Today is the Day

My palms are sweating (not really, but they might as well be). I am THAT excited about today. I butchered some of my predictions for the French Open last month (mostly on the women’s side … pretty much had the men’s draw nailed down). Being one who learns from his mistakes, I won’t make any predictions. Granted this would be much easier now that I have a 1 in 4 chance (the tournament is at Semi-Final stage) of being right.

Like the majority of tennis followers, there is one particular match that intrigues me more than all other semi-finals; the bottom semi-final between defedning champion #2 seed Maria Sharapova and 2000, 2001 champion #14 seed Venus Williams. I took the liberty to make the little showdown poster pictured below (sign #4 your evening was extremely uneventful).

I won’t say who I want to emerge the victor in this match. I will say that I have a CLEAR favorite who I am rooting for 100% of the way. The reason I refrain from mentioning who I favor is because I don’t want to jinx anything. So, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE (three ‘PLEASES’, one for whatever kind of deity you believe in) let me have my way.

As for the men’s side, I expect to see an entertaining Sunday final between a Swiss future-legend and a big serving American (this is slightly questionable, if Johansson can have his way). Notable though, the Federer-Hewitt semi-final (played on Friday) will be an incredible match.

Swiss people make good chocolate, don’t take sides in any war, and have good army knives and banks. For the purposes of Sunday though, they will also claim a Wimbledon Three-peat in the form of Roger Federer. Poor Roddick, as great as he's playing, I don’t think he or anyone else for that matter, realizes exactly WHAT he’s up against.

The unfortunate obvious is that I will not watch the Sharapova-Williams match. Not because I stopped watching television (because drastic rules like that ALWAYS have exceptions, this would certainly be one of them) but because I now have to go and listen to some very stubborn chefs (with limited industrial design street cred) tell me how to do my job. Fear not, “Feisty Little Scotsman” is in tow for this battle and I’ll be sure to let him do all the “talking”.

Those of you who can watch, enjoy it on my behalf (and cheer for who I'm cheering for).

(IT'S AIR TIME BABY ... AIRTIME)


Note: My BEST bet is to try and time my lunch break so that I can at least watch SOME of the match. Besides, everyone knows that lunch at sports bars with really BIG television screens everywhere is always fun.

The Car Bizaar

I always complain that my mornings are so uneventful. Everything is so routine and regimented. Apart from writing some madness (a different one everyday), nothing is ever really different. It feels like one of those nightmarish LOOPS that never end.

But alas, all this changed yesterday morning. This (possibly) historic moment marks the first blog entry about something that happened to me before I even got to work. As a matter of fact, before I even got inside my car, and it’s been marinating in my cerebral ‘WHAT-THE-FUCK’ cortex for minutes short of 24 hours.

I usually get ready, leave my apartment, go down the stairs and check my mail. This is one of the bad (or just plain idiotic) habits I have. I check my mail in the morning (Redundantly so, as I have already checked it the night before). You never know though, maybe one day I’ll indeed find something in there, it’ll be courtesy of the MOST procrastinating mail carrier EVER.

Back to the point about yesterday, I left the damn building and approached my car. Why the fuck is there a ‘FOR SALE’ sign on my car? That's really nice, SOMEONE is selling my car and it’s not me. For the love of god, I know I harped about how boring my mornings are but not like this. WHO is trying to sell my car?

More importantly, I wonder why someone woke up one day and decided they were going to sell MY car? I’m very well aware that I live in a city of freak shows but what would prompt such bizarreness?

Here are a few thoughts I have on WHY:

Did I take the last parking spot on the street? Highly doubtful, ‘they’ would have had no way of determining that and pick my car (to sell) out of a possible 40 or more others. What about taking 2 parking spots? Not possible, I parked in between a driveway and a yellow marked pavement.

Is my car too ugly? This would hurt my feelings the most. Again, I highly doubt that’s the reason because there’s this ONE car (presumably belonging to someone in my building) that is just a mess. This thing WAS red (I think) it also could have been green, blue or primer gray. It would earn the undisputed title of “World’s EASIEST car to park” for several reasons:

1) It’s ‘shorter’ since the trunk AND the front are well SMASHED in.
2) Eliminates the worry of bumping the car and damaging the (non existent) bumper.
3) Detracts and repels any other car from coming near it.

I suppose it’s also possible that someone had mistaken my entire car for one big Yard Sale because of my trunk and all its yard sale-ish contents.

The sad, stupid and slightly relieving part about all this is that I (used to) keep my car title INSIDE my car. I know, how uncharacteristic of me (Does that count as more “immature” than not opening my mail?) My reason for the dumbass move was that I wanted to keep everything car-related, inside the car. You know, so I can easily find it. I changed my stupid ways when a friend warned me that if my car ever got stolen or broken into, said BASTARD who would have done such a thing would just be able to sign the title over to themselves, and thereby succeed in a 100% Steal-to-Legally-Own-My-Car maneuver.

Now, I keep my car title in an entirely different STATE than the one I live in. So there you have it car-stealers … FUCK YOU. (And I’m not going to tell you which of the 50 States my car title is in).

You know what they say … The Blacker the Berry, The Sweeter the Juice and The Weirder the City, the stranger the EXCUSE (to sell someone else’s car).

Note: Come to think of it, there's some HOT cars out on my street .... An Audi, a 745, a Kompressor (ok, not that hot) and several others. Go and sell oneo f those instead, you'll make a little more money.

Rollover!

There were 10 in the bed and the little one said…(I can’t believe Cingular has not taken advantage of this yet, I guess they’re too busy overcharging me).

As a child I always preferred that particular rhyme. For one, it was much quicker to count down from 10 to 1, and thereby end my misery. The other option of course was that cursed “99 bottles of beer on the wall, 99 bottles of beer. Take one down, pass it around, 98 bottles of beer on the wall” and agonizingly so on, etc. forever. Who has time to go through that entire song?? Every time that farce was brought upon us, I knew Miss Morris just wanted to enjoy her day without worrying about that whole pesky teaching part. She was mad cool though.

Although I must say, with age and experience (yeah, clearly A LOT of both), I am beginning to see things in a much different light. My theory is that some freak must have written that song. I guess its innocence is arguable to some extent -- maybe I’m just hyper-perverse.

Firstly, 10 in the bed are way too many to start with. There should have been a weed out process where the fugly ones were somehow stopped before getting to “bed” stage (unless of course you’ve just got done handling 99 bottles of beer from the wall). Regardless, it would have made more sense to start with 4 or 5 in the bed, at least that way the damn song would have been shorter.

Subliminal, undertone, weird or whatever else you wish to refer to it as, the part about rollover is a source for concern. TEN? 10 people rolling over so handily means a pretty big bed. Where can one get this bed at? My bed is sort of small, and I can't really rollover. Perhaps that's why I fall off my bed in the middle of night.

Does Size Matter? I guess not. Why else would ‘they’ allow the little one to call all the shots? Oh wait, it's possible that it DOES make sense. I rebut. Size, DOES matter and therefore the other nine must have willingly “fallen” off the bed because the little one; just wasn’t cutting the cake.

Another observation is that the little one is obviously a male. Had the little one been a female, the song would have abruptly ended with “There were TWO in the bed.” You know, to cuddle… and talk the next morning.

Talk about anti-climactic (the ‘freak’ writer of this song lets it slip towards the ending). The end of the song (as it is, without the cuddling and talking part) ends with such a disappointment. After everyone (apart from the little one) falls off the bed, the song ends with something like “And The Little One Says Goodnight.” You would think something half “cool” would happen after all that rolling-over. No?

Finally, the little one is still young and has not been through the school of Hard Knox (or listen to any Biggie, Pac, Jay Z or Nas album). I give him zero street-cred. EVERYONE knows that you don’t screw-over nine people and go to bed. That’s borderline stupid to not only go to bed, but also go to bed in the same vicinity as those you’ve just got done backstabbing. Amateurish.

I just realized that nothing in the song says the '10' were people. Fair enough, 10 (english speaking) bed mites makes it still applicable.

Note: My post on Wimbledon is coming up sometime this week, just as the tournament is about to end. I do want to express my extreme irritation at everyone who refers to WimbleDon as “Wim-bell-TON”.

A Cute Piece Of Shit

Increase the Dosage Please.

What a waste of precious weekend time. I am so livid. Bitter. Pissed. Sad. Devastated. This past weekend I managed to cough my way out of something I’ve been waiting to do for 5 years: Go fishing in the Atlantic Ocean. (K.F. I’ll definitely be hitting you up provided that I remain healthy for the rest of the summer … you know, when the fishes are especially stupid).

In desperation for my condition, I wanted to find out exactly what was wrong with me. Dr. Search Engine’s diagnosis concluded that my symptoms were most indicative of “Acute Bronchitis”. Acute Bronchitis? Are you fucking kidding me? What happened to the common cold and the whole thing about allergies? I was looking forward to my immune system KICKING ASS with that ‘weak’ virus shit … not sure I was quite ready for anything like ACUTE BRONCHITIS though. If all this was comparable to demons, the common cold would be “a demon” and ACUTE BRONCHITIS would “The Big D”. Definitely bad news because I really wanted to go fishing.

I managed to do nothing on Friday during work. I just figured my sheer presence would be sufficient. No? I definitely should have stayed home and slept all day but I guess I figured that if I stayed home it would really mean that “I’m Sick.” I guess going to work disillusioned me for eight hours or maybe I was hoping for a miracle to occur at work (it never does). The point is: I really wanted to go fishing.

I did however; get some medical advice from my co-workers. As we all know, co-workers are doctors-in-disguise, and they will surely let you in on some secret to get better. K.M. told me about something she saw on Oprah, a “miracle” pill that is supposed to get rid of a cold. She introduced me to Airborne. Airborne was developed by a (now multi-millionaire) schoolteacher who was “sick of getting sick” from children in her classroom. I decided that I would take this advice, as it was probably my last glimmer of hope as far as “saving the day” because I really wanted to go fishing.

