I've fallen for another woman.
Her name is Tori and she's red.
Before y'all beme unglued, thinking I dumped Wife for the first hussy to come along, let me say Wife supports this relationship entirely, and even urged me to pursue Tori. In fact, Wife was with me yesterday to meet Tori and was the one who said I should bring her home ... to stay.
Tori and I had our first date today after I came home from the prison work camp. We just walked around the Back 40 at the Melissa Compound, getting to know each other while basking in the pleasant Arizona sun (gotta enjoy it while I can before the asphalt starts stir frying us everyday from May to September). There were few words exchanged between us, but there was definite chemistry. And it didn't take much in the way of beverages to get her moving. A 20-ounce bottle of 30-weight oil and a couple gallons of unleaded gas and she was putty in my hands. She purred with each step. I can't remember the last time I made any female purr. Hell, our cats won't even purr for me, even when I offer them a cat nip joint and a bath tub full of tuna. Then Tori and I took a bath together, and I dried her off before taking her to her new room - the shed.
That's right, Tori is a lawn mower and has captured my heart. Our last lawn mower was a cranky, scarlet and gray monster named Helga. I'd open the shed door for our Saturday date and she'd scream back: "Close that door if you don't know what's good for ya." If I insisted, she'd do her best to make my Saturday morning mowing session the most miserable 2 to 3 hours of the weekend (save those Lifetime channel movies Wife forces me to watch because "I don't get enough culture," and in her mind Lifetime programming our generation's Picasso) she'd buck, stall and spit shit back at me in defiance of being pushed around the Back 40 in 113-degree weather. Helga was an adopted child, a "gift" from the previous home owner, who said she was a loyal work horse who would mow down the Amazon if we asked her. My ass! I asked her mow down a thatch of mangy foxtails and she told me to strap the grass bag on my ass and cut the shit myself. No wonder the previous owner left her with us, she was an unruly hag and he'd had enough.
Well, I guess Helga finally had enough, too. I took her out of the shed Sunday, filled her up with some gas and yanked away on her string to fire her up for the first time this year. It doesn't take the old girl much to get going, a couple of pulls and she's off, spitting deadly shards of pine cones and decorative rocks at my shins and bucking mid cut when she encounters a patch of grass no deeper than a putting green. This Sunday she gave up. The old girl - scarlet and gray Helga - said to hell with you and quit. I yanked and yanked and yanked, and she gave me nothing but sputtering gasps of laughter. Frustrated with her lack of heart, I gave one final pull - her death pull - and the starter rope broke free, leaving me flat on my ass from the force holding nothing but a starter handle and enough string to hang myself from the grapefruit tree. Somewhere in the 75-degree Arizona afternoon, I could hear her laughing. "Put that in your pipe and smoke it, lawn boy," I heard her say and then the laughter trailed off with the breeze.
The damage wasn't unfixable, but my theory was, why pay some schmoe $100 and plus another $50 for the part (not to mention Helga needed a tune up, the drive train needed adjusting and she needed a new belt) when I could buy a new girl for an extra $150. Like Internet dating, I searched for just the right girl on the Web to spend Saturday summer mornings with, and that's how I landed Tori. She's a 6.5-horsepower work horse that walks along at your pace and can be started with a key. I'll say that again. It can be started with KEY! A key! A turn to the right and she's purring like I just scratched her blade in just the right spot. No getting stuck in a tough patch and having to yank the string while the sun is kicking me in the nuts with every passing minute. She fires back up and makes that patch of grass her bitch.
Tori loves me too. I can tell. She knows what's important to me, getting done quick so I can catch the start of the Dodger game or the race. Those two-and-a-half hour marathon mows in the dead of summer will be cut by an hour I bet, giving me time for a scrub and a tug before settling in for some red-blooded sports.
The only I'm not sure about is how to tell Wife I want to sleep with Tori out in the shed.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Cleaning up the community one wipe at a time
Look to your left. Look to your right. These kinds of people live among you:
I opened my e-mail to that "letter to the editor" this morning. First thing - 5:30 a.m. Wham! Letter talking about doody. Hello, copy editor, how about you read this little diddy about me wiping my neighbor's ass. This is editorial page gold. You'll snag awards for this letter.
