

This weekend, I broke up with a long-time on-again off-again boyfriend. We go way back, and it seems our relationship has always been this repeated cycle. Looking back on it, I think of how I knew it was coming each time, but when it finally ended, it was a shock. How could he be out of my life again? Did the last seven months mean nothing?

Some of you may not have known about this relationship, but you probably know him. His name is Daylight Savings Time, or DST. I affectionately refer to him as Dale. And now he just seems a distant memory to me. It was as if one hour he was there, and the next he was gone. He was now an Ex. Again. What's also bizarre is as he left, I thought to myself, I wish I could get back that hour of my life. And miraculously, my prayers were answered. God works in mysterious ways. But alas, it was a consolation prize. A parting gift with an expiration date.

We promised to meet up again when things have settled. We promised each other we'd stay together longer next time... longer than we ever had before. I'm looking forward to that time we'll have together. Let's just hope the extra time doesn't turn into ex-tra strength pain if we separate again. It's bound to happen. Why do I put myself through this? Why do I let him back into my life? Is it because he brightened up my day or seemed to focus on the lighter side of life? He was a sunny fellow, and part of me will miss that quality of his. It's as if the days get darker earlier since he left.

I tried to sleep, but I'm haunted by his ghost, as if by fate, on All Hallows Eve. His ghost had changed some of my clocks but not all of them. A gesture, no doubt, to remind me that he has left and to give me a task that may bring some closure to it all. When I set back those clocks, I'm resetting myself. He may have thrown off my sleep cycle, but I have to move on. I can't live in the past.

I'm sure we'll see each other again, Dale. You are an intrical part of my life. I know there is one state you will not enter, and it's tempting to run there. But I can't. We were meant to be together. Come back to me when you're ready.

The Unexpected

2006-10-26T21:41:00.000-07:00

Today some coworkers and I were walking back from a staff lunch in a misty rain. We approach the crosswalk, and as I turn to make sure traffic is clear, this Channel 15 News SUV barrels around the corner at 200 mph. I see the white blur whiz past and practically jump back like a cartoon character who realizes he's walked off the cliff's edge. I'm all "Good lord! Must be a slow news day so they are running down pedestrians! I can hear the anchor now... We were the only camera crew on the scene for this live, local, late-breaking report..." Joiks!

I'm listening to the new Beck CD (which I had no clue was released) and so far I love it! It has 15 songs, which is rare in this age of a shatty music industry with their typical 11-12 songs per CD because that's what appeases the short attention spanned masses formula. I hate it when artistic integrity and creativity are undercut for homogenized bullshat. Anyone can release a set of 11 songs that predictably start and stop with 2 seconds in between. But what about amazing albums with songs that segue in and out of each other, include little song vignettes, or have a cohesive, epic flow to them? I offer Exhibit A, Exhibit B, and Exhibit C as my prime examples.

Anyway, my favorite snippets from Beck's album so far:

- Very first lyrics on the album -- "1...2...you know what to do!"

- Lyrics that resonate with me very much -- "Think I'm in love but it makes me kinda nervous to say so." You'll understand if you read about my internet pursuer, Desperate Not to Be Single Guy.

He did call me because we're planning another scary movie night for tomorrow. He called to tell me he found a movie guaranteed to scare me or he'll buy me lunch. How sweet : ) Now I just need some therapy in order to not screw anything up and actually give this potential relationship a shot.

I told my friend about my dislike of the C-word... cuddle. And that I substituted it with huddle instead. She was like "Well you know, huddling implies more than two people involved." Hmm, good point. I'll have to re-tool that one.

Non-Men, Non-Boyfriend, Non-Date

2006-10-23T21:00:00.000-07:00

Dear readers, I have returned! Did you even know I was gone? Come to think of it, I didn't get any frantic emails asking about my absence? No pleas for more stories, more updates, more thinks...

You bums!! Pay attention to me!!

