Lucky Six

"I think I’d better let it go … looks like another (powerball) love T.K.O. … Oh … Think I better let it go … let it go baby … looks like another (powerball) love T.K.O."

So this Saturday the powerball joint was some ridiculous 250 million dollars. The sad part is for some reason I was convinced that I had a shot at it and went ahead and played. I obviously didn’t win … I wouldn’t be waking up this early and writing this entry (I probably would – who knows how I would start my morning if I just won 250 million dollars).

Maybe I would hire some good blog writers to write for me (under my name) … I would also throw in bonuses for every profanity they use. I would give extra points and (more bonuses) for anything SALACIOUS because after all, this is indeed a place for salaciousness. (see note)

Yeah, I didn’t win. I think someone actually won but am not entirely sure about that. Let’s check West Virginia’s newspapers … WHY does every HUGE jackpot go to West Virginians?! In the rare exception it goes to someone in FLORIDA. For fuck’s sake … does anyone else see how disturbed and a little crazy Florida is? ANYTHING ‘weird’ happening in the news is in Florida … stuff that makes you say WHAT THE FUCK?

I’m going to go ahead and become a suspect in the murder of my ex-girlfriend … and then jot on over to Atlanta and STAY ON TOP OF A CRANE FOR 56 HOURS. Maybe then I could have the proverbial karma coming back around to AT LEAST allow me a shot at 250 Million dollars.

In all seriousness though, I want to bring up the fact that I’m realizing it’s not ‘normal’ to be as convinced as I am of winning the lottery. Don’t worry, rest assured that I don’t have the (initial) funds to turn this into a serious gambling ‘problem’ – but the whole bird in the hand and two in the bush thing doesn’t click with me (for more than one reason). I guess I see the benefit in taking the risk or “gambling” as some of you might crudely put it. Besides, doesn’t lottery money go to schools or something good?

As opposed to buying a bottle of soda or a Ho-Ho – Why not drink water and spend my dollar on a powerball ticket, which in the worst case scenario is a contribution to public schooling or irrigation or some such profound thing. My favorite part of it all is how I look down on the baby jackpots. After someone wins, it usually resets to such ‘chump change’ … and I ain’t no chump … I don’t play the 10 million dollar ones. 100 million and above ONLY.

Fellow beggars, brokes and losers … I urge you to become Choosers and raise your standard when it comes to how much money you would win from a jackpot.

Note: Thank you for the ride to the metro station, you are incredibly stunning and also a neuro-surgeon in training?!?! Wow. The climax of small talk came during your description of Mariah Carey (over the track playing in the background): “Yes I like the album, I’m a big fan of hers no matter what – even when she’s all SALACIOUS and showing everybody her tits.” So to be honest, I have never heard someone drop the word ‘SALACIOUS’ in a conversation before. Good job! Thanks again.

Mail, Manhood Issues and Mortgages

My poor inbox is enduring a lifetime of hell. In recent months, the poor inbox has been inundated by a bunch of bullshit emails. The constant FLOODING never stops, and no matter how many ‘new’ email accounts I create; they end up falling in that trap.

Firstly, what the hell is TADALAFIL?!?!?! I am so sick of seeing that word (one time I clicked on an email … because the subject line promised me some fun things) and discovered that Tadalafil is a generic name for Cialis? Tadalafil soft tabs, Tadalafil soft tabs, Tadalafil soft tabs … OK - we fucking get it. I wonder how the Cialis folk got a hold of my email in the first place; pretty sure I haven’t done any searches on erectile dysfunction.

What about the ‘COLLEGE GIRLS ON CAM’ emails? Those stay in my inbox forever because for some sneaky reason, they don’t sort themselves as ‘NEW' email on the first page … instead, they find a home way, way back at the end of all my messages. And some girl named JULIE (she has a different last time every time) emails me daily. Some days she’s 18 and lonely, others she’s 18 and horny, and some she’s 18 and bored. All days she's 18 and a horrible speller.

The Mortgage people have “LOW, LOW rates” but they can’t spell either. In their quest to bypass junk filters, they come up with all sorts of creative things:
MortGAG, MartGage, M`0rt`gage (?!?!) Idiots.

If ONE more friend of mine ever sends me a “Hi, Come Join me and my friends in my network” email, I will just lose it. I usually ignore each and every single one of those things. It seems so involved and just too tedious to sign up, add your friends look for other friends to add and invite those who aren’t signed up.

If you’re like me and you ignore those things … you get 3 messages/ invitations from any given person …

Message 1: Hi … Come join me
Message 2: Hi, PLEASE… come join me … I’m worried
Message 3: I’m very upset with you for not joining me

Well fuck you. Now leave me alone.

Don’t these loser-people have better things to do than sit on the computer and ‘find’ each other and send me annoying messages to come join their friends network?

So … Yeah … I joined this Facebook thing (A friend network) -- Maybe because U.T. was telling me about it over IM instead of sending me an annoying email invitation, and I checked it out and so far I’m severely addicted and I love it. I love it and I’m going to send out invitations to EVERYBODY!

The Facebook is basically college-based, and you sign up under whatever school you went to. Yours truly, Virginia Techin’ it … I signed up there and started finding my friends (some I have not seen or heard from in over 2 years). It’s incredible. The funniest thing though under Virginia Tech is how EVERYONE is friends with Michael Vick … the man has 3,000 + friends.

Me on the other hand, I only have like 20 people there … what an ego bash. Where is the entire class of 2003?!? I knew ALL of those motherfuckers. But seriously, it’s a pretty new phenomenon so everyone on there is from class of 2006 – 2009. However, those of us who don’t get old as farts real quick and like to keep up with them young whippersnappers WILL NOT CONCEDE. Bitches. We’re on to you and we’re taking over your little friend network thing.

Especially now that I don’t watch television anymore. What else is my dumbass going to do every evening?

Happy Friday.

Note: By the way, sometimes I send myself emails (attachments and so) so I can have access to whatever I need from different locations. I ALWAYS end up in my own ‘junk’ or ‘bulk’ folder. WHY? Do I end up in everyone else's junk folder?

Bullet in My Head

Attention: Spoilers

I watched EVERYTHING. Yesterday evening, I was a complete remote-fool with my weapon of SPAZ destruction during what I now consider “my last night of television, ever.” You see, I’ve decided to boycott all reality shows, game shows, and news as well as all scripted television and with damn good reason.

Lets go:

Jeopardy: That ‘other’ smart guy named Brad HANDILY defeated Ken Jennings. Brad dethroned Jennings as the contestant who won the most money on a game show … well yeah, they gave the mother fucker two million dollars at the end. More Power. Ken Jennings was so lame; his final jeopardy answer contained ‘Go Brad!’ … Wow, can we get some dignity up in this bizznatch? Brad then said: “and I am SAYING, go Ken!” Awww, can we get a Kodak moment in here so I can PUKE all over it.

American Idol: What a lame show. Those opportunistic bastards, what 2-hour finale has about an hour and fifteen minutes of ford commercials? For fuck’s suck (yes, this one is new and is sure to catch on) would you at least have a better car to advertise? If they absolutely feel the need to. The show was very boring and sugar coated as usual (I only tuned in to see Vonzell once more). Country Carrie won, and though I couldn’t care less I feel she did not deserve the title. Bo out sang her from day one.

Lost: Oh what to say? Here’s something … that was another USELESS 2-hour finale. The Numbers? The Bears? The birds? That Predator-like thing? What the hell is going on in that island and we STILL don’t know anything, I could have watched MTV and found out more about that damn island.

What we do know is there is someone with Michael Jackson syndrome … they’re into stealing little boys for some reason. The 2 hours was basically about little boys being stolen, first Claire’s baby and then the weird kid, Walt. There was a middle-story about using dynamite to blow up a hatch in the middle … well … WHAT THE FUCK IS IN THAT HATCH?!?!?!! In classic scripted television junk, they end the season terribly with NOT A SINGLE answer. This is how they ended it (here’s your SIX numbers, assholes):

1) Black boy ‘taken’ by “the others”… we don’t whom?
2) 3 men dumped in the ocean, with the raft burning (one of them shot)
3) An infinite ladder leading to … we don’t know where?
4) Six numbers subliminally related to EVERYTHING … we don’t know how
5) Some ‘THING’ that pokes holes in the ground … we don’t know what
6) WHY THE HELL DID I GET INTO THIS SHOW … I don’t know why

Alias: Though I have not followed or watched a single full episode this season, this was BY FAR the most ‘fulfilling’ of all the season finales. I don’t really know how (because I didn’t watch the season) but Sydney’s mom, Irena is somehow alive. She helps them save the world from her evil sister's (Sydney’s aunt) plan to turn the world into ZOMBIES. There you go Zombie Slayer … rest assured the Zombie invasion will not work on us as long as we have ‘cute’ CIA agents (not too fond of Jennifer Garner) … their HOT sister (don’t know her real name) … and of course their MILF by their side.

The ladies were fucking shit up, just shooting everything. The most INTENSE moment of the finale was of course when they were about to go and disable the ‘device’ that transmits the zombie virus … Oh wait … that was interrupted by a proposal to Sydney and some kissing. There was some poetic thing about sister vs. sister (the mother vs. the aunt as well as the daughters who eventually turned on each other because the hot one became ‘infected’).

Again, this was the most ‘satisfying’ and coherent, sense-making season finale of the night, if for nothing else than the adrenaline provoking needles to the neck, bullets to the head, bullets to the heart, kissing and of course the threat of “The End Of The World” being eliminated by an intense cutting of the “BLUE” or “WHITE” wire 50/50 chance (You should ALWAYS cut the darker color, right?)

The News: I can’t even right (not a misspelling, I really mean “RIGHT’ the big wrong that is “The News Cast”) anything about the news. Mainly, our hot anchor Cecily Tynan was sent off to the coast of Bermuda testing a shark repellant. They lured the sharks with blood, fish and little animals … and then dumped her in the (now shark infested) water to see what would happen. I turned the TV off at that point; I guess I’ll find out tonight if Cecily’s shark repellant worked. It’s also worth mentioning that should Cecily’s shark repellant have failed, she went out with a bang, looking damn good.