Believe it or not, this pales in comparison to one letter writer (who very well may be the same nut job who thinks the blue hairs in the community like to read about dog shit - it always makes my day, a little dogshit letter and maybe some Penthouse Forum letters later on) who wrote two full, handwritten pages - front and back - about how a woman dumped a snotty Kleenex in his new trash can soiling it's cleanliness (it's a TRASH CAN ass wiper!). Later in this same letter, the writer explains that he has white surgical gloves which he uses to remove the sticky, snot-drenched Kleenex from the bottom of the can. And the only reason he has these gloves is because he must "express" his dog's anal glands (If you have to express the anal glands on Fido, it may be time to express the family pooch to the vet for the $65 shot. Let's see the Dog Whisperer deal with that one). I can't make this shit up. There are more nuts out here than in a gay porno.
Do the old fogies think our newspaper is missing letters about poop and ass wiping? I'll admit, we run a lot of crap sometimes, but it's always implied crap.
So there I am, coffee in one hand, bottom jaw in the other, shocked to shit to find this in my inbox and waiting to be slapped inside today's paper. And I think, dammit, who am I to curb someone's freedom of speech. That's the president's job. If this guy wants the community to know he's a crazy, drunk kook who likes to stranger's wipe asses, I shouldn't stop him. In fact, I should applaud the freak show for coming forward and imparting such wisdom upon the six or seven suckers who subscribe to our rag. I typically run letters in the order I receive them or queue some that are relevant to a current topic. I bump all those for weird, ass-wiping dude because nothing sells papers like sex, violence and poop.
"Poodle poop can draw PoPo" is the headline I give Shakespeare's piece and give it prime placement, under the political cartoon that depicts - ironically enough - President Bush farting and calling his ass a weapon of mass destruction (that's right, we're a progressive newspaper catering to seniors). I put it in a light-colored box on the page to catch the readers' eyes and bump the headline to 75 point so even the most myopic blue hair can spot this riveting piece of advice. The only way to make this letter stand out more is to make it a popup (and don't think I didn't want to add a pull tab that released a square of toilet paper).
I hand my future award-winning page to our top blind copy editor who green lights it, offering to buy me a soda for such good work. I take him up on it because that's the closest to a raise I'll see and prop my feet up on my desk, basking in the glory created by one crazy schmuck in my community.
It's a spinoff waiting to happen. "Kids say the darndest things" followed by "Seniors write the craziest things."
Here is how I cured a hag from having the Poodle defecate on my yard in Idaho. One Saturday, maybe after a beer or so, I watched for the witch. Sure enough, here she came late afternoon and the dog made it's deposit. I went out the front door with some Charmin in my hand and told her to squat as it was her turn. The hag never walked the dog on my side of the street again. It may be the same here in AZ, but you can have people arrested for assault and battery even if they never lay a hand on you. So if these turkeys give you a bad time about walking their dog on your lawn, do it.
I opened my e-mail to that "letter to the editor" this morning. First thing - 5:30 a.m. Wham! Letter talking about doody. Hello, copy editor, how about you read this little diddy about me wiping my neighbor's ass. This is editorial page gold. You'll snag awards for this letter.
Believe it or not, this pales in comparison to one letter writer (who very well may be the same nut job who thinks the blue hairs in the community like to read about dog shit - it always makes my day, a little dogshit letter and maybe some Penthouse Forum letters later on) who wrote two full, handwritten pages - front and back - about how a woman dumped a snotty Kleenex in his new trash can soiling it's cleanliness (it's a TRASH CAN ass wiper!). Later in this same letter, the writer explains that he has white surgical gloves which he uses to remove the sticky, snot-drenched Kleenex from the bottom of the can. And the only reason he has these gloves is because he must "express" his dog's anal glands (If you have to express the anal glands on Fido, it may be time to express the family pooch to the vet for the $65 shot. Let's see the Dog Whisperer deal with that one). I can't make this shit up. There are more nuts out here than in a gay porno.
Do the old fogies think our newspaper is missing letters about poop and ass wiping? I'll admit, we run a lot of crap sometimes, but it's always implied crap.