Okay, I'm done with my histrionic episode -- I wouldn't be a blogger if I didn't hatch some ploy for attention once and a while...

I was away most of last week because of a conference in Indianapolis. I had a great time hanging out with coworkers, stepping out for the evening... oh yeah, I also learned a lot about my profession too ; )

One of the highlights was going out for dinner and drinks with JP the British Boss and one of the Biz-nass advisors. We started at this Irish pub, in which I consumed two Bailey's on ice and a Murphy's stout. Dinner for me was monte cristo. JP and Mr. Biz both got bangers and mash. The conversations were all over the place. I kept eyeing a hot waiter and the cute host boy. The girls next to us were singing "Living on a Prayer" waaaaaay out of tune. After dinner, we headed over to Ram for more drinks and a lively discussion about kids these days. Another Bailey's for me. I turned in at 2 a.m. Oh, did I mention I had to present at 8 a.m. LOL

After our presentation on Saturday, Feyonce and I decide to hit the downtown mall for some real shopping that the Paign just can't offer. I have a confession -- I really like H & M, even if it is mostly eurotrashwear. Some of it is a mess, but I bought a grey zip sweater with red trim -- it's swanky AND is extra long for my long spindly arms! Thank god for svelt Europeans!

Anyway, as we're going round the stores, I can't help but notice how un-men menswear has become. Capri pants, cutsy underwear, and carry-alls? I'm all for metro and getting in touch with the feminine, but we are still men, right? Guys, am I right? So what's with all the manpri pants, manties (men panties), and murses (man purses) out there? What happened to Bermuda shorts, boxers, and a wallet? There can't be that many gay people in this world! And by the way straight white men, quit trying to encroach on the minority fun! Trying to be blacker, latino-er, gayer, female-r... you get unparalleled access to power positions and wealth -- get your own identity!

And speaking of which, has anyone seen Carson Daly recently? Is he trying to get an ethni-change? He looked faux-tanned with relaxed hair when I saw him on his show? Was it just the lighting that episode? I don't normally catch TV, so it's been a while since I saw him in his Total Request Live days, but he looked supiciously like he wanted to look like someone who was ethni-cool.

I teased Feyonce about her Non-Boyfriend. She refuses to use the term, which I find humorous. She kept picking out these sheer outfits at all the stores, which I called fore-mal wear (i.e., foreplay pre-sex romp-wear). She was all "but it's 50% off!" To which I replied "and it will be 100% off once he sees you in it!" I'm so happy Feyonce has a Non-Boyfriend Man Lover.

And speaking of which, I had a hang-out with my internet pursuer. Note how I will not use any of those familiar terms either. He came over to hang out for a bit and watch a scary movie. He insisted on "Session 9" as he had never seen it before. We agreed the only way to view such a movie is with all lights off. He admitted to getting freaked out during creepy movies and said he may need to "cuddle." During the movie, he kept edging closer during the unsettling parts until we were touching under the blanket. And we did huddle for a while, which was nice. Afterward, we watched the special feature that's creepier than the movie. Allie can attest to that! Then we talked for a while about ourselves, photography, and listened to some music. Turns out he's been inside Ashmore Estates, too! Each of us tried to play a song on my piano that's the most out of tune piano ever -- we pulled the dischord on that pretty quickly. Then he left with our plans made to watch another movie again soon.

It felt natural for only having a few conversations beforehand. Even though he's more touchy-feely than I am (which doesn't take much), it didn't feel forced. And I like that. I will have to take back my earlier judgmental wise-ass comments... well, not all of them. That would require me to erase my entire blog!

Now comes the hard part. I have to come up with a name for him! Who knows... maybe he'll become my Non-Boyfriend?

Inflation, Currency, The Meet-Market

2006-10-15T21:31:00.000-07:00

My Random Sunday got me thinking about a few things:

First off, winter has put its foot in the door a bit too soon. Nobody likes an early house guest who just lingers around and makes you all uncomfortable. Winter, like all good seasons, must wait its turn! In fact, show up fashionably late, like at a quarter-to-NEVER!