At the end of the day, I went to the drug store and got me some Airborne. I should have been alerted by the (CLEARLY) labeled package “Take at the first sign of cold symptoms” that this will never work for me since I was at the full blown ACUTE BRONCHITIS stage. Nonetheless, I bought it mainly to re-assure myself that nothing works (and I guess the slightest chance that it may indeed WORK … because you know, I really wanted to go fishing).

Side Note: The Airborne package looks like a second grade art project. I couldn’t help but make the connection to This Very Funny Website. (Reminder to self: upcoming post about criticism).

I was also advised to help my immune system fight the good fight by giving it some Vitamin C. I was so desperate that on Friday (during my AIRBORNE hunt), I went and bought a SUPER Vitamin C supplement. This shit was the king snake. ONE tablet contained 1,667% of the recommended daily value. Again, I was so desperate I took 10 of those things in the hopes that I would sneeze ONE really big (and final) sneeze, and cough one really big (and final) cough and It’ll all be back to normal. Worry not; I did my homework on whether it was possible to overdose on Vitamin C. There were a few conflicting reports but nothing concrete enough to set off alarm. After all, I really wanted to go fishing.

Not to mention every type of Nyquil, Robitussin, Cepacol and everything else OTC that fits into a $50.00+ credit card purchase. Nothing worked. In fact, I’m still not 100% back … but I’m back enough to function in a non-horizontal position (whereas I spent the whole weekend in Porn-Star mode … you know, only good lying down type of deal - without the sex of course). However, I might as well not be back since it’s a little too late because I really wanted to go fishing.

I knew that there is no ‘cure’ for whatever I had since it was something viral. However, I was particularly let down by seeing the following statement labeled on everything I took:
THIS STATEMENT HAS NOT BEEN EVALUATED BY THE FOOD AND DRUG ADMINISTRATION. THIS PRODUCT IS NOT INTENDED TO DIAGNOSE, TREAT, CURE OR PREVENT ANY DISEASE. Ok, why the fuck are you selling it to me then? So I can take a useless bunch of crap and sulk and mope over the fact that I will NEVER forget how much I really wanted to go fishing.

Note: They caught Sharks and shit. I really wanted to go fishing.

Driving Under the InFluence

Yesterday was an extremely intense day to say the least. The day started off on an interesting note, more like a showdown. Without going into too much detail, I just want to say that it wasn’t really that big of a deal (this thought is now permanently etched in my head … whether it’s true or not). It did however signify a landmark: The first time I heard my boss (now nicknamed “Feisty Little Scotsman”) drop the F-bomb. A big thanks goes to FLS for clearing things up and sticking up for us with F-bombs.

I won’t really go into the details, I was thinking about doing so but realized I have another 8 hours coming up to quell any work-related discussion craving I may have.

But yesterday sucked for various other reasons

To make this dramatic day even less bearable, I start sneezing and suffering from a (very) runny nose. I don’t know, it may have been allergies, a cold or it may have been a straight up flu. Judging by how I feel today, it’s most probably a flu and it looks like I’m out of commission for the weekend. Either way it drained me and I just wanted to go back home (this aspiration came at about 10:00 a.m. yesterday morning).

That of course wasn’t an option because yesterday’s workload was absolutely critical, and had to be done. It didn’t take me long to figure out that all the Claritin in the world isn’t going to do shit for me, so I marched through the agonizing day with my snot-rag in hand (you know, like a true SOLDIER).

It was such a frustrating day that C.R. and I decided we should go to the driving range and take it out on some poor golf balls. The idea sounded good and despite my sickness, it was either the golf balls … or something in my apartment … SOMEONE or SOMETHING was going the fuck down. Runny nose, snot dripping, sneezing up my lunch, I didn’t care anymore.
I’ve never been golfing in a serious way (on a real course). I hear those people can get a little mean when they see that you suck and are slowing them down. My first impression of golf is that I wouldn’t like it. The ball is proportionally too small for the clubs, which would probably frustrate me. Nonetheless, I agreed to give it a shot.

The “DRIVING” part seemed easy enough. I’m sure there’s a lot of technical skill involved including stance, swing motion, ball contact, follow through, etc … but my main understanding was that distance was key, hit that motherfucker as hard as you can (which was essentially our goal). I was really looking forward to this new experience.

I head home after work to some serious construction on my street. It looked like a war zone, no parking on either side of the street. I didn’t think much of it, parked on the side street, and went inside my apartment. Well, I used the bathroom and after I flushed it, I realized that I had just flushed the last bit of water in the apartment. The construction outside was apparently going on to fix this problem. NO WATER, NONE.

Fine, I’ll shower at Chris’s place (Chris is “C.R.” … I just got sick of typing C.R. every time). So I head over there to shower, get ready and it’s off to the driving range. Since not a lot has gone my way so far, I wasn’t surprised that we got there too late and weren’t able to go on the driving range. We had to settle for a putting green instead. I should mention that the hole is a lot bigger than I thought it was but I still sucked at it.

However, given the fact that I was not at 100% health, I hereby give golf another chance. I decided that I would not hold yesterday’s bad-to-worse experiences against the game and hate it forever (which I normally would). I’ll definitely try it out again some time in the near future.

There was no driving under the influence, more like putting under the influence. I got home in the evening and lived through the miserable time one lives through with a flu (or it could be just a cold … but that wouldn’t fit in this post’s title, which makes it a medical long shot). I tried shots of Robitussin, popping’ Sudafed, sucking Cepacol (for the cough) and I’m still not better.

The construction stopped at about midnight – but I know better than to fuss and complain about that because I’m so happy the water is back and running again. And remember, everyone loves a happy ending.

Happy Friday.

Note: Is it pointless to eat when you can taste anything? Perhaps I should eat something I don't particularly like or enjoy the taste of.

Unusually, Freakishly, Obsessive

While I’m on this supernatural trip, I might as well tell this story because I’ll probably forget about it soon, or at least I would like to. I have actually never told anyone this story (not that I can remember). I guess that qualifies it as a ‘secret’ for all you lucky, lucky people.

Back in the day during Sophomore year in college, I lived in an apartment just off campus. The apartment was within walking distance to the campus but it was also neighboring some woods. I exaggerate when I say woods, because it was just a gathering of trees, more like an extra forest-y back yard. Either way, these woods happened to be my ‘view’ out of my (un-open-able) window.

My roommates were cool. I lived with the 2 Christophers. The first one … we shall call C.J. was in a frat and he was never home – so he’s irrelevant for the purposes of this post. The second roommate we shall also call Chris (the first “Chris” went by his initials: C.J., the second one didn’t). Chris (not CJ) had a girlfriend who I THINK lived there with us … but I’m not entirely sure on that one.

They were both very nice people. Definitely homebodies and liked to stay in his (their) room and ‘hang out’. Basically the only time I would run into either of them was when there was a simultaneous rush for the bathroom. The way this was ‘resolved’ was Chris (or Chris’ girlfriend) and I would make eye contact. Whoever had a more ‘desperate’ look on their face had the right of way. It was an unspoken treaty but all parties seemed to oblige and it worked out fine.

All that was basically useless information, except for the fact that I want to reiterate that during my minimal time-spent-at-home (I usually just went home to sleep … if that), I had very little interaction with said roommates. Instead, I was fixated with my forest-y ‘view’ from my (un-open-able) window. Although, Chris and his girlfriend had a pet chinchilla but they would never let it out to play because I guess it ran too fast (it was the coolest little thing – I wanted one and probably still want one now). How entertaining would that shit have been?

So, every night, I would stare out the window for a few minutes until I fell asleep.

Months and months had passed by and nothing interesting ever happened outside of my window. One dark and fateful night, everything changed. I was gazing out the window and saw a SHINY and glowing object; it was more like a glowing ‘bar’ or strip of light in the woods. It was very striking as it clearly stood out from its dark and leafy surround. The object was within sight but not close enough to identify. If I had to recall my description of its size, I would say it was about the size of a remote control.

This is where (again) I let my imagination take over.

You see, at that time I was convinced that this was something extra terrestrial. Why the fuck would there be something THAT shiny in the middle of the woods. Surely, the freaks have landed and they’ve landed right outside my window. Ok – so we’ve got some sort of shit out there. I was extremely tired but I was actually more bored and curious than I was tired. I decided that I should and would go and see what that object was.

I walked towards the front door and I reached out to open the door … and then I froze.
“Wait a minute … if this is indeed some freaky Alien shit, I don’t want to ‘disappear’ and get prodded leaving everyone to wonder where the fuck I went. No, no, no that would be stupid of me.”

So I went back to my room and opened up a text document. I briefly typed the events of that day (in case they might have any significance to my eventual abduction) and then explained the whole shiny object situation and ended my (possibly) pre-disappearance clue with: “And I’m going out there to see what’s up.”

I felt good about it now. I walked towards the front door once more, reached out to open the door … and I froze again. NOW WHAT?
"Well, if the aliens have some technological interference going on, which I assume they would … then surely my computer would get shut-down, or malfunction in some way … no one would ever find my typed note and I would still be a no-show."

Oh fuck … FINE! I went back to my room and quickly wrote the same note on a piece of paper. (Meanwhile, I would still look out the window, and the object was STILL there, shiny as ever).

I finally get to the front door, open it, walk around to the woods outside my window and (cautiously) approach the object. I get closer and closer and before I knew it, the object was within reach and plain sight. A motherfucking (silver) Diet Coke can was reflecting a strip of light from somewhere. What a complete letdown. I was looking forward to executing my (quite cool) escape plan from the alien ship and telling the world about it.