So there I am, coffee in one hand, bottom jaw in the other, shocked to shit to find this in my inbox and waiting to be slapped inside today's paper. And I think, dammit, who am I to curb someone's freedom of speech. That's the president's job. If this guy wants the community to know he's a crazy, drunk kook who likes to stranger's wipe asses, I shouldn't stop him. In fact, I should applaud the freak show for coming forward and imparting such wisdom upon the six or seven suckers who subscribe to our rag. I typically run letters in the order I receive them or queue some that are relevant to a current topic. I bump all those for weird, ass-wiping dude because nothing sells papers like sex, violence and poop.
"Poodle poop can draw PoPo" is the headline I give Shakespeare's piece and give it prime placement, under the political cartoon that depicts - ironically enough - President Bush farting and calling his ass a weapon of mass destruction (that's right, we're a progressive newspaper catering to seniors). I put it in a light-colored box on the page to catch the readers' eyes and bump the headline to 75 point so even the most myopic blue hair can spot this riveting piece of advice. The only way to make this letter stand out more is to make it a popup (and don't think I didn't want to add a pull tab that released a square of toilet paper).
I hand my future award-winning page to our top blind copy editor who green lights it, offering to buy me a soda for such good work. I take him up on it because that's the closest to a raise I'll see and prop my feet up on my desk, basking in the glory created by one crazy schmuck in my community.
It's a spinoff waiting to happen. "Kids say the darndest things" followed by "Seniors write the craziest things."
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Carpet bombing
We worship the carpet Stanley Steamers walk on.
The piddle present left in our bedroom near the glass door - courtesy of chicken-dogs - gone.
The yacked up egg shell in the guest room - courtesy again of chicken-dogs - gone.
The yacked up remains of three tequila shooters and eight or 10 or 12 beers - those chicken-dogs are booze hounds - gone.
It takes two high school flunkies, enough hose to pipe clean water into Mexico from Phoenix and a vacuum the size of Kansas, and presto the carpets inside the Melissa Compound are hair free, dirt free and piss free. All thanks to Stanley and his Steamers.
Because our herd of animals think the carpet is nothing more than fuzzy grass, they like to roll all over it, bringing the outside a little closer for Wife and I to see. Twigs, dirt clumps and burrs that lay in wait under the couch anticipating your next barefooted steps before launching itself into the fleshy hunk of skin between the big toe and the toe that stayed home, are our presents, leaving our rugs to look more like the inside of a tent during a weeklong camp out in the Sierra Nevadas.
But that's where our boys, Mr. Stanley Steamer and his fine carpet-steaming army comes in. When that light-beer-yellow van (maybe that's why I have a man crush on the company, it's color reminds me of Miller Lite) peels through our driveway I'm like Dino when Fred comes home. Wife often leashes me and ties me to the kitchen table otherwise I'm apt to tackle the Steamers and thank them before they actually lift the blood stains from the carpet in the front room (as per my attorney, I cannot divulge more information than that - suffice it to say San Francisco Giant fans know better than to step foot on the Melissa Compound now).
If only it was all peaches and creams on Stanley Steamer day, though.
The first task is cat corralling. I've seen dogs herd sheeps and cows, and I thought maybe our pooches could corral our kitties into the laundry room for a 90 minute lockdown. However, it turns out not only are our four-legged fidos afraid of the groomer, little kids and rolling trash cans, the indoor, claw-free, barely 10-pound cats spook the bejesus out of them, too. We'd put our cats outside, into the wild of suburban Arizona, but Wife is afraid a gang of feral cats would roll them for their catnip. Knowing our two felines, they'd hand the house keys over to the feral gang and let them ransack the joint if they thought it would land them a plate of tuna.
Coco trusts me, which is her first mistake, so chaining her inside the laundry room is as easy as getting Wife into a jewelry store. It's that black wench Petie who makes use work. We call this cat the lap slut because if you're sitting on the couch she feels entitle to sit on top your legs. There's no question about it. She sees lap, she sits on lap, and tells you to F-off if you ask her to get off the lap. No, instead she wiggles deeper into your lap so that if you do decide to move she can sink her fangs into meaty part of the thigh or some nether regions I shan't go into here. Suffice to say, I'm speaking from experience.