Ambiguously Straight Guy called me out of nowhere to have dinner at a delicious Mexican restaurant in town (no, NOT Taco Bell). He met this friend though a hobby/interest of his and wants to set us up. I'm like, is it because we're the only two gay guys you know (besides yourself)? I like trying to throw him off guard because it's my personality and it's my form of flirting with him. He tried to back pedal, which was humorous to watch.

He's telling me how he's getting a new bed (currently has a twin size!) and I congratulate him on graduating into adulthood. He wants 800 count sheets because the "ladies" know the difference. I was like, you need all the help you can get huh? Already need bells n' whistles at your age? Again, I'm being a punk. He says something about a professional paying attention to every detail. I'm all, so you are a professional? What service agency do you escort out of? Or are you an independent contractor? I kid him a bit more about being a sexpert, again, to be an ass. There was also some joke about him being an orgy guy... and I point out no one likes an anal-retentive orgy coordinator... but maybe an anal-attentive one. It was all gutter-bound from there, thanks to me. But he did go to a gay dance club and shake his groove in the cage with two girls (i.e., his future fag hags). I was impressed he went, and he blushed about a guy saying he was cute. Mmm-hmm.

Afterward, I went to my favorite coffee house to do some work and enjoy a chai tea. Like usual, I ran into the Two Dollar Lady on the street. She's famous downtown for always yelling, "Hey Mister! You got two dollars?" Since when do the homeless ask for TWO dollars? Has inflation made that much impact? What is the minimum wage for a beggar? I have to say, she does treat panhandling like a job, and Two Dollar Lady is truly a shrewd businesswoman. Personally, I think she's one of those eccentric misers who collects money and stuffs it in her pillow cases to appease some kind of hording compulsion. Next time I see her, I'll be like "Hey Miss? You got two million dollars?"

Then I got to thinking that if a panhandler can up the ante, maybe we need to update our traditional sayings. Is it enough to give our two cents worth anymore? Doesn't that just add up to a shitty opinion these days? Benjamin Franklin said a penny saved is a penny earned, but in his day, that penny went pretty far. Now it gets you a horsy ride at the grocery store for 30 seconds. Heck, we're giving away pennies at the gas station! If alive today, would he say a dollar saved is a dollar earned? Maybe a fiddy saved is a fiddy earned? Did the U.S. Mint anticipate all this inflation and for that reason, stick his likeness on a hundred dollar bill and not the penny?

After an onslaught of emails, I finally got to chat online with Desperate Not To Be Single Guy. He seems nice and is looking for similar things in a guy that I would want. But I'm just a take-it-slow person and not a fan of the contrived realm of "dating." I don't like that word. Too charged for me. Fraught with certain expectations. In fact, I tell people I've never been on a date. But I have hung out many times. Yeah, I'm weird. Send me recommendations for a good shrink!

The worst person to pair me with is someone who comes off as desperate or pushy or eager. I've already lamented about Ted in search of his manacea. I like casual, effortless, natural situations. Desperate...Single Guy was ready to move in and be my husband! Well, not that bad, but I was all -- deep breaths, I'm not going anywhere, let's not look for commitment rings just yet. I have to say, this guy is persistent! This Army was evading his advances with skilled aplomb and shooting down his requests with Patriot missiles of Maybe! What is it about me recently that screams "keep harping Army for his attention"? Or let's bury him in a ever-growing manslide?

Why am I complaining about this? I being the anal-retentive one whose checking for all the details I want to see and not just letting things unfold. Is it because I've been single for so long, I feel too safe in my Army of One? Maybe I have become afraid of a kind of relationship inflation - from my single status to that of a couple? If I have an interest, I should meet up with him. And think of it as a variable interest... I'm not locking into a fixed interest that will keep me stuck. Great, first I associate marriage with death and prison, and now I'm treating dating like a financial transaction. Maybe I should be in the escort service, as it turns out. God knows I have a growing clientele base!!