I swear, I’m perfectly normal; it’s just that sometimes I like to …subconsciously … entertain myself.

Note: After my great letdown, I was REALLY tired and I decided to move the Diet Coke can from my window’s view before I can entertain any further conspiracy theories about those fuckers trying to blend in with our (not-so-natural) environment by disguising their ship as an empty Diet Coke can. I guess this whole thing makes me somewhat dorky.

A Sight for Sane Eyes

So I’m very happy to be sitting and writing this morning. I’m safe, sound and most important of all completely sane. I know this because I am eyeing some cereal for breakfast … and I don’t usually have time for that, and nothing says "ALL IS WELL UP THERE" more than hunger.

Yesterday evening was one of those eerie ones where I got inside my own head and contrary to popular belief, there were no puppies running around in a field of roses. I managed to psych myself out. “Psyching Out” is something I’m usually very good at doing to OTHERS, unfortunately I’m better at doing it to myself.

After a long day at work, I headed over to C.R.’s parents’ place for some good food on the grill. It was a very normal and ordinary evening and all was dandy so far. Towards the end of the evening, I started thinking about weird and supernatural shit like possession, ghosts, spirits, etc. It was a random onslaught of paranoid ‘scenarios’ of that sort.

Let me say I’m a huge horror movie fan. Probably one of my favorite genres, heck “The Exorcist” is on my “favorite movies” list. They do affect me though. I completely, wholeheartedly (and very honestly) believe in that stuff. All of it, and that means every single goon, goblin, spirit, demon, and most of all, "The Big D" himself (which is why the Exorcist is one of my favorite movies ... one of the only horror movies that deal with "The Big D" himself not just any commoner type of demon). Ironically, I will watch a horror movie and come out 100% convinced that the events could indeed occur in our ‘real’ lives (especially to me). For some odd reason, I love that and when I get home, I think about it.

Needless to say I will go completely psycho if some shit pops up on me. Is that not the kind of stuff that will make one lose it? Although I think a heart attack is a more viable explanation for those of you who’s medical reasoning trumps the supernatural. Heart attack, brain lapse, or whatever else you want to call it – It wouldn’t be fun.

Oh lets say you’re chilling at home, ready to go to bed and there’s an odd yet persistent sound of footsteps that cause your (carpeted, mind you) wooden floors to creek and crackle. You look around, and there’s nobody (visible). I know there’s ‘somebody’ – I can hear you for fuck’s sake. I guess I feel some sort of relief every time I don’t see ‘them’. However, I live my life knowing that ONE DAY, I will indeed ‘see’ something. Everybody knows that ‘seeing is believing.’ But since I already “believe” then I think in my case “seeing” would translate me into the LOONEY house.

To make matters worse, on my drive home from the grilling last night, I casually look up at the sky and there it was … a full moon staring right back at me. It was real In-Your-Face too … you couldn’t have missed it (I can’t even remember when the last time I saw the moon was). What does that mean? WHY? Out of every single night … that very specific night when I’m running that stuff through my mind do I see a full moon?

I certainly don’t buy into the ‘stupid’ kind of scary stuff such as the commonly associated with full moons werewolves. I don’t believe in vampires and I also don’t think ‘slasher’ movies are scary, and I certainly don’t think a rabid wolf-man creature would be able to do much damage.

It’s the silhouettes I worry about. The shadows, the See-Through, torn and tattered clothes type motherfuckers. They always have their head down with their (usually wet) hair covering their face. They walk slower than a 2 year old. Their damage is done visually; they don’t even need to touch you to inflict it … you, just ... need ... to ... BE ... THERE … to see it.

Note: I used to enjoy shows where they go into haunted places and communicate with spirits or ghosts. I would actually love to do that someday ... but under ONE condition. I have to get promised (by the spirit or anyone else for that matter) that they will not get attached to me and follow me home to cause some unnecessary shit.

STOP! In the (aisle) of Dove

Before you break my heart and cause me to drop the fuck down.

Question: How many shopping carts can fit in the aisle of a grocery store?

The answer is simple; probably one, maybe two but your Milk and my Eggs might get a little frisky with each other. Actually the answer should be ZERO. It doesn’t make sense to make a 2 way street out of a narrow grocery aisle.

I obviously went grocery shopping yesterday. I’m one of those people who use the small hand held baskets rather than big carts. I don’t know why because by the time I’m at check out, I have things in my pocket, tucked under my arm, between my knees and in my mouth. I know what you’re thinking but hear me out … people will feel sorry for you (so will the cashiers). They might let you cut in front of them so you can put your mess down on the conveyer and spare them the miserable scenery (and potential ‘extra mess’ if you ever drop that 2 liter).

My frustration stems from the fact that despite me carrying my basket, I still get ‘stuck’ in an aisle because there are two shopping carts and their ‘drivers’ are too occupied picking their groceries from opposing shelves. Not only that, but when their groceries (ALWAYS) happen to be on the bottom shelf, I also get a front row seat to ASS CRACK MANIA! Yesterday was particularly enjoyable. I was definitely re-assured that summertime has indeed arrived … with outfits that enhance ASS CRACK MANIA! (With all due respect, I am not talking about ambitious, energetic and exotic bachelorettes with short hair … we are talking been around for a while, hot flashes in the middle of the store type deals here). But it’s okay, it’s good practice for poker, how to be patient and all.

I will say though that the most awkward interaction is when they finally get up, and I have to cordially give THAT smile. That “Hi, you’ve-made-me stand-here-for-5-minutes-and-I-didn’t-particularly-appreciate-that … and oh by the way, I-couldn’t-help-but-stare-at-your-GRAND-canyon” smile. They completely get it too, word for word.

There’s always about 12 cash registers or more at every grocery store, but only 2 are actually OPEN. One time I was carrying stuff as I described above and one cashier lady was very sweet and she let me use her very empty 15-item limit line (I had about 40 items). Her name was Denise. At this point, we’re on a first name “wattup” basis. Denise was mad cool. She’s the type of lady who will get all up in your business (in a friendly way). She always looks at what I bought and proceeded to discuss and comment on each and every single one of them. Some of my favorites:

“Oh Child, go and put that fat free shit back … it don’t taste as good.”
“Shrimp will get you ass … always” (That was a lie … not “ALWAYS”)
“ What in the hell is wrong with this? Why is it so cheap?”
“I hope you REALLY like it, I wouldn’t pay that much for this.”
“You smell good baby, You smell good … go ahead.” (While ringing up deodorant or body spray … but … I haven’t put that on yet … so…)

Well at least she’s honest. Over the months she’s become my go-to cashier. She’s fast and whimsical and a very nice person.

And then there’s George. George is weird. He’s one of those cashiers who don’t say anything. Not even “Do you have a super card?” He will just kind of freeze until you get a hint. George man, what’s the deal here? George is not speech-disabled; I have actually heard him talk before. He probably just doesn’t like me, or like ringing up my type of groceries.

And last but not least is Cruella DeManager. I understand she’s probably stressed out to the max … but for fuck’s sake would you stop cursing at your employees and hot-talkin’ them? I NEVER understood the following phenomenon (probably because I’ve never worked at a grocery store) but it seems that cashiers need the manager’s “KEY” for something… EVERYTIME. I can never figure out why exactly, the world just FREEZES and the intercom starts yelling “Manager’s key to Register 3, Manager’s key to Register 3.” So yeah, Cruella hates being called to the register. She always comes out PISSED and LIVID, fumbling her keys and mumbling to herself. Another thing I never understood is: why am I getting her dirty look (of death) from hell?

It must be something I bought.

Note: If and when I ever buy anything “personal” or embarrassing (like that one time, thanks to A.M.G.) … I always go to George and NOT Denise. The last thing I need is for her to announce: “Boy Buying [something boys shouldn't buy]” to the world.

A Ten

Oh No …here we motherfuckin’ go again. What am I up to this time?

The S.O.B.’s engagement party this weekend was incredible. Great hosts, great guests, great food and … great everything else (by S.O.B. I of course mean ‘Second Oldest Brother’).

The weekend was obviously quite hectic. I drove on a ‘bad foot’ Friday after work. Earlier in the week, I stepped on this stupid binder clip and managed to cut the sole of my foot (see, I cut & bleed easier than anyone I know). I didn’t think it would affect my driving but it was quite uncomfortable (and painful). Knowing the extent of action that was promised on Saturday, I made the wise choice to just chill on Friday night. I saw “The Village” again (I loved it the first time around) but I think the dialogue could use some improvement.

My Saturday looked like this:

-Wake up and go to a graduation ceremony
-Go and Buy Clothes
-Go and Get Dressed
-Pick-up Mom and Auntie
-Pick up the food
-Get there by 4 p.m. (which I knew I had no chance of making … but 4:20 isn’t that bad, right?)

So let’s tackle those events … one by one.

Wake up and go to the graduation ceremony: The “Waking Up’ part was pretty easy, the graduation ceremony was not. Parking on THE OPPOSITE SIDE OF CAMPUS than where we needed to be was a little inconvenient but that’s fine. We then watched so many people get ‘CUM LAUDE’ and ‘MAGNA CUM LAUDE’ (kids are getting smarter these days?) before we had to excuse ourselves because of the subsequent HAD-TO-BE-DONEs.

Go and Buy Clothes: The lady at the checkout register said to me “That’s what you get for having expensive taste.” Only mere seconds before her observation, my jaw dropped at my total. I guess they were worth it; those were some hot threads: a shirt, pants, a hat (so p.i.m.p.), a belt and socks. And yes, leave it to me to buy a 40.00-dollar belt. It’s not really my fault, I’m usually reasonable at looking at the price of things before I buy them, but I was in such a hurry and didn’t see this until after the fact and I was removing the tags to wear it. Again, it’s fine … I spent the whole weekend convincing myself that my new expensive belt has ‘magical powers.’ Slimmer waist, bigger package, slimmer waist, bigger package, slimmer waist, bigger package, slimmer waist, bigger package, slimmer waist, bigger package, slimmer waist, bigger package, slimmer waist, bigger package, slimmer waist, bigger package, slimmer waist, bigger package, slimmer waist, bigger package, slimmer waist, bigger package...