With the Steamers on the way, we have little time to lure the lap whore to us, so the next best trick is opening the tuna can. Waving that around the house and I'm the cat wrangler of Arizona, every feline in Maricopa County and the neighboring townships flock to our door when we pop the top on the Sunkist. When I want a tuna sandwich the cats are there, patiently expecting their share. If I stiff them on the snack I get a chorus of meows that I'm sure, if translated, would come out: "Hey, you two-legged home sapien, how 'bout a little something for us. Remember, we see what you and other two-legged homo sapien do at night. A little taste of that tuna will go a long way to keeping us quiet." However, when we really need to snare her in a tuna trap, she knows we're up to no good. We don't willingly give her tuna, so to see us nice and cuddly must ring warning bells in her head. "Hmmm, homo sapiens are being nice, offering me tuna and want me to sit on their laps. Yeah, these a-holes are hatching a sceme." So, instead Petie runs throughout the house believing she's tonight's main course on the Melissa Compound menu (we are trying to eat better, maybe cats are high in fiber). We play hide-and-seek with the cat, chasing her from one room to the next, cooing her to join us and then reaching foor the floor as she darts between our legs, giving us the finger (paw?) as she makes for the couch. Of course, she never read the hide-and-seek rule book, so as we approach her meows become more desperate, more "oh crap, they're coming for me, save yourself Coco." And Coco could give a shit because right now she doesn't have to share the tuna snack with Petie.
The Steamers recommended we open every window and aim as many fans as we could at the damp carpets. We do as we're told because we're sheep and we follow Stanley Steamers' words like they're gospel. "Thou shalt now buy our service plan so we can further your brainwashing once every three months." "Amen." It's great advice when the thermometer hits 80, 85, 90 outside, not so much when it's 50 outside and raining like we just angered God because we pissed on the burning bush. The wind from the storm outside coupled with the fans blowing at full speed, Wife and I hole up in the one safe room of the house after the Steamers pack up their hose and dirt sucker. The cats are now loose and enjoying the artic conditions our house is experience because they have fur coats, all the while telling us homo sapiens that they're about to crap in our shoes. Then it hits me, we could start a fire to at least warm the one room we typically living in - the TV room - and dry the carpet at the same time. It's a great plan in theory, but Wife has turned the fireplace into a Catholic votive, leaving that theory shot to hell. I look at the colorful array of candles inhabiting my fireplace (I'm sure they're boinking each other in there and multiplying as I freeze my ass off night after cold-ass desert night) and think, oh yeah, that's the perfect use for the fireplace. It will save us countless Benjamins we'd schlep off to a chimney sweep to clean the damn thing.
I bundle up like I'm about to climb Everest, but to do so I have to stand on the wet carpet to retreive the parka and Spiderman-decorated mittens. It's a chain reaction of cold, beginning with the feet and taking the expressway to my nose where the cold turns to snot and leaks out of me like a half-opened soda can on its side.
And the one thing that replays in my head is the Steamer saying we shouldn't turn on the heaters unless we want a monsoon in the house. Really? A monsoon? With all the fans and windows, we had enough wind to replicate a monsoon, add the heater and we'd have thunder, lightning and rain inside the house, according to the Steamer meteorologist. That's just what I'd need, a crack of thunder to go off as we're watching television, likely a key scene of Dharma & Greg or something. It could also be the big man upstairs's clue for us to watch something with a little more substance, like Sanford and Son.
So Wife and I decided to take refuge in Arizona's one safe zone - Fuddruckers. Nothing warms ice block feet like deep fried onions and liquid jalapeno cheese. We pound down a high-fat, low nutrional dinner while watching the rain come down like its the end of the world. Wife looks deep into my eyes and says, "Shit!" I thought she'd say that earlier in our marriage when looking at me; I guess it took her this long for it to register who exactly she married. Sorry dear, I say, thinking the jig was up and she saw through my nice-guy disguise. "We left the dogs outside," which means - in Wifespeak for you single fellas - I (me) left dogs outside in the rain.
