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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.