Get dressed: Understandably, this was very boring until I tried to put on my new socks and shoes with that disaster on the sole of my foot. Then I guess it got “interesting” and as a matter of fact it just turned downright excruciating. Had there not been a couple of more drive-to destinations on the agenda, I would have promptly whipped out the Tequila (to put on the wound … you know).

Pick up Mom and Auntie: This one was a last-minute addition on the agenda but it made sense since I was getting dressed where they were.

Pick up the Food: This one was also a last minute agenda (but not as last minute as the previous one …I had about an hour’s notice on this one). Although it was on the way to the event, this suddenly became the most ‘difficult’ thing to do. You see, since I originally had just one passenger (cousin), I had planned to put the food in the back seat (the only place it would fit) but then I picked up 2 more passengers and the drama ensued. The Nissan trunk. This is very deserving of its own post but I just want to say that I don’t even like opening my trunk because I can’t even begin to think of what’s in there. It is absolutely no-more-room-for-anything-else PACKED. We emptied everything out and covered the entire apartment living room floor with it.

Again, walking across campus (and I thought I would never have to do that again, ever); squeezing my cut foot in a brand new shoe; the manual labor and demons associated with emptying the contents of my trunk and everything else was entirely worth it. This weekend was a 10.

Note: If I could ask God just one question, it would be: Why did you ever create birds?
My psychosis aside, I have ‘THEM’ to thank for the (quite frequently occurring) deplorable and shit covered filthy car.

ONE

To preface this countdown conclusion, I should mention that I am indeed extremely hard to keep attentive. I bore easily, very easily. I get excited about ‘new’ things, and can sometimes lose my passion instantly. For example, those “The Facebook” and “Hi5” friends network things I was raving about a couple of weeks, are already history.

I woke up on Wednesday June 8th and went about my daily morning routine (the one where I usually commit eight deadly sins in 15 minutes). I was so disinterested in writing that I decided to call it quits on Culture Shock that very morning. This is where the countdown comes in. Firstly, it was extremely hard to write my “last post” that very same day I was overwhelmed with so much disinterest. I decided to instead “count down” to my last post on this blog for several reasons:

1) There were things that I still felt a need to express, for all time’s sake.
2) I didn’t know how to ‘end’ it in one single post. What do I write? Peace Out?
3) I like countdowns and I find them very exciting.

There maybe a couple more, but remember, it’s “good” to say things in threes.

I am not a writer, I have arguable writing skills, but I enjoy it. Writing everyday wasn’t easy and sometimes I was just at a total loss for words (more times than I might appear). There have been days where I woke up looking forward to writing and others where I woke up and Culture Shock seemed like the most strenuous of chores.

It’s hard to explain the reasons for my sudden disinterest. It just felt like the right decision to make, and it was all too much to ignore. I realize that I sit here writing about my decision to let this whole blog thing go. It’s not my ideal situation either. I thought hard about this and even to myself, felt an overwhelming need for reason. WHY?

That was a tough question to answer. My obvious answer was that “I can’t blog forever, and it has GOT to end at some point.” I personally felt that the aforementioned was something logical, and realistic even though I wanted more “answers”. Well to be totally honest, I don’t really have a ‘set’ and satisfactory answer.

(At lest to myself) A few reasons for the decision made sense. One of those reasons is that I have a lot of plans for this summer, and feel the need to re-prioritize and get into something ‘new’ (yet again). For example, the start something competition I mentioned a while back, is something I plan to dedicate myself to this summer. Maybe it’s because when I mentioned it, I did say that the future of this blog was in jeopardy.

The actual countdown and subsequent post-writing was very spontaneous (and also thrilling). I had no idea, day to day what I would write about … oh let’s say with regards to ‘4’, ‘7’, etc. Although, I did do some homework (mainly to get that damn stadium name for “Sick’s”) … but I am so happy I did because that day, BASEBALL needed what it had it coming -- at least from me.

The good news is that I’m also one of the most ‘random’ people out there. I change my mind just as easily as I bore. No voices in my head or anything of the sort, it’s just something that ‘happens’ and I act accordingly.

The ‘big reveal’ has been trumped. This (previously pre-determined last post on Culture Shock) has also been trumped. I guess this shit is coming back at you as soon as Monday morning, so let’s hope something fucked up (not too bad though) happens to me over the weekend. Oh lets say something along the lines of me getting attacked by a dog (a small one), or cursed at by some old ladies eating ice cream.

Since I’ve cried ‘WOLF’ with this countdown, I guess that also means that should I indeed decide to throw in the towel and get the chutzpah to follow through, I have to think of a different ending that is original. (Because you know, countdowns are so original!)

So What I’ve basically told you: I made a decision to quit, did the quitting over a period of time, and then changed my mind before the quitting was done/ finalized. I guess that makes me somewhat of a PRIME candidate/ High-Risk case for a no-show at my own wedding alter. Any ladies want my hand in marriage?

Coincidentally, though … this countdown will not go in vain. Saturday 06/18 (tomorrow) is the engagement party of “2nd oldest bro” – I am extremely happy for the couple and wish them the best and most blissful life together. I dedicate posts “Ate” through “One” to H.O.N and his bride-to-be Lady M.

The ‘big reveal’ turned from a sad (at least for me) impulse to quit, to a happy ending, and everyone.loves.a.happy.ending.

Happy Friday.

Note: And also, for us people who want to change the world, ONE, is for “THE ONE CAMPAIGN”– Do you have your bracelet?

II

I was actually dreading how I would start this one … I would have either written something involving Too (as in Too Much, Too Many, Too Lame) or probably gone Español on your ass, and did something with Tu. But no need, I’ve been called out. (Thanks for saving me a potentially that-which-we-do-not-speak-of-anymore-esque disastrous post).

So, I’ve been busted? Is that a fair term to use? Yesterday, at precisely 8:43 am, ‘Anonymous’ asked what was up with the countdown. I presume the whole thing was one of those things that were clear earlier on but no one aksed.

To come clean (but this is not the ‘big reveal’ … keep your jaws together) I have been counting down to ‘SOMETHING’. If you’ve been living under a rock (different rock, not the one that prevented you from knowing the Jackson verdict), what I’ve basically been doing (as you can see) is writing the posts based on an order of reverse-sequential numeric titles. I know, how extremely transparent of me (maybe a little lame) but extremely necessary. Noteworthy, is the fact that these posts where the only ones where I came up with a title first, and then the actual post.

I tried my best to disguise the ‘countdown’ by employing some cheap phonetic vs. spelling tactics. Yes, I love the cheap tactics. This kicked my ass when it came to the post title ‘FIVE’ (I think Se7en was a little more forgiving because I was able to reference the movie ‘Se7en’) … now that I think about it, I should have titled the post ‘V’ and written accordingly. Crap, can we get a take 2? Never mind, I’ll just stick to using the Roman numeral stuff on this one.

Though I cannot deny that the titles governed what overall subject I discussed, I will mention that the content in the posts was everything I wanted to say, just in a different order…you know, in the name of my ‘master plan’.

After today, there’s just ONE more day (and post) and we will all get to see what this dramatic 8-day countdown was all about. Tomorrow, along with the ‘big reveal’, I will mention exactly why I started at 8, as opposed to the more common TEN, which would have made this Saga a 2-week/ 10-post ordeal. Though it’s not the reason, I do prefer asymmetry and appreciate imperfection more than the boring and usual, which I like to call “white bread”.

Ok, maybe I should give this keyboard a break, BIG DAY tomorrow. That and the fact that I'm about to be late for work.

Note: This is what happens when I’m asked to travel (for about 45 minutes) and be there by 7 a.m. “Asked” was the key term, I refused. It’s my show, so how about a little re-negotiation -- meet me at 8 (but because of travel, I still woke up an hour earlier) and of course, I couldn’t stiff everyone and ruin my blog countdown master plan by skipping this post, entitled ‘2’.

Three!

As a student, I was always taught to do things in threes or say things in threes, as that would make the most impact. For example, if making a speech or presenting, it would help to have THREE power statements or points:

1) ONE …
2) TWO…
3) THREE.

Bam, convince them.

I’ve tried that a couple of times, I don’t know, I guess it’s one way of doing it but I’m not entirely convinced. The only “THREE” rule that I’ve come to honor is coincidently one that was derived from my slightly less-favored sport of all time. Three strikes and you’re out! One fuck up, two fuck ups … the third one and you’re out, or in deep shit or you just quit. I’m not talking specifically about the legal sense of the term (the whole “Three Strikes” equals an automatic life sentence) … Nah, I’m talking about baking a cake.

Before unleashing, I’d like to first mention that I (believe) that I am a great cook. In general, I can hook up a mean marinade; make a great breakfast, lunch or dinner. However, I’ve been trying to bake this forsaken cake for about 6 months, maybe a year. I don’t know why exactly, but I woke up one day with that goal in mind. Each time has been a bigger disaster than it’s predecessor.


One:
The first time, I actually followed a recipe. I did EVERYTHING, exactly to the tee, measured perfectly, timed perfectly, I just basically did EXACTLY as I was told. When I opened the oven, I found that the cake had never risen. I was left with a flat, hard piece of whatever-the-fuck.