I do the math: wet dogs(muddy paws) + damp carpets = carpets the consistency of a mud bog. We race home like we're in the final lap of the Daytona 500, bump drafting seniors in Buicks and taking the inside corner of turns away from minivan driving soccer moms, believing the faster we drive, the drier the dogs will be. The difference between five minutes in the rain and 10 minutes is the difference between soggy doggie and a drenched doggie. I'm not sure what that adds up to, but it did mean we had to sit in the screen room and hand dry the pooches like they were Corvettes in for a buff and wax. Once dry, we covered them from neck to tail in seran wrap, hoping the dirt would not find an unprotected crack in our plastic defense and run for our damp carpets.
Wife and I now have pneumonia but the carpets are dry and still dirt free, one day later, despite God's best job at screwing us over with cold weather, rain and mud hounds. Thanks for looking out for us big guy. Remind me when I see ya to yack up a few tequila shooters and a 12-pack of Guinness on Heaven's finest carpet.
The piddle present left in our bedroom near the glass door - courtesy of chicken-dogs - gone.
The yacked up egg shell in the guest room - courtesy again of chicken-dogs - gone.
The yacked up remains of three tequila shooters and eight or 10 or 12 beers - those chicken-dogs are booze hounds - gone.
It takes two high school flunkies, enough hose to pipe clean water into Mexico from Phoenix and a vacuum the size of Kansas, and presto the carpets inside the Melissa Compound are hair free, dirt free and piss free. All thanks to Stanley and his Steamers.
Because our herd of animals think the carpet is nothing more than fuzzy grass, they like to roll all over it, bringing the outside a little closer for Wife and I to see. Twigs, dirt clumps and burrs that lay in wait under the couch anticipating your next barefooted steps before launching itself into the fleshy hunk of skin between the big toe and the toe that stayed home, are our presents, leaving our rugs to look more like the inside of a tent during a weeklong camp out in the Sierra Nevadas.
But that's where our boys, Mr. Stanley Steamer and his fine carpet-steaming army comes in. When that light-beer-yellow van (maybe that's why I have a man crush on the company, it's color reminds me of Miller Lite) peels through our driveway I'm like Dino when Fred comes home. Wife often leashes me and ties me to the kitchen table otherwise I'm apt to tackle the Steamers and thank them before they actually lift the blood stains from the carpet in the front room (as per my attorney, I cannot divulge more information than that - suffice it to say San Francisco Giant fans know better than to step foot on the Melissa Compound now).
If only it was all peaches and creams on Stanley Steamer day, though.
The first task is cat corralling. I've seen dogs herd sheeps and cows, and I thought maybe our pooches could corral our kitties into the laundry room for a 90 minute lockdown. However, it turns out not only are our four-legged fidos afraid of the groomer, little kids and rolling trash cans, the indoor, claw-free, barely 10-pound cats spook the bejesus out of them, too. We'd put our cats outside, into the wild of suburban Arizona, but Wife is afraid a gang of feral cats would roll them for their catnip. Knowing our two felines, they'd hand the house keys over to the feral gang and let them ransack the joint if they thought it would land them a plate of tuna.
Coco trusts me, which is her first mistake, so chaining her inside the laundry room is as easy as getting Wife into a jewelry store. It's that black wench Petie who makes use work. We call this cat the lap slut because if you're sitting on the couch she feels entitle to sit on top your legs. There's no question about it. She sees lap, she sits on lap, and tells you to F-off if you ask her to get off the lap. No, instead she wiggles deeper into your lap so that if you do decide to move she can sink her fangs into meaty part of the thigh or some nether regions I shan't go into here. Suffice to say, I'm speaking from experience.