Thank god for Nina Simone, who at the end of the night managed to divert a hernia that I was certainly convinced I would suffer.

Anyone know a good shrink?

Note: Why is “Mr. Bojangles” covered by so many artists? Her 1971 version should have been the end all …

Roland Garros

UPDATE 05/27: Just ignore that whole part below about Venus Williams. What a terrible third set showing. She looked like a turkey who wasn't interested in thanksgiving dinner. An ABSOLUTELY terrible loss to a Bulgarian no-name teenager who basically just had to 'BE THERE' to win that match. Venus, Fire your dad, Hire Brad Gilbert or one of the 'legends' as your new coach (Billie Jean King, Chris Everett, Martina...ANYONE)

Yes! It’s been a long 4 months since Australia and the red clay courts are here (why don’t they add in a fifth grandslam somewhere in between January and May?) For tennis nuts like me, this is some serious shit. Today’s post will be dedicated to my thoughts on the tournament, predictions (call your bookies) and of course shit-talking.

“Eeeeeeeoooooooooooooaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhcome on!”

That was my (written) impression of Maria Sharapova. Bless her heart, the girl is a screamer but she’s not whistling dixies. To add insult to the assault on her opponent’s COCHLEA … Maria adds in an aggressive COME ON, with a confrontational fist pump. Watch Maria Sharapova cruise into the finals of this year’s French Open (ok, maybe not cruise, she’s got 2 former Red-Hot #1’s in her path and the entire Kremlin of rising young Russians – ALL OF THEM are in her half of the draw). Win or lose this tournament, I stand by my bet (be ready to pay up) that she will reach #1 before the end of the season.

Who will Maria Sharapova play in the final? (This is where you’re going to make BIG money) … Venus Williams. Venus has been lack luster as of late, but watching her first round match, I can honestly say she brought intensity and desire that I haven’t seen from her for at least a year. Standing in her way? The world #1, a couple of crafty clay court masters (Spaniards and Argentines) … but it’s all gravy, no sweat.

I won’t make a prediction on who wins until I see more matches from both of them. Which brings me to my next point … WHERE IS THE TENNIS on TV?!?! Staying up late and watching web streams is not really my ideal situation. For Christ’s sake will ESPN stop showing BOWLING when there’s a relatively HUGE international sporting event going on?

Players to Note: Swiss veteran Patty Schnyder ... Lefties are so tough to play against and when they're on point, they're hot. Schnyder will reach the Semi-finals (she is in Williams' half of the draw).

The men’s draw is trickier. You have the man I consider to be the future “Best to have EVER played the game,” Roger Federer. While he has not really shown his phenomenon on Clay (though an impressive clay win at the Hamburg master’s recently), I still have faith that he will outwit, out-play and out-show the entire field. Federer will have a relatively breezy route to the … SEMI-final where he will meet his Clay-Court worst Nightmare, 18-year-old Spaniard Rafael Nadal. Nadal will win in 5 and go on to win the tournament.

I will need a few more days to see who will lose to Nadal in the final, but I will go ahead and name-drop last year’s finalist Guillermo Coria of Argentina.

Poor Agassi, his old ass just needs to drop it now with dignity like his wife (Graf) did. Though injured, there is no need to be 35+ and losing by a big fat bagel (6-0) in the final set. Following in their idol’s footsteps, the remaining American men (Roddick, Blake and Spadea) will not make it past the third round, if that.

What about CRAZY man, Marat Safin? This one is probably one of the handful of players who can compete with Federer on court. Safin grew up on Clay courts but the Motha' is CRAZY. He is just too unpredictable and at any given moment could LOSE IT, smash and break his racquet (all of them, including spares) which would put him in a jam. If he keeps his cool, Safin is a good pick for a finalist ... but there's a risk of meeting racquet-breaking-inducer-by-frustrating-you, Guillermo Coria.

Players to Note: Argentina's death squad: (among Many others) David Nalbandian, Guillermo Canas and Gaston Gaudio (defending champ).


Note: This was so much easier when Venus and Serena were in every Grand Slam Final - I miss those days.

Whack Tuesday

I hate Mondays but I hate Tuesdays even more. What a waste of 24 hours. If we could somehow eliminate Tuesday from our lives, things would be much easier. You go from Monday to Humpday and the weekend is within’ reach.

I woke up this morning and the first thing I thought to myself was it’s a Tuesday so I’m hereby bracing myself for a boring, non-eventful in every aspect of the descriptions, long day. Naturally, as I write this, I feel uninspired, disinterested and just plain out of it.

For some bizarre reason, I’ve always been cautious of Tuesday. I’m sure there’s a couple more in history but from recent memory, I distinctly recall ‘BAD’ things happening on Tuesdays.

- September 11, 2001 (A Tuesday)
- Columbine High School (A Tuesday)

All throughout high school and college, I also painfully remember that my least favorite classes were on Tuesday. My Math classes were on Tuesday …back to back for FOUR periods and it was a living hell. Although good at it, I had absolutely ZERO interest in the subject. I’m not one to quit … but I just quit that shit like it was no one else’s business (well, that’s sort of true … isn’t it?). I remember my last ‘report’ from Mr. McInerny talking about:

”Nafie has the potential to do very well in P1 (Pure Mathematics) and M1 (Mechanics) if he would only apply himself and show more interest. Nafie has even expressed an interest in dropping the subject, which would be a shame.”

Please. I guess it was at that exact moment that I knew what type of career I wanted to pursue and it was NOT mathematics (not that there’s anything wrong with that).

History class was on Tuesday. I didn’t really mind History that much; in fact I liked it –It was mainly focused on European History, the World Wars, etc. Miss Daly was a trip – we just couldn’t understand a single word she said. I could swear that her description of a strigil (an old skool device used to scrape skin) contained the word “DICK”. She kept saying: “it’s this metal piece and there’s a bump on it … like a Dick.” (?!?!!??)

One thing we understood was that if you bring SOMETHING relevant into class, you get extra points. And I was desperate for points … so … I managed to get some deer antlers (one of my friends had a farm with deer antlers lying around) and carried them like CRAZY MAN all around school until we went into History class (last period). When asked why is this relevant to history class? I went on a ramble about how the ROMAN gladiators used to fight with animals, and this is perhaps an example of what would be left. Unlike my classmates (and Miss Daly), I managed to barely contain my laughter AND got those ‘extra points.’

Can you picture that? MAXIMUS, MAXIMUS in all his might is going up against … BAMBIE!

Bamboozled Update:

Well, the weekend went by extremely fast but ain’t nothing new there. I did however manage to call CONcast and tried to unbamboozle myself. Tried is the operative term. Those bastards …

I call and this time it’s a guy on customer support. I explain my situation and he “pulls up a detailed account view”. After “reviewing” my account, he determines that the previous rep was correct and that my situation yielded 20 dollars and some change. When asked why it was so skimpy, he told me that I took advantage of a promotion they had for digital cable.

1) The promotion for FREE digital cable ran for 4 months.
2) I have been paying for Digital Cable for 4 months (IS THIS ONE OF THOSE AUTO-RENEW bullshit things?)
3) The difference between standard cable and digital cable is 5 dollars and change.
4) 5 and change x 4 = 20 and change (How do you like me now Mr. McInerny?)

There it goes, no free six months of cable, no early retirement, no lawsuit lottery (what happened to that guy with the ‘finger’ in his custard?) and back to my original point … Tuesdays suck.

Note: Maybe something CRAZY will happen at work. I bought this realistic-looking but fake big-mouse/ rat that I should take in and 'THROW' on people.

MVOTM: May 23

Queen Latifah like you've never seen her. "The Dana Owens (her real name) Album" is a great album - lots of soul and jazz classics on there.

The Music Video of The Moment is "Simply Beautiful." -- Latifah smashes this one ... and ofcourse it doesn't hurt that she has THE MAN ... THE MASTER ... Al Green on the track. Spazzin' out as he may be ... Al's feeling the music.

Come to think of it ... I think Al Green's hand movements kind of mimic those of Shakira's ... WHOLE ENTIRE BODY, waist, tits, hips, lips and dips.

Enough Was Enough

Akat was a bully in first grade. He was just one of those kids who stole people’s lunches, pushed kids around etc. I should CLARIFY, that I’ve NEVER been pushed around or physically bullied … However, my lunch was indeed ‘taken’ from me a couple of times. Let’s go back to 1989, when yours truly was a 6-year-old bad-ass (except for the part about getting my lunch stolen … but that happens to EVERYBODY).

I was the fastest kid in the class; all races came down to the wire and it was always between my friend from back then, Michael, and myself. Some I won, and some I conceded my defeats (Although, I could SWEAR he got head starts on a couple of those). This paragraph of information will come back into play later on in this story, so keep it mind.

Back to Akat and his mean ways. The whole year, Akat continued to do his thing; I don’t even think it’s possible to eat as much stolen-lunch. In hindsight, I think it was more of a hobby and he probably just collected all those lunches. I don’t suppose he Robin-Hooded it and gave it to the poor.

Needless to say, this started wearing on me and I was getting pissed. A pissed 6 year-old is not someone you should test. I was getting tired of his ways, and frankly, I was just downright sick of going hungry at school more than anything else. As an adult, I fully understand that hungry equals irritable.

One fateful day … the LAST day of school before we moved over to the ‘big’ building; Akat approached me and “asked” for my lunch. I bravely stood up to him and said NO. I guess Mr. Man wasn’t used to hearing the word ‘NO’ and after taking a moment to gather his composure and get over his shock, he foolishly snatched my lunch from my hand and ran.

Fate would also have it that the day before, my little Thundercats (or was it G.I. Joe?) backpack gave out (what is it with me and backpacks)? So instead, I rocked my dad’s metal Samsonite briefcase to school.

