Margaritas En Masse

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

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.

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.

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

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

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

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...

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

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

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.