With the Steamers on the way, we have little time to lure the lap whore to us, so the next best trick is opening the tuna can. Waving that around the house and I'm the cat wrangler of Arizona, every feline in Maricopa County and the neighboring townships flock to our door when we pop the top on the Sunkist. When I want a tuna sandwich the cats are there, patiently expecting their share. If I stiff them on the snack I get a chorus of meows that I'm sure, if translated, would come out: "Hey, you two-legged home sapien, how 'bout a little something for us. Remember, we see what you and other two-legged homo sapien do at night. A little taste of that tuna will go a long way to keeping us quiet." However, when we really need to snare her in a tuna trap, she knows we're up to no good. We don't willingly give her tuna, so to see us nice and cuddly must ring warning bells in her head. "Hmmm, homo sapiens are being nice, offering me tuna and want me to sit on their laps. Yeah, these a-holes are hatching a sceme." So, instead Petie runs throughout the house believing she's tonight's main course on the Melissa Compound menu (we are trying to eat better, maybe cats are high in fiber). We play hide-and-seek with the cat, chasing her from one room to the next, cooing her to join us and then reaching foor the floor as she darts between our legs, giving us the finger (paw?) as she makes for the couch. Of course, she never read the hide-and-seek rule book, so as we approach her meows become more desperate, more "oh crap, they're coming for me, save yourself Coco." And Coco could give a shit because right now she doesn't have to share the tuna snack with Petie.
The Steamers recommended we open every window and aim as many fans as we could at the damp carpets. We do as we're told because we're sheep and we follow Stanley Steamers' words like they're gospel. "Thou shalt now buy our service plan so we can further your brainwashing once every three months." "Amen." It's great advice when the thermometer hits 80, 85, 90 outside, not so much when it's 50 outside and raining like we just angered God because we pissed on the burning bush. The wind from the storm outside coupled with the fans blowing at full speed, Wife and I hole up in the one safe room of the house after the Steamers pack up their hose and dirt sucker. The cats are now loose and enjoying the artic conditions our house is experience because they have fur coats, all the while telling us homo sapiens that they're about to crap in our shoes. Then it hits me, we could start a fire to at least warm the one room we typically living in - the TV room - and dry the carpet at the same time. It's a great plan in theory, but Wife has turned the fireplace into a Catholic votive, leaving that theory shot to hell. I look at the colorful array of candles inhabiting my fireplace (I'm sure they're boinking each other in there and multiplying as I freeze my ass off night after cold-ass desert night) and think, oh yeah, that's the perfect use for the fireplace. It will save us countless Benjamins we'd schlep off to a chimney sweep to clean the damn thing.
I bundle up like I'm about to climb Everest, but to do so I have to stand on the wet carpet to retreive the parka and Spiderman-decorated mittens. It's a chain reaction of cold, beginning with the feet and taking the expressway to my nose where the cold turns to snot and leaks out of me like a half-opened soda can on its side.
And the one thing that replays in my head is the Steamer saying we shouldn't turn on the heaters unless we want a monsoon in the house. Really? A monsoon? With all the fans and windows, we had enough wind to replicate a monsoon, add the heater and we'd have thunder, lightning and rain inside the house, according to the Steamer meteorologist. That's just what I'd need, a crack of thunder to go off as we're watching television, likely a key scene of Dharma & Greg or something. It could also be the big man upstairs's clue for us to watch something with a little more substance, like Sanford and Son.
So Wife and I decided to take refuge in Arizona's one safe zone - Fuddruckers. Nothing warms ice block feet like deep fried onions and liquid jalapeno cheese. We pound down a high-fat, low nutrional dinner while watching the rain come down like its the end of the world. Wife looks deep into my eyes and says, "Shit!" I thought she'd say that earlier in our marriage when looking at me; I guess it took her this long for it to register who exactly she married. Sorry dear, I say, thinking the jig was up and she saw through my nice-guy disguise. "We left the dogs outside," which means - in Wifespeak for you single fellas - I (me) left dogs outside in the rain.
I do the math: wet dogs(muddy paws) + damp carpets = carpets the consistency of a mud bog. We race home like we're in the final lap of the Daytona 500, bump drafting seniors in Buicks and taking the inside corner of turns away from minivan driving soccer moms, believing the faster we drive, the drier the dogs will be. The difference between five minutes in the rain and 10 minutes is the difference between soggy doggie and a drenched doggie. I'm not sure what that adds up to, but it did mean we had to sit in the screen room and hand dry the pooches like they were Corvettes in for a buff and wax. Once dry, we covered them from neck to tail in seran wrap, hoping the dirt would not find an unprotected crack in our plastic defense and run for our damp carpets.