So far we have:

1) A bully
2) A very fast me
3) A metal briefcase
4) The wrong day to fuck with me

Akat took that sandwich and bolted. Like a true Lion that I was/ am … I let my poor prey scurry over for a little bit before I take stride after them. Poor Akat, he had NO SHOT of out-running me on the playground … I was on his tail faster than he could look over his shoulder. Despite my handicap of running while carrying a big metal briefcase, I had finally caught up with Akat (unfortunately for him).

If you had to re-write the ending to this story … what would you suppose I did?

a) Stop, confront Akat, get scared and run back?
b) Got so excited that I caught up and kept running past him.
c) SWING my big metal briefcase and DECK him on the back, leaving him out cold on the playground turf.

Let me give you a hint…. I caught up with the bully and swung that briefcase like it was the last thing I would ever do. I still feel very guilty about this. Akat (and my lunch) just dropped to the ground. I didn’t even pick up my lunch. I walked away to the sounds of a cheering nation of bullied bastards who didn’t have the balls to stick up for themselves. I walked away like I was Rambo and done just messed up some fiery building behind me. I just walked away.

To this day, I have no idea what happened to Akat. I don’t suppose it was really serious, I didn’t get him on the head … I struck him on the back and I think the force of the blow was what knocked him down (as opposed to some internal damage I did). It couldn’t have been anything serious or my parents would have gotten a call. Right?

Either way, at the time it felt so good to serve him justice and besides doing it (hitting him) in the first place, my only other regret was not sticking around to watch him get up and cry … like a little girl.

Note: Since then, I’ve been in about 4 different schools in 3 different countries and have NEVER been bullied again. I guess word does spread and get around.

Turn Up Your Sound System!

I found this new thing where you can link a Music Video on your jones. Scroll down to the bottom of the page to see the Music Video play.

So, I'm hereby starting a tradition (Music Video Of The Moment) ... I'll run this and see how it pans out. Additionally, I'll put up a mini-post/comment on the MVOTM... Culture Shock style.

05.20.2005

Shakira "La Tortura" - Dios Mio! I mentioned this video before in an earlier post (I believe I welcomed Shakira back to the scene). Well I must say ... this is such a MOVING song, you can just see "The Torture" in her ... face.

Furthermore, I can't believe Beyonce neglected to (internationally) copyright her signature move. "Uh Oh Uh Oh Uh Oh ... Oh No No."

What? What?

Encore ... Do You Want More?

Alright, alright - I feel like a ‘cop-out’ and I would hate for all to think that this morning's (initial) post was out of laziness and a not-in-the-mood-to-write attitude. Okay, maybe a little bit but I really wanted to share the secret stuff, I think it’s great. So here is my lunch hour sacrificed yet again in the name of talking some shit. WHAT? WHAT?

If you don’t live under a rock, you know that Vonzell (BabyV) left Idol last night. Even though I said I would, I am not going to give America Idol the satisfaction of jonesin’ me and evoking my wrath – instead, I’m going to talk about happy things, like BALLOONS!

I think balloons are disgusting (most of them) especially the ones that ‘POP’. The loud BANG is somewhat acceptable if it wasn’t for the SPIT-SHOWER (…OF DEATH) that comes along with it. I am now painfully aware (and I think somewhat as a child) that the spit belongs to that ‘SOMEONE’ who inflated the balloon. What a scary, scary thought.

(I guess I’m talking mainly about the balloons you have to mouth-to-mouth).

Well, who usually inflates-up (can I say that? It’s sort of a cross between INFLATE and BLOW-UP) those balloons? Clowns? Clowns are kind of strange and scary to some people (shout out A.P. … you fucking wuss). Thing is that you KNOW clowns are just weird. God knows what they do when they’re not all painted up and goofy, what if they …LICK things? Like their over-sized dumb red shoes after they've come out of the bathroom. Clowns are just weird.

Kids inflate balloons too. The past 2 weekends I have been at venues were children were present. I spent the subsequent weeks worrying that I had ‘PINK EYE’. My eyes hurt and I couldn’t really open them for prolonged periods of time, they were itchy and they were dry. My point is that KIDS get each other and everyone else around them SICK. It’s what they do; they’re professional grade at it. Little rascals. So the next time you get sprayed by Balloon-Spit just keep in mind that depending on who inflated that balloon, you have a VERY good chance of contracting:

1) The common Cold
2) PINK EYE
3) The Stomach Flu
4) The Common Cold, Pink Eye AND the Stomach Flu

In general kids are just all-gross and not too good in the department of homeland cleanliness, the good news is that kids ALWAYS want to inflate the RED balloons ... they give themselves away. So, just stay away from the red balloons.

Adults inflate balloons as well. Well, Adults do very adult things … I would probably rather contract PINK EYE than come in contact with the spit of some adults (who regularly engage in very adult things) that I know –I could go on and describe what a dirty, dirty thing the adult mouth can be. A lot of adults are blowing more than just balloons … and I don’t know when exactly that balloon was inflated, WHAT IF … you know what, I’m just gonna cut this one off right here.

Regardless of who inflates the balloon you are certain of one thing. If the motherfucker POPS in front of you, you’re invited to a mandatory front row person-who-inflated-this breath sampling. I’m probably being over critical, balloons can be fun and I really liked them as a child – but now they’re just one of those things that are boring objects. Even the ones that contort into “Doofy the Dog,” “Geoff the Giraffe,” or “Bonnie the Bird” … So What? Whooptee-Fucking-Doo. I guess we all grow out of things.

Speaking of the balloons that you twist up into animals, not only was I NEVER able to make anything out of those balloons but I also found that those sausage-like balloons were just IMPOSSIBLE to inflate. Do you know how many blood vessels I popped just huffing and puffing away at nothing? Perhaps that is why I’m a little bit bitter? Hmmm? Who Knows?

The helium balloons are cool. I know everyone’s probably inhaled helium and Donald Ducked themselves into fool-making. One time, we had an entire TANK of helium for a project that involved making flying objects … our teacher was so perplexed that he needed to order 2 more tanks of helium, yet he wasn’t seeing the flying magic. That happened in our junior year of college.

Note: As I child, I was under the worrisome impression that if I hold on to a group of helium balloons they will LIFT ME UP into the air … haha, I got over that one quick and now I just laugh at that idea … WHY DON’T YOU TRY LIFTING ME NOW you sorry bunch of balloons.

It's Secret Time

This has got to be the most incredible thing I have ever seen. I've seen this madness dubbed as a 'global community art project' - it's so second grade (in a deeper and more emotional sort of way).

Some of the blog's content is very funny and some is extremely disturbing and some is very sad -- but that's life.

This morning on Culture Shock is a lucky one for those who don't like to read for long periods of time (I'm also like that) and need a "synapsis" on everything. If I ever have subordinates i'll make their lives horrid by asking for a 'report' or a 'summary' on every single thing - Oh yeah ... keep it down to one paragraph.

I'll leave it at that.

Note: This afternoon I will drop my (concocted) PostCard in the mail. I urge everyone who has 5 minutes of boredom at work to follow the instructions on PostSecret and mail in a PostCard inspired and created by otherwise useless office supplies.

Still Loved

So any given day, there are about 200 cars on the facility at work. However, there are only about 150 ‘legal’ parking spots. The remaining 50 milk the fire lanes, and ADA/Universally Accessible spots, sidewalks and walkways to scrape out an extra 49 spots. There’s always ‘That Last Motherfucker’ who can’t park anywhere (only because it’s now physically impossible to park somewhere without seriously running the risk of finding your sweet ride in the path of something really, really, big, heavy, sharp and metal-ly).

Everyone here gets to work extremely early that by the time I get there (which I personally think is a very early 8:00 a.m.) all but a few spots are gone. I can always take solace in knowing that I will never be “That Last Motherfucker” because of the fact that Roxanne (the secretary) will always show up later than I do. (Roxanne sometimes pushes 10:00 a.m. … SERIOUSLY) – come to think of it, she never finds a hard time parking because by that time, the people who get here at 5 or 6 a.m. are leaving for lunch!

I’ve already explained how crappy the tar to tire ratio is, so why is it that yesterday, every car on ONE entire side of the parking lot had a sign on the windshield ‘PLEASE MOVE YOUR CAR BY 2:30 P.M.’ … This wasn’t even a friendly reminder … it was more like comply … or else … (I can think of a couple of train-related ‘or else’ scenarios that I would NOT want my car to participate in).

Hi, we’re testing brakes, and you know, sometimes the train cars don’t brake like they’re supposed to … Ooh what a pretty car you have there.

Hi, Yeah we have this thing that aligns the track and it just happens to be BIGGER than the actual building … Does your car want to play?

Hi, There’s a fuckzillion volts of live wire right above your car … and well … yeah, they’re RIGHT above your car. (This one comes with a grin)

Needless to say, such a ‘reminder’ on your windshield was to be taken seriously. So wait, WHERE THE HELL ARE WE SUPPOSED TO GO? That had to be the most non sense-making thing I have ever heard. In my panic turned optimism … I started to realize that we only had 3 logical options:

a) Go Home.
b) Go drive in circles around the town
c) Go Home.

It sounded too good to be true and it was. That FANTASY was cut short because it was jogged (scolded) back into my memory (by my boss) that 80% of the people who work here leave this place at 2 p.m. so ‘NO you can’t, because you don’t have to go home in order to save your car.’

Crap.

For some reason I was just ITCHING to get out. I know it’s so unprofessionally high-school of me to say that I wanted to get out of work but don’t lie … who doesn’t ‘WANT’ to get out of work early? I would probably have to call it out unless of course you’re that guy who applies Rebecca Romijn’s (notice how I also dropped the Uncle-Jessie-ish ‘Stamos’?) ‘MYSTIQUE’ costume… Speaking of, in an unrelated topic: I was under the impression that XMEN 3 was coming out this summer, and looking forward to it … but no, it’s actually summer of 2006 … Do you know how far away that seems?