At any rate, I should sell while my stock is high, lest I hold out too long and am forced to sell out to the lowest bidder -- loneliness. I think I've stretched this metaphor too far.

Addendum: Raining Men

2006-10-12T19:30:00.000-07:00

It's cold enough outside to be snowing men, but that just wouldn't make sense, now would it?

As a punctuation to A Night Like No Other Part 1 and Part 2, I am being pursued by this guy through a social networking website (NOT Myspace...I do have standards, after all). He's come out of no where and keeps sending me messages! He's already requested my IM screen name and asked me to text him (which my olden days phone can't do). He's all trying to hunt me down and forciably chat with me! He's gathering intelligence, scouting my defenses, and preparing to invade my borders.

What is it with men?! When it rains, it certainly does pour! The man drought is officially over! And I can't stop punctuating with exclamation points!

Like A Calliope, Army Let's Off Some Steam

2006-10-11T21:01:00.000-07:00

Movement One - Rage Against the Machine

I may work in the asbestos infested Nexus to the Portal of Hell, and sure, at any moment the whole damned thing may cave in and kill me, but at least I don't work for the college on our campus that recently joined the Axis of Evil. I have decided to protect its anonymity, so I'll refer to it as the College of Biz-nass. They operate like a bunch of Imperialists in ivory palaces. And underneath their white gloves are gold-ringed greasy fingers eager to clutch wads of sweaty money. They probably have a money bin like Uncle Scrooge's somewhere on campus. And I bet they hate babies, too.

So what bothers me about Biz-nass? Is it that students need a 6.0 GPA to get in? Or their elitist velvet rope mentality of growing a small college...on a campus of 31,000? Or their lame inability to be honest so they can come off as good guys? Don't get me wrong, I think majoring in Biz-nass is ultra boring and oversubscribed. But the only thing worse than another Economics class, in my opinion, are snooty little trolls with bad attitudes towing the college line.

Biz-nass skirts the rules, throws their weight around, makes up their own policies, and they carry on unchecked. Worst off, they aren't student friendly. That's what mostly pisses me off. They are alumni friendly. And corporate sponsor friendly. They are running Biz-nass like it is a business. And the only thing worse than snooty little trolls are corporate fat cats smoking in the back room, sipping brandy and talking war strategy...while kicking puppies and using bullshit buzzwords.

Show some dignity. If you want to be all superior, do it with class. And remember, you are here to help the children. You know, those bodies in your classes paying ridiculous tuition for your snooze-a-thon classes in Finance blah blah blah?

Movement Two - Rage Against the Brattlings

Around 9:30 p.m. last night, I'm driving Schteener to her car, and we see all these students heading to the campus bars. These are probably the bums who don't come to our appointments because it's too cold, too wet, too warm, too early, too late, Friday, Monday, or any other lame-ass excuse. But don't they look lively in their matching shirts on the way to a bar crawl? Schteener asks what's bringing them out to drink on a Tuesday. I'm like, because it's a Tuesday. Or a Wednesday. Thursday. No excuses required when hoochies, dudes, and cheap brew are involved. Homework stands in the way of no undergrad!

Can you tell we've been overworked and need a break? We don't really despise the kids, but some of them make you wonder.

Then I start my tirade:

"Little brats can't be bothered to show up to class or even pass their exams! But they all want to go to Biz-nass and cash in their degree for a high paying lucrative management position! Not going to happen! They should all just drop out right now. Or better yet, they should attend the College of Booze-ness! Can I major in Alcoholism? I want to get a B.A. in Drunkeness. That's just B.S. !"

I think it was more eloquent as I said it, and I had Schteener hurting laughing. You should see me on a rampage. It's pretty funny when I let off steam. And maybe this is too situational, so you all aren't getting any of this. Inside humor!

Movement Three - Rage Against You

If you're still mulling over what a Calliope is, do I have to spell it out for you? Go look it up for crying out loud!!