The instructions stressed the point to NOT open the oven until at least 30 minutes have passed. I did exactly that. They also mentioned to poke it with a fork and see if it comes out ‘clean’. It looked clean to me. So … 50 minutes later, WHY WAS MY CAKE still RAW? The outside looked ‘golden crisp’ just as they had described, but I cut that shit open and it was a mess. It basically looked like a big fat omelet.

I did what any person who doesn’t like throwing food out would do. I took it into work. I cut it up into square pieces, put it in the kitchen and wrote ‘EAT ME!’ on an anonymous (and somewhat cowardly) post-it note. In all fairness to my co-workers, I did try the raw cake and nothing happened to me, so I figured I would give them the equal opportunity.

Eventually the laughable word got out about the ‘RAW’ cake in the kitchen. When I was busted (which wasn’t long) I was reduced to begging people to “TRY MY CAKE”. The only reason this worked was because I was able to hustle across the building, as well as downstairs faster than “the word” can travel through the corporate grapevine. I still have every obscene email I received that day saved in a folder named ‘CAKE DISASTER.’

TWO:
After recomposing what little ego I had left, I decided to go at it again.

In most things I fail the first time around, my second attempt is usually sufficient. I followed the same exact recipe but this time, DOUBLED the baking powder and DOUBLED the Vanilla extract. The first one didn’t rise and smelled like Eggs, so this was surely a logical progression. Oh, I also lowered the temperature a little bit, so that I can avoid the over-cooked outside, raw inside dilemma.

This one never went anywhere either? It rose a little bit (granted I did double the baking powder) but it was still the same disaster. To my credit, it tasted the exact same ‘BAD’ as the first one did … so should I decide to ever market and sell my “Terrible Cake”, I know exactly how to get there.

This time around, I didn’t take it into work (for a serious fear of straight up getting fired, or getting my work area booby-trapped). I cut it up into the same size squares as I did the first one, and put it in the fridge. I guess I eventually ate it all, very slowly, one excruciating bite at a time over a 2-month period. I kept convincing myself it was SPLENDA flavored quiche … and somehow that was totally cool.

THREE:
Ah yes, this was my time for redemption. All or nothing. This was IT. This was my moment of truth. The third little piglet had a huff-puff proof brick house.

Going into this, I had ZERO confidence and refused to follow a recipe. I just decided I was doing whatever the hell I felt like and made sense. There was no way it could ever come-out worse. Well … I was terribly wrong and after yesterday, I gave up on baking anything ever again.

My genius decided that the baking powder is fucking with me. My first retaliation was that I decided that I should add THE ENTIRE can of Baking Powder, what’s the worst that can happen? I’ll get an extra-puffy cake. I then refused to add the Baking Powder to the ‘dry’ ingredients and decided that I would switch it up and mix the baking powder into the ‘wet’ ingredients. I put the BP (after today, we can either call IT ‘BP’ or ‘That Which We Do Not Speak Of Anymore’) in with the Eggs, Butter, Milk and Splenda. If you know anything about baking you would smack me right now? Right? I found out the hard way that that-which-we-do-not-speak-of-anymore LOVES sugar, and heat (the molten butter was still sort of warm).

After realizing that there was no hope in controlling the “slight” over-flow of wet ingredients + BP … I acted quickly and added the flour in hopes that it would indeed quell this disastrous uprising. At this point, I was already dejected and didn’t want to even bother putting it in the oven. But what the hell, I came this far.

Need I even mention the outcome? No, because that would only make me even more crabby and pissed, irritable and unpleasant -- It’s only Wednesday, and it feels like a Friday and that can’t be a good thing.

Though I will mention that the salvaged ‘piece’ of cake I managed to gather up from that WRECKAGE tasted a lot better than any of my previous two. Take that Aunt Jemima.

Note: By the way, I went through the entire movie "CRASH" thinking that Dorri, the persian girl was indeed Jamie Lynn DiScala (Meadow, from the Sopranos). I remember thinking that she did a bang-up job and had me 100% convinced she was actually persian. I was wrong, the part was played by the VERY persian, Bahar Soomekh.

For ...

The love of god, will everybody give it up with the Michael Jackson talk? If you’ve been living under a rock, Michael Jackson was acquitted of all charges against him and is a free man. People are already ‘upset’ at the verdict and think the man should have bitten at it and I don’t understand why. There were 12 adults who didn’t think so and that’s what mattered. There’s people who know absolutely NOTHING about the Michael Jackson trial feel the need to convict him.

I’ve seen this happen with the O.J. Simpson trial and it’s unfortunate that until today, A LOT of people feel “O.J. did it.” Well guess what … nobody gives a fuck what you feel; he DIDN’T do it (and I’m quoting). It’s also bothersome to hear the ‘theories’ of why he got off. He was Black, He was Rich, and He was Famous; Boo Hoo – Go and suck a rock.

If you fail to see that your “opinion” that you throw around with the weight of ‘freedom of speech’ violates his (I’m arguing ‘more fundamental’) right to a fair trial than I think we have a problem. Should there perhaps be a hierarchy of rights? Should one right (that means the difference between someone going to jail for life, or in other cases sentenced to death) trump another right? I don’t know.

I was initially going to write this without voicing my own personal opinion for fear of my pot calling your kettle black. But it’s my blog and I can do whatever I want. No? However anything I say will indeed contradict what I have already written. So I ain’t saying shit. Just let it go. And … here we go (for all time’s sake):

You fussed at O.J. and “This time around” you’re crying foul again. “Black or White”, “In the Closet” or not, “Bad” as you think the verdict was, you can “Scream” about it as much as you like, you can write a “Thriller”, or express your desire to “Wanna Be Startin’ Somthin” but it will never change and I didn’t make the rules up so “Why You Wanna Trip On Me?” “Remember the Time” when things were a lot less complicated? I don’t. “Everybody is Somebody’s Fool” and someone had to lose. “Maybe tomorrow” you will get your way but until then “Cry” in solitude or remain "Speechless”

It’s “Human Nature” to want to express what you feel, but “I can’t help it” and feel the need to call you out. “Another part of me” wants to let you slide … but I’m humble enough to realize that it’s not my job to “heal the world,” “Smile” and have us all “Come Together” in agreement. Take solace in the fact that “You Are Not Alone” and quite a few others feel that he is indeed a “Smooth Criminal” and would ask the jurors “Is It Scary?” to have a twice-accused child molester free to walk. Either way, “It Doesn’t Matter,” stop being a “Tabloid Junkie” for “One Day in Your Life.” Disgusted is a good description for “The Way You Make Me Feel.” Take a long look at the “Man In the Mirror", and for “One Day in Your Life” ask yourself “Who Am I to Judge?”

If all else fails, Just MOTHERFUCKIN’ “Beat It.”

Note: I tried all weekend to go and see “CRASH.” I was finally able to go and see it last night and it was a very good decision. Everyone should see this movie, it was just incredible, deep and very well executed. I guess in some small way, this movie has indeed changed my life.

Five

I guess I’m a glutton for trouble. Today, I’m discussing 5 random thoughts from the weekend (one of which involves an update on Fee, Fie, Foe FIVE).

THOUGHT #1: (FFFF Update)
This weekend I FINALLY resolved my ‘5’-button situation. On Friday night, after a shameless (and very public) opening-up of my phone into 4 pieces just to ‘dial’ a single 5, I decided that was it, it’s time for that long-overdue new phone. Having your friends jeer and alert the whole bar crowd of this PSYCHO opening up his phone didn’t help in my attempt to keep this as covert as possible.

With everyone watching, I dismantled the shit, dialed my ‘5’ and put it back together. All before anyone could take another a sip from their drink. It actually felt kind of cool, I’ve always wanted to be able to do that thing they do in the movies. It’s usually a badass and they ‘dismantle’ a gun (to re-load it, I presume) and put it back together with an authoritative ‘SLAM; at the end when they push the clip in by banging it on their palm. So cool. What an aspiration.

So my uncle has the same exact phone, and doesn’t like it (I don’t understand why). He reverted back to his old brick-phone. I’ve been eyeing his “old” (it’s actually a newer model) for a while, and this weekend I finally made the switch. It was pretty seamless except for when Cingular decided to “BLOCK” my sim card. What the fuck. Now my shit is locked out, and I can’t even put it in my old phone. I went online to look up how on earth I might be able to find out my “PUK code” so I can enter it and un-block my sim card. I had to call them, but business hours are M-F 8 – whatever.

After spending an HOUR on the phone through automated options, I finally found an option that directed to me to “after-hours” support. After holding for a good 15 minutes afterwards, the lady gave me my (8 digit) PUK CODE and my phone worked again. Nice. I wonder if my ‘J, K, L’ friends still want to keep in touch.

THOUGHT #2: “Wahta Springs”
I was driving back from D.C. and had to stop for gas in a notoriously un-cool North East Washington, D.C. nothing exciting happened except for when I went inside to buy a bottle of water. I just picked up any bottle without looking at it. I was drinking it the whole drive up and when I finally got home, I looked at the label and the motherfucker said: “WAHTA SPRINGS.” Is this a NE D.C. exclusive? Could they have possibly meant Water Springs? WAHTA THE FUCK was that all about?

Then I looked at the back of the bottle and it said … “PRODUIT DU CANADA.” Ok-fair enough.

THOUGHT #3: Bleu Cheese
Sunday, I decided that I’m not a big fan of Bleu Cheese. The crumbs, the dressings and every other shape it comes in. I used to really like bleu cheese; until it overwhelmed everything I ate it with.

THOUGHT #4: Toll Roads
I’m sick of it, I’m sick of paying tolls on the road. Gas aside; my contribution to the tolls fund this weekend was $30.00+. I did however go in the E-Z pass lane (and I don’t have E-Z pass). I stood there taking the barrage of horns, and inaudible obscenities like a true champ. (Fuck all of you too). Though this experiment was entirely accidental, I’ve always wondered what would happen if someone did that. The answer is: The toll-worker will come out of his booth, and walk over to you to get your money, He will scold you and tell you “next time, use the cash lane”. He will then briskly walk back over to his booth, where he turns the light green signaling you are free to proceed.