Wife and I now have pneumonia but the carpets are dry and still dirt free, one day later, despite God's best job at screwing us over with cold weather, rain and mud hounds. Thanks for looking out for us big guy. Remind me when I see ya to yack up a few tequila shooters and a 12-pack of Guinness on Heaven's finest carpet.
Friday, February 16, 2007
That spring fresh feeling
Today is Thanksgiving, Christmas and Al Pacino's Birthday rolled up together.
The air smells fresh. The birds sing their melodious tunes with ferver and passion. Arizona colors, typically muted browns and dusty greens, pop with life. It's like that first kiss between you and your fifth grade teacher (ah, those were the days and I'm sure Ms. Brimmer remembers them fondly, too). Countries stop their silly wars. Nursing homes give prisoners a day of reprieve from daily beatings. Lactose intolerant children are allowed to drink milk.
Why? Because pitchers and catchers for the Los Angeles Dodgers reported to Spring Training today. The 2007 season shines bright on the horizon.
Of the things I long to hear during these bleak, dismally cold Arizona winters - I've needed a jacket since December for Christ's sake - "Pitchers and catchers report," is as good as Wife saying "I set up a threesome for you with Salma Hayek and Alyssa Milano." It's music to my ears. I warn Wife a month out that spring training is coming, often interupting her disertation on the state of our finances, house repairs, or bringing our own freeloaders into the world. I tell myself all that shit is great, but my news will blow her panties off three ways from Sunday. I take her to Outback to break the news, hoping a slab of meat that taste eerily similar to the steak I char on the back yard grill - I sprinkle with Montreal Steak Seasoning, so I'm pretty sure Outback stole my recipe - and ease her into the topic.
"Well, hon, speaking of the pervasive smell of natural gas seeping through the house, pitchers and catchers report next week."
Her sigh tells it all. Yes! Finally! I thought it would never come! That's what her eyes say despite the body language of a defeated 10-year-old at the National Spelling Bee finals.
I might follow the NFL and the Chargers religiously. I can sit back and enjoy a good NASCAR race (that's right, my neck is red, we live in a double-wide - we splurged - and every few words I mix in a dad-gum). March Madness captures my attention because I'm financially invested having sunk my unborn freeloaders' college funds into five different NCAA Tournament pools hoping that Gonzaga pick finally pans out. Hell, I'll even watch a golf tournament or two to pass the time. That just fills the time from November until mid-February.
However, and apologies to my fellow Charger tailgaters, it's baseball that yanks my soul. It rides me hard and puts me away wet come October. It caresses me, runs its fingers through my hair, then, in the bottom of the ninth with the Dodgers leading by five it kicks me in the nuts hard enough so I taste my vas defrens when the Padres score five to tie the game, and the one more in the 10 to win the game. Baseball sticks bamboo shoots under my finger nails and smacks them hope with ball-ping hammers, it drives its Hummer over cold toes during Montana blizzards, and then with the Dodgers down by four in the bottom of the ninth it gives you butterfly kisses on your neck as they hit four consecutive homeruns to tie the game, and then hit anoter in the bottom of the 10th to win the game. That's baseball, it's a bastard and Salma Hayek all mixed into one gloriously frustrating package.
I remember being a snot-nosed, rock-throwing, peeing-on-the-living room rug kid watching Dodger spring training games on TV back in Idyllwild and thinking "Oh man, the season's close. I can smell the Dodger dogs." Then myself and Old Man would immerse ourselves in the baseball season, watching just about every game they'd show on TV. Since we were hillbillies living in the boondocks, it was my job to stand up on the roof with the atenna, whirling it about until the picture was clear (we had an A-frame house that was as steep as an Olympic downhill ski run, three-stories, and could get rather slick in those cool April evenings since we lived in the mountains). We'd live, die and curse with each Dodger win or loss from April to, God willing, late October. In fact, I can thank the Dodger organization for broadening my cursing repertoire. If it weren't for them I'd be left calling folks who cut me off in Sun City poop heads and butt munchers.