Back to point, I eventually moved the car (along with everyone else) but then spent the rest of the day being nervous about it. You see, this thing kicked in … I am VERY superstitious. Remember when my tire got ‘maliciously slashed’? Well, what I had neglected to mention (or maybe I did) was that the particular incident took place on THE ONE AND ONLY day that I parked on the side where we were supposed to move our cars to. Seriously, I have NEVER parked on the ‘close’ side of the building, and the ONE day I deviated, some shit had to go down.

I just kept replaying scenarios in my head of how my engine was going to erupt in flames as I’m about 100 feet from my apartment or how my windshield is just going to shatter into a million pieces and I in turn become the most hated man in the tri-state area because of the magnitude of traffic jam I caused.

Well nothing happened (at least not yet) and the tri-state still loves me.

Note: All of this could really turn into one vicious cycle of hate and tire slashing. Tire Woes – Cause Traffic Jam – Become Hated – Get your tire slashed again – Cause more traffic Jams – Become Hated – Get your tire slashed again – Cause traffic jam and so on

Bamboozled

I just found out that for the past 8 months, I have been paying Digital Cable money for ‘standard’ cable. I feel so bamboozled and very duped. It was all a ‘terrible mistake’ of course and they were ‘very sorry’ for my inconvenience. Yeah, whatever … cut the bullshit and give me my money back. The bastards have been over-charging me for 8 months and after they ‘worked it out’ my credit is only $20.43 cents. 8 months … EIGHT months, Remember, I’m no mathematician but that only equates to something like 2 and a half dollars every month. Liars. Thieves. Bastards.

My discovery came when I called to pay my cable bill. After paying the bill I had an “Oh by the way…” addendum to the customer service lady. Oh by the way, I am not getting any channels above channel 47 (Comedy Central) … which means, I am missing out on The History Channel, The Discovery Channel (all of them), The Sci-Fi channel, VH1 among many others. So, I’m paying 101.00+ dollars every month for only 40 something channels (30 of which I’ve de-programmed from my remote browser). Furthermore, WHY is cable so expensive anyway? scripted television is up the river and all the reality shows going on are costing the networks significantly less. No?

She then asked me to do something to my cable box and this is how her cat got out of the bag:

-What Cable Box?
-Your Digital Cable Box.
- I don’t have a box, just a cluster-fuck of a remote control
-Oh
-Oh…

I really should have fussed more … but just wasn’t in the mood to. I was numb and tired and in a non-fussy state-of-mind. I’m actually not a big phone complainer. You know those people who whine “Who’s your manager? … Let me speak to them.” Boohoo Hoo what are you gonna do now? Cry to their superiors? Awwww… Just Get Over it and we all know that ‘superior’ only means “this guy to my left”.

Even though, in all honesty, I would much rather let them KEEP my money but get the satisfaction of cussing them out on the phone – I’ve never ‘lost control’ on the phone, I’ve been very close before but I always feel bad that the person I’m talking to is just “doing their job” and they’re not personally gaining … wait a minute … then why are they such ASSHOLES?

Bitch on the (Cable Company’s) line must think I’m like 12 years old -- talking to me with an attitude from hell. No need to get “ghetto” on me … I’m telling you what my problem is and asking you what my options are, you can either answer me or say I don’t know. I could just picture her eyes rolling at me (actually, I think they just stayed in the back of her head the whole time).

Some of those people are nice, but the majority of anyone on the phone/ customer service reps are really, really, reeeaally just pushing their luck and asking for it. I don’t suppose they’re trained that way? It could be – who knows. I realize that most of them have just developed ‘thorns’ or ‘thick skin’ because they deal with such ass-pains for customers. However, they should be able to differentiate between someone who’s looking for trouble and someone who just wants to watch Flava Flave and Brigitte Nielson get it on. The crappy customers will start with “I want my money back” or “I have a problem” or “I’m going to sue you.”

I’m always ‘nice’ though (until I come and blast them on my blog … but that’s kind of nice), I even repeat their name after my greeting (Good afternoon to you too ). I have it all worked out though… the next time I call, I’m going to “Para español, oprima numero dos.” Maybe those people will be nicer.

Note: I liked it better in Ohio when the cable company ‘forgot’ to disconnect the cable from the previous inhabitants of our place … in turn, we also ‘forgot’ to let them know about it.

Number One

Oh, if you only knew how much I hate to deviate from my crack-of-dawn ritual. I just overslept this morning (big time) and by the time I woke up I barely had time to get ready. It was one of those days where you brush your teeth while you’re taking a shower. Am I the only person who occasionally pulls that stunt? If so, I hereby defend myself in the name of punctuality and … I don’t know, say…. saving water so we don’t have to cut down more trees.

But if that strikes you as odd, I’m going to go ahead and call out all the other folk who do ‘worse’ things in the shower. Like Urinate. First of all, I would hope that’s just a guy-thing. It’s so tempting and ‘easy’ in a down-right nasty kind of way. I remember having this conversation at school with my studio neighbor and all of a sudden it turned into a building-wide poll that amazingly split the jeering Ooh-and-Aah crowd in half.

How many of you boys urinate while taking a shower?

You see, I live alone but I still don’t do that. If the thought of your poor and unsuspecting significant other walking on microscopic remnants of your urine doesn’t discourage you from doing it, then you should at least be self-ABSORBENT enough (no pun intended) to not want to step on (even though your own) urine. No? I suppose if I ‘HAD’ to pick … I could live with stepping on my own urine.

So, I’m just realizing as I write this … this topic is kind of nasty. But I’ve probably said worse and don’t suppose any minors are reading this here “Downfall of Civilization”. We’re all adults and can discuss things in an adult manner. At least give me SOME credit for using the word “urinate” – If I didn’t know better I might even have to say that’s a medical term. With that out the way, what about Peeing in the sink?

How many of you boys pee in the sink?

I actually don’t suppose a lot of guys do this. It just doesn’t make a lot of sense when you have the toilet bowl right there. HOWEVER, I am 100% certain that in-public (by public I mean seedy, overcrowded college bars) … all bets are off. The worst feeling is “having to go” and being stuck behind a line. The urinals are occupied by drunken men puking … the stalls are occupied by drunken men …also puking and your world is just not brightening up. Well, you could go in the trash-can, someone has already ‘christened’ it by puking in there, but you’ve just grown too accustomed to that porcelain-feeling, and that’s when it hits you … that sinks …are…AWESOME. Dude.

On-The-Go? No way, there is absolutely no emergency procedure if you’re driving on the highway and have to go RIGHT THIS INSTANCE. This is the point where you should just give up. It’s not physically possible to urinate in a soda can, bottle or empty bag of chips as some of you geniuses (I actually started to name names and then got overwhelmed with guilt, so I’ll spare you guys the shame and embarrassment … think of this as a shout-out) have concocted.

I stayed away from including the ladies in this topic; well … I guess I TRIED to stay away. But the ladies are on a whole different playing field. An emergency is an emergency and the “need to go” must be fulfilled at all costs, but damn … some of you get pretty crazy. First of all, men are ‘built’ to be able to go in the great outdoors, in a bush, behind a tree, on a car … wherever. The ‘SQUAT and GO’ maneuver is so risky. What if you topple over? Or God forbid some critter (really aggressive with really BIG teeth) is burrowing its way out of the ground and doesn’t like that wet-feeling you’re leaving them with.

I must say though, if there is anytime to go to the bathroom in ‘packs’ it should be then. A peer can provide good support (so you don’t topple over) and she can also serve as a good ‘heads up’ girl (in case any critters who don’t like getting wet decide to retaliate and go after ‘the source’).

Also, in what I feel is even more of an uncivilized and un-lady like stunt … PLEASE do not go into the men’s room at a bar. I cannot even begin to describe what is on the rim of the toilet seats in the men’s room. Instead, I invite you all to let your imaginations roam free this afternoon!

With that said, I am going to curb my appetite now, because you know, this was such an appetizing post. Always remember ... Two is not a winner, and Three nobody remembers.

Note: I'm not disturbed, I'm not disturbed, I'm not Disturbed, I'm NOT disturbed, I'm not disturbed, I'm not disturbed, I'm not distrubed, I'm not disturbed, I'm not disturbed, I'm not disturbed ... I'm not disturbed ....I'm not disturbed, I'm not disturbed, I'm not Disturbed, I'm NOT disturbed, I'm not disturbed, I'm not disturbed, I'm not distrubed, I'm not disturbed, I'm not disturbed, I'm not disturbed ... I'm not disturbed ....I'm not disturbed, I'm not disturbed, I'm not Disturbed, I'm NOT disturbed, I'm not disturbed, I'm not disturbed, I'm not distrubed, I'm not disturbed, I'm not disturbed, I'm not disturbed ... I'm not disturbed ....

Papa's Got A Brand New Bag

So … remember my Pink Fiasco? All the threads, all the gum, all the screwdrivers amounted to nothing; I was most saddened by the ill-effects inflicted on my OGIO hotness bag. Well, sad-no-more because ... “This Is A Man’s World” and “Papa’s Got ABrand New Bag” and “I Feel Good” about it -- so good, that I don’t have to wake-up in a “Cold Sweat” and can now finally “Get Up Offa That Thang” and “Get On The Good Foot” maybe even take the “Night Train” – so I suggest you “Please, Please, Please” sit back, relax grab a bag of “Mother Popcorn” and watch me be “Super Bad” with my new OGIO metro bag. Now all I need is a new pair of “Hot Pants” because “Papa Don’t Take No Mess” and if you “Think” otherwise … “Try Me”… I’ll “Make it Funky” and force you to either “Give It Up or Turnit A loose.”

Beeeeeeeeeeeeeyatch.

I’ve just been possessed by James Brown, now if I can only dance like the man … maybe I can get more dates. It could have been worse, my opening monologue could have been to the tune of Christina Aguilera, where I would have loved getting to tell you just how “Dirrty” I am … and how I’m exactly “What A Girl Wants” and … and … let’s not go through this again.

Let me just rub it in a little bit. Papa’s new OGIO ‘metro’ bag has a pretty nasty organizing system of compartments that are denoted by some even nastier iconographic hotness.