You see, you can’t go yet, because you’re waiting on your change. The 10 seconds it took for him to bring me back my change, was even more unbearable for that long line of people who actually have E-Z pass. You fuckers waited for minutes, can you just spare out a few more seconds? Needless to say, I spent the subsequent stretch of road glancing back at people who would drive next to me, and look. I was actually hoping someone would give me the finger so I could piss them off even more. My plan was to stick my tongue out at them (ala second grade), but it never happened.

What I really want to know is if the toll-workers have a ‘name’ or an industry term for people like me.

THOUGHT #5: Dirty Days
I’m working on a project that will involve me dirtying up a pair of pants forever-and-beyond recognition. Basically building a mock-up of a new concept train car. Only the actual car body has existed for 20 years and is very, very filthy. I made a bad choice to go with a pair of khakis because dirt shows up real easy on those. I wonder how long before someone mentions to me that my pants are absolutely revolting. On the up side though, is the fact that I can just wipe my hands on my pants once or twice and it’ll look like I’ve worked reeeeaal hard, ALL filthy day long. Hmmm


Note: The first one was very cool … and judging by the looks of this poster… SAW2 will definitely represent.

Sick's

I read some online article about The Seattle Pilots … Seattle’s baseball pride and joy circa (1969?). The team has an interesting story of rise and fall, triumph and tribulation. The (famous) Sick’s stadium was apparently their home field … where they did their thing.

Before I go any further talking about this (which I will not), I want to say my peace about Baseball. What a sorry sport. What a lame, sorry and should-be-eradicated sport and I don’t understand why so many people are into it. I would rather watch golf for hours than sit through a single inning of (boring) baseball. Rest assured that the government and media spotlights on the sport have in no-way formed my opinions, they’ve only reinforced them.

Firstly, WHY is every single baseball “highlight” the same??? Sports Center’s “Top Ten Plays” always has about 5 baseball plays … and ALL of them involve someone jumping/ reaching for a ball that everyone thinks is going in the stands. OK- we fucking get it, they can catch the would-be home runs … it’s obviously not that hard since it happens so often.

Other sports suffer because of this. I’m sure there are plenty of other sporting highlights that deserve spots in the “Top Ten Plays” reel. BUT NO. There’s NO more room because they’re too busy showing us that fat baseball guys can indeed jump.

Why are they all seemingly so out-of-shape? This is supposed to be a physical sport. No? They run, dive (and jump) … and do somewhat athletic things. I think it’s offensive to athletes from other sports that you get Mr. Fat Joe making (equivalent, if not more) millions with a beer belly just because he can swing a bat hard enough to hit a ball.

CHEWING tobacco??? Are you fucking kidding me? Personally, I've only seen this in movies but I assume it’s only because I don’t watch enough ‘real’ games (because I hate it). If this is indeed true, then how deplorable, just picture that happening in any other sport. This is a supposed role model; anabolic steroids aside (let’s not even get into that) … if kids are watching you don’t act like a fucking balloon.

I personally find it very funny when the (average) American looks down on soccer as a “wussy” sport. OK. First of all, every other sport in this country has what seems to be more time-out time than actual playing time. In case you haven’t noticed, soccer players SPRINT for the best of 90 minutes of ACTUAL playing time. They only get a 15-minute half time between 45’s (That’s provided there is no sudden-death overtime situation).

Not only is soccer a full-contact sport, but it’s also a lot more respectable and enjoyable to play, watch, read and write about than Baseball ever will be (unless of course they force them all to stop wearing helmets … THEN things might be different). Speaking of, why do they wear helmets? I have never seen a ball or a bat or a person hit any player on his helmet. Please refrain from presenting a ball speed argument ... There's people out there who have to stand in the line-of-fire of an Andy Roddick serve. Is the answer:

A) Cosmetic reasons good disguise for baldness
B) To protect from Bird poo-poo
C) To macho-up the sport
D) To hide their cans of dip/ chewing tobacco
E) To hide Twinkies and lite-beer
F) UCK BASEBALL.

The only reason why soccer will never get big in this country is because they won’t be able to run Lite Beer ads every 2 minutes (which coincidently makes the baseball players fat … you see, it’s all related).

I can sit here and list why every other sport is ‘better’ than baseball in all dimensions. I.HATE.BASEBALL.

Note: But I’m a loving, sensitive and considerate individual otherwise.

Se7en

Aside from being a great movie ‘SEVEN’ is today’s subject of my aim. I mean the actual number. Seven used to be my ‘favorite’ number or ‘lucky’ number or whatever the hell you want to call it, until I realized how played out it is. WHY is seven EVERYWHERE? My reason for liking it is I was born on the SEVENTH day of 1983. Whoop-tee fucking doo - could I have thought of a more (self-admitted) lame reason for attaching myself to a number? Don’t think so – Although I must say it has snuck up on me at the strangest times, and for some reason I can attribute and relate many distinct recollections back to the number 7.

What about our cultural obsession with ‘7’?

SEVEN … days of the week. They all suck except for Friday and Saturday. The other 5 should be castrated.

SEVEN … dwarfs. I’m quite possibly the only person who can’t name all of the seven dwarfs. In retrospect that “Snow White “ fairy tale is quite disturbing. You KNOW those old men were horny at some point during the story and well … Snow White was hot, with her “rosy” cheeks and fair skin. Maybe I should forward all my TADALAFIL soft-tab emails so they can do more than make her porridge. If this were Anna Nicole Smith, Bitch would have fucked them all and took everything down to their red hats and leather moccasins. Ah… the good old days when girls weren’t gold diggers.

SEVEN … deadly sins. I don’t understand how there came to be Seven sins. If it has something to do with religion – then there should be 10 sins? One for breaking every commandment. No? If it’s not a religious thing … well, there’s a shit load more than 7 sins – I’ve just committed about eight or so in the 15 minutes I’ve been awake.

SEVEN … seas. This one is for all the mopey (is that a dwarf?) and whiney (this one?) R&B singers to make rhymes with. Every R&B singer has “traveled the seven seas” for one reason or another. My question to them is, if you lose your girl and happen to meet a coincidentally man-less Toni Braxton in the Adriatic Sea … why don’t the both of you call the search off and go engage in some inordinate craving for the pleasures of the body, otherwise known to us non-whiners as Sin#4, Lust.

SEVEN … world wonders. Are there still 7 or have they declared an eighth one? If so, let’s hope it won’t be too hard for Bush to wipe one out in the name of national-you-know-what, oil or at the very least, faulty intelligence … you know, so that my post still makes sense.

SEVEN ... days to make the world. Six of those Seven days were spent laying out the trap-hole that is Washington D.C’s streets. God should have pulled an all-nighter for that one.

SEVEN … orders of architecture. Classical, Doric, Ionic … and … I slept through the last 4 because History of Architecture was an absolute pain in the ass. I must admit it was actually the most interesting boring-class ever. Hence why I went there and slept (as opposed to blowing-off an easy to blow-off 8 a.m.) To date, I think this is one of the best uses of the “buddy system”: "Yo, wake me up when there’s a cool slide."

I guess there are many more cultural/ social references so I’m just listing some other ones I can think of:

The seven years of famine, the seven years of plenty.
The Seven ancient planets
The Seven Hills of Rome (not sure about this one, is it 7 or 5?)
The Seven Sisters
Seven, the sum of opposing dice faces
The Seven Arts/ Sciences

And so on …

Last but not least, SEVEN (dollars) is also the average cost of my lunch daily.

Note: Also, if you have a minute, please sign This Declaration

Ate

In recent weeks I’ve become very mindful of the effects certain foods have on my bodily functions. It’s really quite fascinating but I’ll spare you the details. Well, some of them.

Most obvious is fiber intake. It goes in green and leafy and well … comes out effortlessly – exactly like my money. Only this type of effortlessness is definitely a much more appreciated one.

Cheese. Where do I begin with Cheese? I am one of those people who like cheese but am beginning to absolutely not like it as much because of what it does to me. Every time I eat cheese I can ‘feel’ it getting stuck everywhere. On my teeth, my epiglottis (my favorite body part), my …Esophagus, my intestines and last but not least my A-team. I’ve also confirmed that I am indeed lactose intolerant.

Sweet stuff fucks my shit up. I don’t harbor any ill will towards my sweet tooth but every time I satisfy a craving for HO-HOs (my term for anything with sugar in it) I go into useless mode. My eyes shrink; my Jones jumps and I just want to sleep. “Huh?” becomes my signature statement and somehow it’s still all-good. Getting fatterer and dumberer never tasted any better.

Processed meats are now on my food enemy list. Though I genuinely like the taste of hot dogs, bologna, salami, etc. I feel like a cheap and dirty whore every time I eat any of that stuff. Now, I am most weirded out by that werding-out fleshy/pink color of processed meat. Why is it that color? The turkey, the beef, the chicken … are all THE SAME strange shade of pink/fleshy. Here’s something … the next time you’re in a grocery store, face the processed meats and squint your eyes a little bit. You know, because it’s fun to do pointless in-store experiments and make everyone think you’re a complete and utter creep. YES!

On a digestively positive note, I am extremely proud of myself for drinking water again. It has now become a daily must that I drink the minimum recommended 64 oz dose of water. In the past, I drank coffee, or soda or anything else as long as it wasn’t water. I’ve probably gone for days without drinking a single drop of water. I don’t know when exactly I decided to begin my h2o ‘revolution’ but it slowly crept up on me. At first, I re-introduced water into my system by drinking water in the middle of the night when I usually get the most thirsty. The health benefits aside, why the fuck does the shit taste so bland?

I give props to the Fruit2O people and Aquafina FlavorSplash, 7-11 Clear Selections and all the other companies that make their water fruity. I guess it technically fails to count as ‘water’ but … SPLENDA makes everything better (and much, much more expensive). Speaking of, The SPLENDA commercials get tagged with “Don’t be surprised if your neighbor pops in and asks for a cup of SPLENDA.” Surprised? Not exactly, but I will promptly tell their ass to fuck-off, do you know how expensive that shit is? Here … take some Sweet-N-Low.

Do neighbors even do such things anymore? I’m pretty sure neighbor-relationships have boiled down to keep your damn dog shit off my yard and in the case of SOMEWHERE, VA; “The Evil People” is obviously not a statement kids deduce on their own.

Just stay away from my Splenda.

Note: Last night on Television, there was a show called “Fire Me … Please.” Basically two people compete for 25,000 dollars. The goal is to see which one of them could get fired closest to a pre-allotted deadline. I know in my heart that the two contestants were my favorite type of people … absolute FREAK SHOWS. After reading about the show somewhere online, I resisted the temptation and the TV is still off. Did anyone watch? “Tell Me … Please.” Also, stay tuned for what I concoct to avoid falling off the bandwagon and being sucked into THE REAL WORLD: AUSTIN.

Culture Shock: Revolutions

You had to know that this one was coming at some point after I’ve written my peace in Culture Shock:Reloaded

As usual, I never come in at 100% on Monday mornings. Yesterday was cool though. Let’s see, I managed to ‘forget’ about a 9:00 a.m. responsibility because I neglected to put it on Outlook (probably because I was pre-occupied by thoughts of the weekend). The ‘Oh Shit’ hit me at about 11:00 a.m. and I promptly ran downstairs to R.N. to get my picture taken and receive my two new ‘certification’ badges (great… some more Jones around my neck).

Rosa was mad cool though. After scolding me for not being there 2 hours ago, she told me that she knew people forget things scheduled for first thing Monday morning, so she went ahead and left all the equipment out. We went through the usual name jokes and giggles and it was picture time.

Picture One: Rosa was asking me a question, and snapped the picture in the middle of my response. It was a devastating open-mouthed picture and it looked like I was sticking my tongue out at her.
Picture Two: An improvement.

Since I was late, I felt bad being ‘picky’ about the picture … so I just rolled with it. So now, one of my two new ID’s has me sticking my tongue out ala Second grade. Nice.

Monday’s subsequent events have led me to classify Monday as REVOLUTION Monday. I just recall that everything about me, my thoughts and my actions was REVOLUTIONARY. I felt like I wanted to change the world, one thing at a time. Starting with my insurance company, all the way to disconnecting my cable service and I even looked into switching from being a Claritin person to an Allegra person.

I’m saddened that my idea of changing the world translates to “switching to Geico” or which allergy medicine I should use. Does this mean I’m selfish? I don’t think so; my optimist-pessimist meter runs on a case to case basis. For example, when it comes to issues pertaining to myself, my career, my family, I am very optimistic and extremely ambitious. When it comes to macro-issues pertaining to social good (such as world-hunger and war), I’m usually pessimistic and tend to tone it down and “get real.”

Get a load of this Industrial Designer in action:

What we are witnessing here is a sudden overwhelming collective on my aspirations of change and revolution. Why? Perhaps there’s some psychological/ subconscious domino-effect that caused me to be this way on Monday. Such an onslaught of desires would signify what we (medically) prefer to term Cognitive Compensatory Syndrome. Though totally unnecessary, the patient attempts to undertake ‘seemingly’ radical (yet simple and achievable) desires in one aspect to fulfill the unachievable shortcomings in another. Loon.

(Okay, I made up the CCS part … but it sounds legit).

Changing the world the admirable way, is indeed one of my (long, long term) goals/ dreams. I tried the whole “do your part” thing when I became a Vegan for about a week. It was such a let-down to realize how insignificant (and possibly counter-productive) “your part” really is. For example:

You buy Soy milk at Wal-Mart. Very few people buy that particular Soy Milk.
Your money is going to Wal-Mart to use for whatever they want as part of their gross ‘revenue.’ Inventory arguments aside (because not enough people buy that milk), Wal-Mart will end up spending that revenue on MORE of what’s profitable i.e. Steak, Dairy Milk and so on.

Since then, I have basically given up on ‘the little things’ and decided it was time to dream big. Sometimes bigger than I’ll probably get to achieve but it’s nice to imagine. Now, I would rather perform an act of kindness (like giving a homeless person some change) than boycott something or any type of radical activism. I know it reeks of short-term satisfaction/ fix … but it makes more sense.

If you’re not yet able to push a mountain, don’t be wasteful stroking it.

Viva La Resistance.

Note: Eventually, we're gonna run out of damn TOFU ... and then what are you going to do, huh?

Soccer Moms ... Gone Wild

I guess if you’re into that. This whole weekend I tried to scheme a way to snap pictures of soccer moms … you know, doing their thing. Now if I can only get a hold of the Girls Gone Wild dude … and pitch the whole mom thing as an encore to his hit series.

Seriously though, the bitches are some wild drivers. Not only once, not twice, but THREE times I was ‘ASSAULTED’ on the road by what seems like a ‘mom’ armed with her 2005 minivan. How pansy of me to sit here and admit such a thing.

“Hi, I’m pansy boy with a small (er) car … can’t hang with dem Minivans.”

I’ve tested my sweet old Maxima in an accident before and it hasn’t faired well. I incurred $3,000 worth of damages and the grandma in the Toyota Camry barely scratched her bumper. This was on Christmas Eve … and Grandma was so sweet and so concerned that she had “Ruined My Christmas.” Well, YEAH--even though I don’t really celebrate Christmas, you definitely ruined something. I then became concerned that the hysterical lady was going to pull a Santa and pass out on me … I kept saying “I’m fine, I’m fine … really, I’m not hurt” but to no avail. All she wanted was a hug, and well…

So I was in Washington D.C. once again this weekend - The Nation’s capital, emblem of freedom and home to some seriously over-stressed mothers maneuvering through crowded, narrow and appallingly hole-full streets. You see, I think getting lost in DC is one of the worst (and most stressful) things that could happen to you. What does one usually do when they're lost? Call SOMEBODY … ANYBODY. As of earlier this year (I think) that’s no longer an option. Washington DC’s PoPo (who coincidently, are EVERYWHERE) will indeed stop you and give you a big fat ticket if they see you on a cell phone. That leaves you with plan B … get out on your own but at the risk of popping a bloodline somewhere.

Mothers are crafty. They’re ALWAYS right and for the most part LOVE proving their independence by taking charge of situations. In this case, taking charge of the situation is equitable to LET’S TRY and KILL THIS BOY IN THE SMALL (ER) NISSAN.

Needless to say, the Minivan-Curmudgeon-Assassin-Squad failed and they failed miserably. Here are their stories:

Dodge Caravan: This one is the ‘Vernita Green’ of the Minivan-Curmudgeon-Assassin-Squad … you feel a little bad for her at the end.
Yes, “The one that started it all.” In this case, ‘all’ is some over-possessive shit over a damn parking spot. Only I was trying to GET OUT of the spot, she spotted me and wanted to ‘claim’ it. I understand and sympathize that there was a queue of parking scavengers lined up behind you … but none of you people are parking ANYWHERE unless you let me out. I was seriously deadlocked for about 5+ minutes because she was adamant about not losing her spot and blocked the road in parallel to my car. I feel bad for this one because after a BARRAGE of pleading hand gestures she finally budged forward and let me out only to lose the spot to some ass-hole who was behind her.

Honda Odyssey: Definitely the 'Elle Driver' of the Minivan-Curmudgeon-Assassin-Squad …if for nothing else, she sure drove like she had a patched eye.
This one panics when she’s in a ‘service’ street. Her main M.O. is to get back on K street AT ALL COSTS, nevermind the YIELD sign or the oncoming traffic for that matter … go ahead and turn. Maybe you’ll T-Bone me if you’re lucky. In celebration of your stunt, the rest of us are simultaneously going to blow our horns at you. BEEEEEP. BEEEEEP. BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP.

Toyota Sienna: This one is the ‘BILL’ of the Minivan-Curmudgeon-Assassin-Squad.
Hi, I drive a yucky-colored Toyota Sienna. not only do I use the color to distract my fellow drivers … but I like to signal towards one direction and proceed to lane-merge to THE LANE IN THE OPPOSITE DIRECTION. I actually don’t know how this accident was avoided because my brakes aren’t that hot. I just got them changed but I still don’t feel like they function when and how I want them to. They did great. I let this one slide horn-free. Instead I shook my head and hoped she was watching her rear view mirror. I did it really violently, spaz-like and for quite a period of time because I wanted to make sure she ‘knew’ I was shaking my head at what she had just done.

Pop the Cristal, your boy is safe. Next time, y’all might want to try some Oren-Ishii shit …shii

Note: Yesterday had to be the hottest & most humid day I can remember in a long while. The lesson I learned from Sunday was that Tennis at 1:00 p.m. would more likely than not result in a just, swift and (relieving) bagel (6-0).

Juicy Fruit

(I CANNOT MAKE THIS STUFF UP)

It’s already Friday and I couldn’t be happier. This week FLASHED by. In celebration of the week’s quick progression, as well as C.R.’s last night before his Florida shindig … we decided to hit up Happy Hour at the local joint down the street.