Audio Port: This is where you get to stick your headphones through a hole and keep your iPod safe and covered. What? What?
Laptop Sleeve: Yup, a place for my (work’s) laptop – My current laptop bag is OK, but in an old fashioned I’m-about-to-retire sort of way and it’s always just a little awkward to carry.
Organizer Panel: For all my screwdrivers and all – I think this might actually be air/water tight – which would make it a better place for my army of Pink Hi-liters or anything else that could potentially pose a leakage disaster.
Key Clip: To Clip "The Precious" to – although this weekend one of my goals is to clone “The Precious” … so maybe The Precious: The Second Coming …will live on this key clip.
Hydration System: Water, juice, potent potable, whatever rocks your boat … still can’t find this compartment though - but when I do, I’m hoping it will have a little straw coming out of somewhere.
Cell phone Pocket: YES, my poor and deteriorating Cell Phone with the non-functional ‘5’ button needs to be ‘eased’ into a nice comfortable retirement.

I’m such a gadget-whore and I love it. No wonder my ass is broke for the majority of the time. Consumerism, take me … for I am forever your bitch (yeah ... I took some Shakespeare) – I think my credit really sucks …however, this hot OGIO bag isn’t going on my credit, and because of that I send a very special ‘Thank You’ to a kind reader for sympathizing with my pink travesty.

Also, I got pink Hi-Liter on my:
BMW 745
PRINCE O3 racquet
WHIRLPOOL hot tub
APPLE iPod (the latest one, whatever the hell that is now… bitches)
HANZO samurai sword set
CANON SD500 7.2 Mega Pixel digital camera

And if anyone out there wants to hate … FINE … I should let you know that I will indeed die HAPPY buried in my ‘mountain of things’ so go ahead and tease me with your simple and meager ways.

Happy Friday.

Note: Now, if I can just get a can opener to open that damn Tuna … seriously. I would have went out to buy one, but not only am I not sure what store I would find a can-opener in but I’m more specifically not sure on which aisle I would find a can-opener.

Hot Air Blues

Yesterday my 'Property Manager' calls me on my cell phone and asks me if by any chance I’m home. I said no, unfortunately not. She lost (misplaced was the exact term) her copy of my apartment key and cannot open my apartment door. Does that even happen? Whatever happened to copying the key more than once? More importantly, whose cell phone do I get to call if I lose my own key?

The ‘emergency’ was that the maintenance guys needed to put my air conditioning unit back in the apartment. You see, we’re like little kids and cannot control our own temperature, so the air conditioning gets ‘confiscated’ away from us in winter.

I had just gotten to work around 8 a.m. and it was 9:30 when she called and I had to excuse myself to go and ‘let the maintenance guys in’. Who the fuck is supposed to believe that? My boss barely did. Of course it didn’t help that ‘SMART ASS’ threw in the “Oh, so you’re going to hide your fix-paraphernalia real quick.” Either way, I left and jetted home where I had to wait for 15 minutes until the dudes showed up. Wait until they installed the A.C. since they don’t have a key to lock the place again. Ok, so we’re good can I get back to my work now? Not quite.

You see, there’s some test that the A.C. guys perform and the A.C. has to respond. They basically toggle the switch between ‘fan’ and ‘cool’ and wait to hear a ‘GLUNG’. I swear, I’m probably spelling it wrong but Mr. Man kept saying that it’s not going ‘GLUNG’ and that they know my thermostat is kind of screwed up – so there is a very real possibility that I need a replacement unit.
Ok, so spend an hour at work, and two at home … I reeeeaaally could get used to that. Nice theory, but I just couldn’t do it. I absolutely had to be back at work for an 11 a.m. ass-whooping.

My theory on meetings: You see, so far I’ve noticed that there are some key times where people schedule ‘meetings’. 8:00 a.m. is a very popular one, but you know nothing serious is about to happen at 8 a.m. everyone is too into licking the donut-glaze off their fingers or blowing the steam of their coffee. Love it at 8:00 a.m. If you are ever thinking about dropping a couple of F-bombs in a professional environment … this is your hour of power.

Then there’s 4:00 p.m. This one is a little more unpredictable because one would think that naturally everyone is thinking about going home so no shit would hit the fan at a 4:00 p.m. meeting. HOWEVER, that time is also extremely opportune for you to be asked to just leave and not come back tomorrow. So be cautious about 4:00 p.m. and it would help to make really BIG, WONDERFUL, SHORT-DEADLINED and (undeliverable) promises at a 4:00 p.m. meeting.

But 11:00 a.m. is definitely the bad one. 11:00 is English for “I’m warmed up, looking forward to lunch and I wanna FUCK SOMEBODY UP before I go eat away what little guilt I have about it.” It’s also every other language for “I’m gonna RUIN (AND DOCUMENT) RUINING YOUR LIFE … now go and get fat.”

Back to the apartment dilemma. I marched on over to Stacy’s office (property manager) and worked it out with her so that she would lock my door and hide the key for me somewhere obscure. Russian Roulette if you ask me considering there …is…. ONLY… one left. I’ve even started nicknaming (remember, I talk to inanimate objects for the good of my soul) my key “The Precious”. Fuck that ring and hobbit business; this is where it’s at. Came back at 7:00 p.m. and surely enough, the key was hidden under the third plant pot on the left when you walk into the lobby through the back entrance.

Considering how paranoid I am (or at least I think so, you’d be damn nuts to refute) I think I made a big stride yesterday. Well, except for the part that I’m convinced the maintenance guys logged on to my online poker account and dwindled my big fat winnings pot – but that’s for another post. I guess it could have been worse; they could have ordered ‘FAT ALBERT’ on my OnDemand and HeyHeyHey-ed their afternoon at my expense.

The downside is, I don’t know if they ever replaced my A.C. unit. It LOOKS the same and I have no idea what the ‘GLUNG’ I’m listening for sounds like. The weather isn’t quite yet conducive to start paying more in electric than I do in rent … but it’s coming, lurking, creeping (and I thought I’d never be interested in a summer job ever again). You can surely count on my excessively fussy, whiny and babyish rant about that to be coming to a screen near you this summer.

Note: What if Stacy came and chilled here and watched like 3 chic flicks (Bridget Jones, The Notebook and My Little Black Book). Fuck that if I must pay for any of those movies to be watched by ANYONE.

A Can of Whoop Ass

Oh for fuck’s sake, all I wanted was a quick and somewhat ‘healthy’ dinner. But no, you see, even the most minute of details in my life have to be planned to sickness or otherwise it just will NOT work out. Leave that misfortune to me, the person with the least amount of planning-ness in them. Not a single ounce. Calculating? Sure, why not … in a bigger picture sort of way … but I can’t keep track of every, single, little thing … (OF DEATH).

Before I explain, I would just like to mention that this is the SECOND time this happens to me, and I’m usually decent at learning from my mistakes. I went grocery shopping about a week ago, and grabbed the usual … walking down the processed foods aisle, I decided to be spontaneous and grab a couple of cans of Tuna fish and a couple more of Chicken Breast (don’t ask, I thought I’d give it a try). So fast-forward to last night, rummaging through my kitchen for something to grub on for dinner, and Voila … Tenemos Tuna Fish in the cupboard! The excitement was just indescribable; I probably even salivated just thinking about replacing the ‘IN WATER’ part with ‘IN HOT SAUCE’.

Well, I setup the plate, utensils, and all the necessities and … oh shit, I don’t have a can opener.

Now let’s rewind back to the first time this happened to me. I bought TEN (10) cans of Tuna fish as replacements for my bad snacking habits. Tuna is relatively healthy, and filling, and ‘quick’ and ‘easy’. I’m unloading the grocery bags and all of a sudden realize (the 1st time around) that I can’t open them. I remember being so devastated at the realization (I was over it until last night). So my Tuna snacks became lunch, and everyday, for the next 9 business days, I took a can to work (where there’s a can-opener) and lunched on Tuna.

HOWEVER, and this is the important part … I could SWEAR that I went out and bought a can-opener, just in case. I am actually going to go ahead and say that I could also SWEAR that I’ve used my can opener at home to eat the tenth and last can of Tuna fish that I had. So … where the fuck is my can opener? I’ve heard and probably tried the whole “You know, you could use a knife to open a can” thing … but that’s just stupid. Where are we? The Amazon? And besides, speaking from experience, that is a relatively dangerous and high-risk stunt to be pulling (especially if you aren’t out to prove that “evidently, fear is not a factor for you”).

It really isn’t a sense-making stunt either. Logistically speaking. Are you supposed to tap the knife with your hand? Well, I only have two hands and one of them (the one that usually ends up with a knife stuck in it) holds the can firmly on the counter, the other hand has the task of ‘steering’ the knife. So tapping the knife will just get you nowhere. You can also give up on your knife’s sharpness after this operation. Even the knives they show on infomercials (that cut aluminum cans) would probably choke.

I looked everywhere for the can opener but with no luck. My Tuna (and chicken) cans are just sitting there and I ate some other whack thing for dinner.

I SHOULD have just bought the damn pouch thing. Rip it, and eat it. They just seem so ‘skimpy’ though, perhaps it’s just a perceptional thing they probably have the same amount the cans do. WOULD it be possible for the Tuna folk to make Spam-like cans with that flip thing on top? COULD there be a more useless yet so important object than a can opener? What I also should have done is borrow (ok fine ... steal ... if you wanna be that harsh) that can opener from work.

I am definitely going to buy a can-opener today and keep it in the fridge. I’ve always thought that things won’t get lost if you keep them in the fridge. They tend to get lost everywhere else around the house and you end up biting it … but the fridge is right there to save you. I’ve actually started keeping objects in my fridge and it’s cool but I guess I started too little too late.


Note: Is there some other ‘genius’ way of opening a can of Tuna? I was thinking what if I boil the can, and then put it in a bowl of ice, repeat until the thing ‘pops’ (like Popeye’s spinach). I would gladly give up the ‘freshness’ of my Tuna just to open the damn thing.