Happy Hour is cool, you usually get there right after work and it’s definitely a much appreciated change of pace and environment. The thing with happy hour is that it’s not as social as it’s regular nightlife-hours counterpart. Everyone there is all bunched up in their (mostly co-worker) groups with a single purpose in mind. No time for socializing and getting to know people. Since we work with old(er) people, C.R. and I are usually head to head when it comes to happy hour. Conversation is always interesting and times are always good. However, Thursday evening was extra special.

You see … I never set out to people-watch because I usually detach that part of me from my social surround. It’s not MPD but there’s a time and a place for people-watching as well as a time and a place for hanging with friends (unless of course your friends are people-watching material). Thursday night was one of the few nights where the Ying met the Yang and our Happy Hour turned into a WHAT-THE-FUCK IS GOING ON hour. My personal favorite.

Right next to our table was someone we shall call “Mikey.” Mikey was a sleaze that unfortunately (for him) rendezvoused with his “Mistress” in MY presence. Is this my lucky day or what? I like to think that in light of yesterday’s luck-pendulum observations that my “GOOD” thing coming up was something far better … but I’ll settle for this, in fact I’ll take it and shut up.

Fuck the wings, half-price nachos and 1-dollar rails … among all those unnecessary preoccupations was that-there FREAK SHOW going down right before my eyes. I can’t even think of the best way to present my information … I should start with a description of Mikey and hope his wife is reading. Mikey is in his late 40’s … maybe early 50’s, white, graying hair, and a sleaze.

We got there about 5:30 and Mikey and his Mistress came to the joint at about 6:00 p.m. It was the most awkward table I had ever seen. They sat across from each other staring at one another without even saying a word, this lasted at least 5 minutes. Initially I thought, Oh man … they’re married and this is not a good sign, this shit don’t look healthy. And then the FREAK SHOW began. Here are some of the most notable and memorable quotes (with my reactions):

1) Mikey: “Why are you wearing those pink pants? They’re hot”
(Ok. I guess you have to break the ice somehow … maybe I’ll let this one slide comment-free)

2) Mikey: “Fuck that Bitch, I don’t care if I ever see her ugly face ever again.”
(This one confused me, before I could conclude if the lady was the mistress or the wife, I thought he could have been talking TO the wife, ABOUT the mistress in hopes of reconciliation).

3) Mikey: “You know what I’m going to do when I get a lot of money?”
Mistress: "What?"
Mikey: (with a HUGE grin and excitement) "Buy a Bicycle."
(ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? I was prepared to hear some revelation of his plan to take over the world … buy the Taj Mahal or maybe the Sydney Opera House … and he fucking says “Buy a Bicycle” … WTF?)

4) Mikey: “Please allow me to explain it to her, she deserves at least that.”
(“Explain” and “deserve” definitely denoted a spouse; probably of the long-term type considering the cheaters’ elderly appearance didn't exactly suggest “puppy love” … furthermore I thought he never wanted to see “her ugly face” again.)

To confirm my suspicion that this was indeed a Mistress, Mikey interrupted the rendezvous for about 10 minutes to chat up a blond MILF at the entrance of the bar. Surely, if he were in anyways trying to console his heartbroken wife … he would never have salted the wound and approached another woman. Right?

At this point we were settling our tabs and getting ready to leave. We decided to go back to C.R.’s place. We got to C.R.’s place and I was still feeling some void deep down inside me. Luckily, C.R. had just bought a $500.00 digital camera, which according to him he hadn’t “broken in” yet. Allow me to do so. I managed to convince him that we absolutely had to go back to the bar and take a snapshot of THE CHEATER and his MISTRESS. Indeed, pictured below are Mikey and his Mistress.

I’ve never actually pulled a stunt of this magnitude. I don’t know what led me to take this bold step ... but I’m so glad I did it. There was an indescribable rush of adrenaline while standing on the sidewalk across from them and snap, snap, snapping away. I of course disguised it a little and acted like I was interested in the City’s “architecture” … after all I was holding a $500.00 camera and didn’t want to get caught and risk any angry-Mikey-inflicted damage on the Canon SD500.

I don’t right now, but perhaps when I’m older and married for (a lot) of years I might appreciate his position.

Happy Friday.

(picture removed after thinking it over and realizing that shit was none of my business).

Note: This might be one of those 'Limited Edition' posts. If/ when I feel guilty about it after a few days.

T = 2Π [ L / g]

The entire weekend was just weird. It’s hard to describe, it was one of those eventful weekends that seemed more strenuous than your weekday 40 (or 60, or 80 … you know, depending on how much of a dedicated PUSH-OVER you are).

(BAD) So I guess it would behoove me to start my ‘bizarre chain of events’ from that weird weekend. Saturday, I found out that I had just lost 250 million dollars. It’s ok; I’m over it now.

(GOOD) I drove down to Washington DC for some relaxing family time. Dramatics, Percocet and the threat of contracting pinkeye aside, it’s always nice to be around family. I hereby call for extra points for my driving skills for managing to (successfully) maneuver my way through THOUSANDS of motorbikes and tourists EVERYWHERE (some of those rides were hot).

I had something planned for Monday, so it was absolutely imperative that I made it out of DC and back home on Sunday night AT ALL COSTS. Sure enough, after being suckered into a BBQ and card games, I hit the road at 11:00 p.m.

(BAD) I eventually got home around 2 a.m. Monday morning. Needless to say, I overslept my occasion the next morning and never made it. (Sorry!) After all that dedication and determination, I just overslept.

(GOOD) My Memorial Day was spent ‘recharging’ for the upcoming shorter week. It was a day where I got to fix that damn table that was always tripping me up and I FINALLY Installed Chess Master 10 (There you go Panama …NOW I’m hooked and I will not rest until my ranking shoots up to above 1500 … where I feel I belong) – this one has been a long time (several months) coming. Thanks for the step-by-step instructions/ walk-through.

I had a late breakfast/ early lunch (is that what Brunch technically is?) around 10:30 or so. Spent the entire day being as unproductive as possible and before I knew it, it was now 4:30 p.m. All of a sudden I was hungry again and decided to go out to the store to grab something to eat.

Prior to leaving town on Friday, I had noticed the signs telling us NOT to park on our street between 4pm and 8pm because of a parade. I completely forgot about that, and getting back as late as I did, I just parked where it was most convenient.

Though I overstayed my allowance by thirty minutes, I completely and (initially) unknowingly lucked out for getting hungry and going to grab a bite. I was gone for 15 minutes, upon my return and attempt to park, I was alerted by an across-the-street neighbor that I would get ticketed if I park there and that “Those guys over there just got $150.00 tickets each.” I couldn’t believe it. It was only then that I remembered the No Parking warnings and out of the whole day, my 15-minute feeding frenzy was coincidently out-of-this-world timing to avoid the ticketing orgy. I guess all my stars and suns were aligned… and it gets better.

I then set out to look for a new and ‘legal’ parking spot (all the side streets were packed because all the other cars from my street parked on them). I made ONE loop around the block, and not only did I find THE LAST parking spot, I found the last parking spot and before I could even back into the spot … the police shut down that street and every other side street in preparation for the parade. I don’t even know what the scenario would have been had there not been a spot. Would I have just sat there in my car for 4 hours (because if there wasn’t a spot … I couldn’t have gotten out of that street)?

All this overwhelmed me, and being the type of person who usually prefers to give the BAD NEWS first, then the GOOD NEWS … I decided Tuesday morning should be about my “bad/lack of” luck with the powerball lottery. So naturally the logical progression is that I would have written all this in Wednesday’s post – right? Well you see, I intended to write this on Wednesday morning but I didn’t plan for a little something we like to call TUESDAY night.

The luck-pendulum swings and that fucker swung back, and it swung back in style. As a matter of fact, it swung back harder than a Samsonite briefcase on a bully.

(BAD) After chilling with some friends, I return home TUESDAY night ready for bed. The apartment was hot, the weather outside was cool and breezy so I figured I would open my windows for some natural cooling. Why the Fuck does my ONLY screen-less window in the apartment SHATTER into a million pieces and sends the glass flying STRAIGHT down into oblivion. Where exactly? … Onto Kevin's window, right beneath my apartment.

To be honest, I just didn’t want any part of it. I just wanted to sleep and ignore the magnitude of what just happened … Maybe it’ll all go away in the morning. That wasn’t happening … not if I wanted to avoid a ‘KNOCK, KNOCK’ from Kevin. So I did what any “good neighbor” would do … I stuck my head outside the broken window and waited for Kevin to stick his head out the window (which would have been a very stupid move considering it had just been raining sharp glass).

Kevin got the benefit of the doubt and mere seconds later; he walked out of his apartment and came around to the alley:

- Hello? Anyone out there? (I guess he thought someone was trying to break-in, I should have ran away with this one... "FREEZE motherfucker")
- Hey man, no one’s out here, my window just shattered, I don’t know why.
- What? Are you serious? How did it shatter?

Did you fucking hear a single word I said? Do you see the glass before you … and did you hear the shatter? What do YOU think? Am I serious? My real answer was a much more subdued (and boring): “Yeah, I’ll give Stacey a call about it in the morning. Sorry if I woke you up -- Good night.”

And I slept it off. I haven’t called Stacy yet because I don’t want to interrupt my workday. You see, there is STILL only ONE KEY to my apartment and I haven’t copied it yet to give to her. Which would mean I would have to come back and let the maintenance guys in. (Although, there IS a broken window that they could use to get in …hmmm).

(GOOD?) If the sequencing about all this is correct, next up for me is something ‘good’. I am very excited about believing that.

Note: Today is my one-week anniversary of NO TELEVISION. Surely, I’m excused if my observations are a little hyper sensitive/ completely fucking whacko!

It's Coming

I've just experienced a bizarre chain of events over the last two days and haven't had a chance to think about it or put it in a coherent or readable format.

I might get a chance to get on it later on today, if not ... I'm promising it for tomorrow.