How High My High Gets

It was a great weekend. I remember coming back Sunday night and thinking that if I can only … make … it … up … the … stairs, I’d give the weekend a 10. I made it up there (I guess, if you want to count whatever that weird hybrid crawl/carpet swim was as ‘making it up there’) and just passed out on my bed.

So let’s get to it…Train Ride High. First of all, the ride started with an arrest. The Po-lease were waiting for a 'rowdy' (I later found out he was drunk and proceeded to push and grab the ladies, including the staff) passenger. But it got better around Alexandria, VA (I think) where Britney Spears' "Baby One More Time" video came to life. I guess the kids were headed to Alabama, not quite sure why but they really made it an interesting train ride. This group of 16 high school kids (ALIENS) makes up great people-watching subjects. The train was crowded (and fussy); I thought my best bet was to sit the whole ride in the once-empty café area and now lunchroom-esque fiasco. The kids brought it, and they brought it hard.

The Characters:

The Alpha Female
Homegirl had it going on. Clearly the ‘coolest chic' in the class – Miss Thing managed to score a 4 course dinner by batting her eyes. Her pizza slice mooching from horny teenage boys seemed effortless. Blondie was very resourceful with ideas on how to have fun in a train café. She suggested a game of ‘quarters’ with plastic cups (do they do that in high school? Quarters?) – and then whipped out the cards for a game that had no ending. (I don’t even know what it was, but no-one won). Earlier that evening:

Blondie: Do you know where we’re supposed to like … go to the bathroom?
Me: Yes. There are bathrooms on either end of every car. Blondie: Oh. Maybe I can wait.

Well, suit yourself Blondie ... I am pretty sure that 'coolest chic' in the class title will crumble before your batting eyes should word get out that you pee-ed your pants because you forgot to go to the bathroom.


The Lieutenant Alpha Female
This one is a troublemaker. While not able to finagle pizza slices from the boys as handily as Blondie was able to, she more than made up for it in mischief. This one managed to straight up STEAL pizza and huff it down without even raising suspicion. It was incredible. I think I was the only one who caught her do it. This girl gave me the impression that she was the mastermind of any shenanigan, but she has an innocent look to her. At some point, maybe later in high school or college, she and Blondie will probably have a falling out. Second place is just not her style. Earlier that evening:

Lt. Alpha Female: Hey, what’s up
Me: Hey
Lt. Alpha Female: Are you 21?
Me: No, Sorry
Lt. Alpha Female: Damn

Well, I don’t suppose she was interested in a game of 'guess your age'. Either way, it was just easier to lie than it would have been to be an asshole and say 'Yeah, but I'm not really in the mood for jail because I got some high school kids drunk.'


The Sistah
The one and only sistah in the group was cool. She was just zoned out the whole time, not really interacting with any of the other kids. She was definitely the music-pusher in the group, people kept interrupting her head-phone jam sessions to return (or borrow another) CD of hers. (Since the train was really crowded and fussy) The Sistah and I shared a booth in the café area for the whole ride, the other kids were occupying the other booths. Here’s me seeing if I’m getting old or not:

Me: So, What are you listening to?
The Sistah (Taking her headphones off): Huh?
Me: What are you listening to?
The Sistah: Destiny’s Chahd. What are YOU listening to?
Me: Nina Simone
The Sistah: Who?
Me: I mean, Amerie …
The Sistah: Word.
Me: Yeah.
The Sistah: Cool.
Me: Cool.

Well ... Cool. Homegirl then got bored with the Music, and it was time to unveil … the DVD player. Aaaahhh Shit … NOW everyone wants to talk to her. Our little booth got crowded (on one side) by about 8 kids piled up on top of each other. I thought they’re surely peaking at something illegal for them to be THIS excited. In the name of seeing what the big fuss was about, I acted like I was stretching and took a peer over, and … Uh Oh … looks like we lost Nemo.


The Southern Boy
This homeboy was rockin’ the NASCAR shirt and along with his super-southern twang came the redneck style Oakleys, Baseball cap and a chipped tooth! My personal hypothesis is that He and Lt. Alpha Female are kind of running the show but I don’t think they know it. Earlier that evening:

Southern Boy: Are you from Alabama? Is that where you’re going?
Me: No, not from Alabama – not going there either
Southern Boy: Cool, I thought you were from Alabama; you look like that Ruben guy from Alabama. Are you related?
Me: Nah, but that's Cool. (I look NOTHING like Ruben Studdard, probably even a few shades lighter on your standard brown paper-bag test).


Mr. Intense
Homeboy was cut-up. Clearly, a very serious athlete and probably the reason why all the other fat kids get to go on this trip too. This guy was sitting alone in the corner for the whole time. He had not said a single word to any of the other kids. His shirt was all seriously marked up ‘MY SWEAT’ ‘MY SORENESS’ ‘MY TEARS’ or some such athletic thing. I don't know if he was listening to the coach yelling or learning plays, but in 6+ hours of train, I had not seen him get up, move, eat, drink, talk ... NOTHING. But you know, who am I to stereotype. Perhaps they were going to a debate team thing? A spelling bee? Drama classes or Band Camp?



All the Pepsi these kids were drinking and something crazy was bound to happen. I can't believe I had to get off at my stop. Like I mentioned earlier though, the weekend was great and worth missing Crazy High. I did however miss my 7 am train back on Sunday, which I had already expected would happen and let plan 'B' go into effect (Thank you N.T. and Thank you Lady S. for the rides).

Note: Is it bad to drive when you can't turn your head? Still sorta sore here and BENGAY is a total crock of shit. My apartment stinks now, and nothing good came out of it.

Everything Hurts

I got a doozey but am physically unable to write. My condition from Friday is now 3-fold worse along with (what feels like) a broken back, an inflammed ACL, 80 year old's hips, knees and elbows ...and of course this slowly-crumbling pelvis bone.

Will probably Culture Shock: REVOLUTIONS or Culture Shock: REVENGE OF THE TEETH it again tomorrow morning.

Holla.

And it All Falls Down…

Sorry, I woke up this morning and I absolutely cannot write anything. For starters, after thinking that I had escaped the ‘cold’ season without getting sick, I get sick again. It’s probably allergies or something, but … my … poor…old…. fingers aregettingsticky from all the snot dripping down on them. Yum! (and you thought the Mayo post made you queasy).

So this all comes at a very bad time, because in about 9 hours from now, I’ll be on a train headed south. That’s right y’all … the durty durty is about to get even durtier. Wait, I forgot, I’m STILL sick – I would love nothing more than to call in sick today – but I really can’t, I have about 8 presentation boards (really, really big and tall ones) to plot out on the most finicky plotter ever … Epson 10600 … (OF DEATH).

I would quote ‘Office Space’, but I can’t think of the line right now, something about loading paper? Or Loading paper? Well, this thing will make you sweat trying to match (which WILL be checked by supa’ fine laser accuracy) the stupid edge of the paper to the stupid line on the bridge-plate-thing. It’s actually good practice for dating. How so? Well, rejection is brutal, but most of the time it’s done so weakly that you’re over it right then and there. If Rejections were done ala Epson-10600 … things would be a lot clearer. Fuck that weak shit, Let’s hear some:

”Error, Please buy me a more expensive drink”
“Error, I’m definitely cheating on my boyfriend … but not with you.”
“Error, Please meet my ‘Godzilla’ friend who will take it from here.”
“Err…or, I mean Oops, sorry, my drunk ass didn’t mean to puke on you’”

So, in 9 hours, I’m riding “The Crescent” (which I’ve never been on) heading south. Every time I take a train, I’m supposed to ‘act interested’ in the equipment, do some observational research, talk to some folks and if I’m feeling naughty maybe even some ethnographic trickery (My favorite!). I really doubt anyone would want to talk to me though, so in the name of giving our customers the most comfortable and enjoyable ride, EVER, I might just have to sleep this one out.

The ‘field research’ aspect can be fun at times but for the most part, all involved parties are sketched out by the stranger before their eyes. The easiest people to chat up are the ones you follow to the bar. You can almost always guarantee that anyone who orders 5 (there we go again) “shorty” bottles of Rum, Vodka or Whiskey will be co-operative, talkative and maybe even a little touchy-feely (only if you’re into that though). You just have to have impeccable timing and get the fuck out of their way before they very real possibility of them spewing their now-liquor-marinated and previously hearty lunch all over you.

Speaking of impeccable (and this is entirely unrelated, I meant to mention it sometime earlier, but forgot) over the past week I have realized that I’ve gained an exceedingly envious aim … with a deodorant spray can. Eyes closed, one hand, No Legs, it’s all-good … I’m a beast with that thing. I’ve made the switch from deodorant stick to spray can about 4 months ago, and I can NEVER go back. I used to fall for the intangible cue of ‘feeling the goop’, which basically means that subconsciously, you feel the gel from the stick under your arm, so therefore, it must be keeping you so fresh, and so … bearable. It is all just some undue psychosis; spray works just as well and is substantially less messy. But I digress.

I guess this all could have been worse (this post), I had a ‘stomach-flu’ scare, which if you’ve never had, is the absolute worst thing that can happen to you and torture you for days at a time. Never mind the tax on your esophageal track, or its department-of-you-know-what counterpart, the craziest part of it all is that the first day it hits you will ALWAYS be a day while you’re working. Meeting, casual conversation or just under brutal scrutiny from the corner of your boss’s eye … you will forever be known as the weird guy who just runs to the bathroom … 20 times an hour. Why are we paying him for this again?
Stay Tuned to see what I blab about while I’m suffering the ill-effects of Viral Gastroenteritis. Dramamine anyone?

Happy Friday.

Note: Happy Mother’s day to all the mamas, baby mamas’ mamas, mamas’ mamas’ forever ever … forever.

Cinco De Mayo

Damn, I should have written that stuff about the number ‘5’ today, I just didn’t think it through nor did I have the needed foresight. So … to remedy the situation, I decided that in today’s post I would write about the Mayo part instead, as a tribute to our Mexican friends. May is a relatively dormant month, not much to say there so how about I make this about Mayo (The 'bad' kind).

Mayonnaise is my 2nd favorite condiment. Like hot sauce (UNDISPUTED #1), it makes EVERYTHING better the only reason it comes in second place is because of all the fat content, and calories (It does however, get extra points for being Carb-Free). I think it’s such a misunderstood condiment though, especially in America. God forbid your fat ass from ordering ‘extra mayonnaise’ on any sub or sandwich. The evil skinny people are surrounding you, their eyes light up in shock and their mouths contort in disgust. Some will even have the audacity to put their hands on their chest ala "Dios Mio!"

Well, go ahead and stick yourself, with your silly little olive-oil and vinegar shenanigans. No wonder you guys are angry all the time. Your choices of condiments limit you to Subway and umm… maybe Quiznos … but your leafy arugula, low-fat cheese and oregano sandwich still ain’t gonna taste as good as my Double Whopper, extra cheese (No Bun) heavenly delight. So suck on that for a little (don’t worry about nutritional info, you may spit it out afterwards).

Mayo sure beats mustard. The flavor is so much more subdued and it doesn’t really have that I-Might-Make-You-Throw-Up-If-You-Eat-Too-Much-Of-Me aftertaste to it. Besides, Mustard just doesn’t ‘look’ good on anything. Why is it so… yellow? I’m pretty sure it’s processed to the T, so I will not accept any arguments of the mustard seed having an effect on the color of mustard. Clearly, there’s some food coloring business going on to make it MORE yellow, so why couldn’t they have picked a less childish/ nausea-inducing (one in the same really) color. I’m picking at mustard in an especially harsh manner, don’t know why exactly but I’m probably filled with subconscious bitterness that I was only getting paid 7 dollars an hour and still being asked to “please put a smiley mustard face on my sub.”

Don’t get me started on the ketchup folk (I used to be a ketchup person, but then I saw the Light…err… Light Mayo?) Ketchup folk are absolutely crazy. HARDCORE. Like I once used to, they really do add ketchup to EVERYTHING … Eggs (very good with ketchup), Rice, Pasta, bread and salad - what’s next? Ketchup Pie? The rice thing is more out of necessity though, It’s sort of the poor-ER man’s version of rice and beans … you don’t have to pay for the beans, just go and grab handfuls and handfuls of ketchup packets from your local fast-food joint.

I think one of the ‘craziest’ concoctions I’ve devised with ketchup would be Ketchup on Ramen Noodles. I’m about to hurl all over my keyboard just thinking about it. In my defense, I’ve always thought Ramen Noodles have too much spice/flavoring in that little packet of spice/flavoring … OF DEATH. So, logically, I think I convinced myself that adding ketchup to it would offset the overpowering ‘zest’ of God-Knows-What-The-Fuck-Is-In-This-Packet. Because you know using half the packet would be wasteful, and that’s not good. (Don’t try to propose this ‘save the other half’ for later business … it’s IMPOSSIBLE, I’ve thought about it endlessly. You save the first half packet, next time you eat Ramen you will have a brand new unopened one, which you will have to save. The NEXT time you eat Ramen; you will be left with a total of 1.5 packets of spice, 2, and 2.5 and incrementally so on).

Last mentionable, but not least mentionable with ketchup is that it’s messy. Mayo on your white shirt? No problem, get you some Bounty (or underwear, or socks, or whatever) … Ketchup on your white shirt? You’re screwed. You need Tide, Clorox, Snuggle and Quarters … a financially taxing quartet because you know; washing machines and water are usually free – at least for me when I drive down 95 with endless loads and loads of laundry to do.

Hey Dear Oldest Bro and Dear 2nd Oldest Bro, do you think either of your washing machines can remove Pink Hi-Liter blotches? Oh … and Dear 3rd Oldest Bro, No, I’m not going to try Rubbing Alcohol on ANYTHING else. Cut it Out.

I could go on and diss every other kind of condiment, but the fact that I have left their ass unmentioned is fulfilling enough. In a nutshell, they all sound like stripper names (Hollandaise and Tartar), Animal DooDoo (Horseradish, Cocktail) or some god forbidden utterly and disgustingly contagious disease in your department-of-you-know-what (Lox, A1 and Vegemite).

Note: Some skinny people are nice, and thereby don’t need to stick or suck anything anywhere.

Fee, Fie, Foe, FIVE

I smell the blood of an Englishman!!! Be he Dead or be he Alive (hey, I just made a nursery rhyme that ACTUALLY rhymes). I never understood why the original was all awkward, Fee, Fie, Foe, Fum … I smell the blood of an English BUM? Fee, Fie, Foe, Fuck, I smell the blood of a …. of an…. of a “Cluck, Cluck…Chicken-head.” Don’t act all whack, kids can learn A LOT from Southern-Gangster-Rap.

So if your name begins with a J, a K, or an L, you probably won’t be hearing from me by phone anytime soon. Furthermore, if your phone number contains the number ‘5’ in it, again, you won’t be hearing from me anytime soon by phone (unless of course, you’re in my phone book, AND your name doesn’t begin with a J, a K or an L).

It’s not a superstitious thing as some of you may think, I’m not following advice from my psychic who coincidentally also happened to urge me to ‘be cautious and try to stay away’ from the number ‘5’ – But my Tax Guy said I should do the 5-5-5 lottery thing? Clearly, we have some seriously conflicting messages here.

I’ll put all that aside because I can’t think about something for more than 3 minutes, otherwise it gets stuck in my head … FOREVER. The LAST thing I want to know (from my psychic or otherwise) is how do I ‘stay away’ from the number 5? Do they walk around in red foam costumes? We’ll see. Could he have possibly been talking about the ‘5’ button on my NOKIA 3595?

Why doesn’t the ‘5’ button on my phone work? I should have everyone know that my ‘5’ button and ‘2’ button are shared; they’re the same exact button (you just push towards the top to get 2 and push towards the bottom to get 5). The 2 works great, the 5 doesn’t, making this a little harder to fathom.

I can’t bring myself to BASH Nokia because I love them. Yes, me and Nokia go way back, I got much respect for them. I think they are probably one of the only cell phone manufacturers who have not rubbed it in and made us sick of the cell phone as a technology or as a product. Most their designs are true and maintain their integrity, where as, someone like Motorola or Sony keep producing all this ‘smaller-than-ever’ JUNK that has Cameras, Keyboards, PDAs … what are you gonna add on there next, French Ticklers?

I should mention an incident that occurred a while ago when I was first moving into my apartment. When I got done lugging stuff into the place, I went to wash my hands in the bathroom, when I got there, I realized that I still had my cell phone on me. Regrettably, I placed it on the side of the sink as I was washing my hands. The unfortunate obvious happened and my phone was DEAD for about 3 days. Mainly my screen, I could turn the phone on but I couldn’t see anything - which made for a great game of Blind Dialing (I’ve actually NEVER dialed the wrong number during this period, I guess I remember the position of every single entry in my phone book (200+) – that and it also helps to know your “A, B, C’s”.

After coming to the slow conclusion that I need a new phone, I head over to the Cingular pad to get a new phone. They were all far too expensive (the ones I wanted) so I decided to play fair, and get the same model phone I have (which was still about 150 dollars or so). Then came my phone book dilemma. The girl at the Cingular store told me that it wasn’t possible AT ALL to recover my phone book because I hadn’t saved it to the sim card; I only saved it on the actual device memory. Fuck. Then she says “Hold on, let me try something” … she comes back 30 minutes later with no better news, I’m stuck up shit creek.

Here comes the miracle. I asked for her to open the new phone out of the box so I can 'See it' (what I really wanted to do is see if I can try and retrace how to blindly save my phonebook onto my sim-card). The Cingular girl didn’t know I was up to all this so she agreed. As with all new phones, the battery wasn’t charged, so I open my old phone up, take the battery out, and plug it into the new phone. Right Menu, Down, Down, Down, Down, Down, Down, Left Menu, Left Menu, Down, Down, Left Menu. Damn, I’m slick. I unplug my old phone’s battery, put it back in my old phone, turn it on to perform this High-Risk task … and …

My fucking screen works again!!! Holy Shit, What the hell just happened, I’m either really lucky, or REALLY, unbelievably lucky (I hope I didn’t use my entire lifetime supply of luck on a stupid cell phone, because remember, I still have every intention of winning a jackpot in 2007). But now it was awkward, because the lady is trying to ring me up, and I have to ‘get out’ of the deal after we went through all this trouble. Additionally, it would sound very shady, if I just say, Oh… It works now! (Which was the absolute truth) The girl would suspect that I switched some component out, or switched batteries or switched SOMETHING (which again, I didn’t I only transferred my old battery, and transferred it back).

I decided the best way to get out of this, since she didn’t see me try to save on my sim card, is to act really sad, and really devastated that I will lose this phone which I’ve grown so sentimentally bound to. So I put my head down, shook it a few times, twirled my phone on the table all while not trying to laugh AND listening to The Cingular girl repeatedly say:

“Sir, I’m sorry, it’s just not going to work, you’re a smart man, you know what happens when your phone gets wet.”

YES! Perfect, this is my chance:

”Yeah, I know, I guess I’m the one to blame, I’m just not ready for this yet, I would never be able to get those numbers again, so I’m gonna go back home now, and let it dry out for a month, maybe it will work then.”

”But Sir…”

”It’s Ok, I need to be less dependant on my cell phone anyways. Maybe this is a sign from god. Thank You. Thank you for all your help, really.”

And… I RUN out of the store with a grin "wider than victoria lake." (What a great song, "Is It A Crime" from 1986 is currently in heavy rotation).

It’s been over 6 months now, and I have NEVER had a problem with my cell phone screen, or anything else since, except now (with the 5 button – I know, you probably forgot about that because I drifted off the subject a little … don’t you just hate that).

Note: I should mention that all my phone numbers are now on my phone’s memory AND my sim-card … so should I decide that I need to get in touch with my J, K, L friends or anyone with a ‘5’ in their number, I’ll go get another phone … Yesterday I needed to call the dry cleaners to check on an order, and wouldn’t you know, their number Is 655-5551. I had to wait til’ I got to work this morning.

Tire, Tire Woes Y’all

Well yesterday was pretty eventful. The day started out with me releasing some long brewing fumes about my slow and agonizing loss of all my clothes and ended with me falling asleep at 9:00 p.m. That’s pretty damn early if you ask me, 9 O’clock? I didn’t even get to watch the stupid reporters tell us about that damn whale still being stuck up shit creek on the local newscast. (I think the whale actually moved to an even dirtier body of water, it’s now a brown beluga whale).

So, what happened in between my great start and my arguably greater conclusion to the second day in May?

9:00 a.m. - First off, my new 30-dollar iPod charger I bought (because my old one broke) didn’t work – apparently the charger for my ‘old skool’ iPod is now ‘OBSOLETE’ – and Apple has their shit so far up their ass that they decide not to include the cord when they sell you their (very well packaged) chargers. I sat through an 8-hour day at work listening to every single background conversation that I didn’t need to hear. The morning went on forever, I made it through though thanks to some swanky Photoshop car rendering tutorials.

11:00 a.m. - our ‘weekly staff meeting’ rolls around. I make sure to grab a brand new notepad before every meeting so that I can shoot the paper-shits with the secretary. You see; we have this new high-tech audio conferencing system, with microphones planted EVERYWHERE in the room, and even the slightest fart is broadcast for your embarrassment/ enjoyment. No talking, snickering, chewing, burping or cracking your knuckles is permitted. None of that shit.

Roxanne and I have some interesting discourse, such as (but not limited to) what is the best way to win the lottery? Why I’ll never get rich because I tip too much; When we can go to Atlantic City and gamble away our life-savings and my favorite of all is the part where I get to describe the visuals of certain TV shows, because she doesn’t own a TV and only LISTENS to television shows on the radio (?!?!?!!). Christ Almighty (and I don’t even believe in the guy).

Side Note: Our notes were interrupted by the relieving news that co-worker G.W. barely escaped what was “an almost certain and instant decapitation” (I am DEAD serious).

12:30 p.m. - Meeting is OVER, salvation has arrived and it’s time for lunch! Normally I go to Eleanor’s (since we don’t know her last name, we sometimes say Roosevelt, Rigby and… hmmm … that’s it – only 2 Eleanors I know), a lady who comes to the facility with some home-cooked goodness (But she’s only there Tuesday and Thursday, so Mondays is 7-11 day). I used to pack lunch but stopped that because I find that going out for a drive to get my lunch is a nice break in the day (it’s good for the soul).

So, I get my Turkey or whatever, driving back, jamming, jonesin’ and I get to the parking lot and my car starts uncontrollably shaking it’s jelly like a ‘fat lady’s belly’. What’s going on now? I manage to wobble into the parking spot and my back left tire is absolutely FUCKED. There’s a huge gash on the sidewall and I have no clue how it got there, I’m pretty sure I didn’t run over anything or hit any curbs but here’s a ‘theory’:

REWIND

Sunday May 1st 8:45 p.m. - I’m rushing back from dinner to catch the boxing match on ‘THE CONTENDER’ (which I still missed, but I think that one kid got a serious ass beating?) I park my car on the next side street, and in my rush, I just got out and ran. I quickly glanced over my shoulder, and THOUGHT that I accidentally took up two parking spots (it’s possible, but I doubt it). So maybe, just maybe, someone was mad that I took up two parking spots and slashed my tire? It’s a long shot, but I’m paranoid. Furthermore, if anyone has maliciously slashed a tire before, is it a slow-setting effect? Or does the tire go down immediately?

Ok back to yesterday:

Of course, like every other fool, I don’t have the proper equipment required to change the tire. So… in quick acting panic, I ran upstairs and grabbed co-worker C.R. and said this exactly: “Yo, my tire’s screwed, can you help?” C.R. agrees to do so, but not before he relays word around the office that “Nafie doesn’t know how to change a tire.” My boss comes up to me, and says, “You don’t know how to change a tire? Hmmm, well, my daughter doesn’t know how to change a tire either, but then again, she’s a 17 year old high school student.”

Alright, I NEVER said I don’t know how to change a tire. Let’s just keep it at that.

In the ten minutes it took to put on the doughnut tire, rumors were just BREWING all over the office. We come back inside, and all of a sudden C.R. is the butt of all the jokes. SOMEONE “hypothesized” that I played silly so I can get C.R. to change my tire for me (maybe because I didn’t want to get potentially my last NON-PINK-HI-LITER-RUINED article of clothing dirty… hmmm). Hmmm… Do I? Or do I not know to change a tire? Even though C.R. doesn’t read this blog (at least I hope not) – the aforementioned question will forever remain in rhetoric form.

5:00 p.m. – I roll out of work and go and make use of my ($360 initial cost) tire warranty. 100 dollars’ worth absolutely FREE, I love it!!! Through traffic, and labor time, I get done around 6:00 p.m. where I jet over to COMPUSA to return the “iBrick-Of-Death” (that’s where they told me that my shit was obsolete. Obsolete? Well, I definitely prefer the term ‘classic’ or ‘vintage’) but whatever, I was going to check eBay but then had a devious bulb go off in my head. In between my old charger, the new one (and all the screwdrivers I have in my quarantined bag) I think I might be able to make babies. I'll update on whether that works or not.

Oh, before I forget, dinner was free, because I didn’t really get to eat lunch. My appetite was shot by my tire-woes and I STILL had my turkey in my car when I got home. Stale, room-temp turkey, it’s not Eleanor, but hot sauce makes EVERYTHING better.

Note: Why would G-GG-G-G-G-UNIT ever go-ahead and bring Mary J Blige on their track and have her absolutely embarrass them as self-proclaimed ‘lyrical’ Messiahs. 50 Cent and The Game invite Mary J. Blige to just SMASH 'Hate it or Love it', This is DEFINITELY one of the most accurate, well sung, deep and incredible performances I’ve ever heard. “The Soul/ Hip Hop queen” makes the best use of 2 rappers by keeping them in their place as her chorus singers. Go’head … envy her.

Pink Delirium

Mystery Solved. Over the past couple of weeks I have watched my wardrobe slowly dwindle down to something like 1 pair of pants and 2 t-shirts. The Reason? Well, a mysterious ‘RED’ substance has been getting it’s Jones all over my threads.

It drove me absolutely nuts. My clothes would ‘suddenly’ have large splotches of red appear all over them and I couldn’t figure out what the fuck is happening. I bought a couple of brand new shirts (as opposed to buying shirts that are old as dirt, you know) and didn’t even get to wear them because the splotches … OF DEATH, done gone and got a hold of my new shirts.

The obvious (and incorrect/ unlikely) scenarios were all quickly over-ruled. Was I bleeding? I’m pretty sure I haven’t been STABBED recently, so NO, I wasn’t bleeding in my stomach area. Was there another piece of Red clothing contaminating its friends, in the laundry or otherwise? Nah, the only Red thing I have is a pair of shorts and they don’t ‘shed’. I went all out and setup a whole experiment to determine so, beakers, test-tubes, cotton balls, variable temperatures of water and I even had a lame bar graph all worked out in my head, just incase.

So what the hell -- where’s this shit coming from? Oh wait, NOW it’s all over one of my two carpets that I was forced into buying in post #2 of this blog (You know, because carpet has been found to have incredible sound-barring capabilities). For fuck’s sake, I just want to pack up my clothes that haven’t been splotched, my iPod, my toothbrush, my hot sauce, my ‘hotness’ Ogio backpack and MOVE. Different apartment, Different City, Different States, whatever, it’s all gravy.

Wait, I can’t take my 70-dollar Ogio backpack? Tell me ANYTHING other than my precious backpack is now screwed. Not only is it ROYALLY screwed but it all hit me like the proverbial Ton of (red) brick and as it turns out … that’s the motherfucking culprit – RIGHT there. Every piece of clothing that I’ve put in that bag is ruined.

The only problem now, is that the bag is Brown with some Black and has what amounts to ZERO red on it … are we back at square one? First of all, after scolding it and cussing my brains out at it (I like cussing at inanimate objects, it’s good for the soul) I put the bag on probation, or ‘QUARANTINE’ in the most remote (non-carpeted) corner of my apartment, it’s still sitting there.

Upon further investigation of the contents, which include: every type of screwdriver imaginable, every iPod accessory there is to own, Blank CDs (just in case), 20 dollars worth in quarters, A bottle of hot sauce (also, just in case), Ski Gloves for when it snows during that ONE day of spring when it ALWAYS snows and just a bunch of other shit that I would divulge, but won’t for fear of sounding “too weird”. Still no red, however, among the (seriously, I counted this) 42 types of writing/ drawing instruments I have in there, was a pink Hi-liter. A fucking Pick Hi-liter with the cap removed, and the ink all soaked up leaving nothing but a drying and starved felt tip.

First of all, I don’t even believe in Pink Hi-liters. I think Pink, Blue and Green are all too dark to successfully Hi-Lite with. The ONLY acceptable hi-lite color would of course be the fluorescent yellow. I have no idea why the fuck I had that Piece of Crap In there. Furthermore, WHY does pink hi-liter ink turn into weird blood-shade RED when it comes in contact with Fabric? I’m profiled enough and attract enough attention as it is, the last thing I need is to walk around the town like I’m Lecter looking for dessert.

The saddest part of all is that I now have to go back to my old and gargantuan caveman P.O.S. bag that I have to tie shut because the little ball draw-mechanism is broken. Logically, I would go and buy another new bag, but you know, I kind of need something less “Bloody” looking to go to work in.

Note: In an unrelated topic, SHAKIRA is finally back, and she’s back to her hypnotizing ways in “La Tortura” (I really tried to type HIPnotyzing but word has this auto-correct bullshit going on – well, auto-correct or anti-lame, depending on how you look at it). Welcome Back.