The Parental Units said they took me to Dodgers Stadium (even when I mention it I hear angels singing) when I was a wee lad old enough to piss enough but not old enough to scratch that migrant ball itch. My first baseball memory was at age 3. We sat somewhere near right field and cheered for Reggie Smith (I'm sure it's fun to say "Reggie" when you're three, that's why I was such a big fan of his). He's the first ballplayer I remember liking.
With baseball, you have to take the lows with the highs (isn't that just like life?). I learned that the hard way in 1980. At the height of my snot-nosed, rock-throwing, peeing-on-the-living room carpet career, I can remember bawling my eyes out behind the couch as that beach-blonde suck ass Dave Goltz (I harbor no grudges, sure, and maybe some day I'll talk about how I plan to rip Tom Niedenfuer's testicles out of his sack inch by inch with needle-nose pliers) bent over for the Houston Astros in a one-game playoff that decided the National League West. The Dodgers lost 7-1, and if I ever see Dave Goltz on the street, I'm going to shove a spoon through his ear.
All became right with the world next year, when I watched Kenny Landreaux squeezed home Bob Watson's fly ball to seal my first World Championship as a Dodger fan. At the ripe age of 9, with the world waiting for me to grab it by the horns, I thought these World Series Championships would grow on trees for the Big Blue Wrecking Crew.
I was wrong. (I'd talk about the 1988 season, but I can't without sobbing tears of joy and wetting myself uncontrollably. So y'all will have to wait on that one).
However, as I break the news to Wife that Summer Michael will visit beginning April 2, hope springs like an old man with a fresh batch of Viagra in his drawer. With pitchers and catchers reporting today for the Dodgers, the preperation for Summer Michael's visit has begun. Wife will bucker down for the next 8 months, hoping to weather the storm - alive - while I slowly deteriorate with Summer Michael into the depths of masochism as I watch the Dodger trudge on.
Oh man, I can't wait.
The air smells fresh. The birds sing their melodious tunes with ferver and passion. Arizona colors, typically muted browns and dusty greens, pop with life. It's like that first kiss between you and your fifth grade teacher (ah, those were the days and I'm sure Ms. Brimmer remembers them fondly, too). Countries stop their silly wars. Nursing homes give prisoners a day of reprieve from daily beatings. Lactose intolerant children are allowed to drink milk.
Why? Because pitchers and catchers for the Los Angeles Dodgers reported to Spring Training today. The 2007 season shines bright on the horizon.
Of the things I long to hear during these bleak, dismally cold Arizona winters - I've needed a jacket since December for Christ's sake - "Pitchers and catchers report," is as good as Wife saying "I set up a threesome for you with Salma Hayek and Alyssa Milano." It's music to my ears. I warn Wife a month out that spring training is coming, often interupting her disertation on the state of our finances, house repairs, or bringing our own freeloaders into the world. I tell myself all that shit is great, but my news will blow her panties off three ways from Sunday. I take her to Outback to break the news, hoping a slab of meat that taste eerily similar to the steak I char on the back yard grill - I sprinkle with Montreal Steak Seasoning, so I'm pretty sure Outback stole my recipe - and ease her into the topic.
"Well, hon, speaking of the pervasive smell of natural gas seeping through the house, pitchers and catchers report next week."
Her sigh tells it all. Yes! Finally! I thought it would never come! That's what her eyes say despite the body language of a defeated 10-year-old at the National Spelling Bee finals.
I might follow the NFL and the Chargers religiously. I can sit back and enjoy a good NASCAR race (that's right, my neck is red, we live in a double-wide - we splurged - and every few words I mix in a dad-gum). March Madness captures my attention because I'm financially invested having sunk my unborn freeloaders' college funds into five different NCAA Tournament pools hoping that Gonzaga pick finally pans out. Hell, I'll even watch a golf tournament or two to pass the time. That just fills the time from November until mid-February.
However, and apologies to my fellow Charger tailgaters, it's baseball that yanks my soul. It rides me hard and puts me away wet come October. It caresses me, runs its fingers through my hair, then, in the bottom of the ninth with the Dodgers leading by five it kicks me in the nuts hard enough so I taste my vas defrens when the Padres score five to tie the game, and the one more in the 10 to win the game. Baseball sticks bamboo shoots under my finger nails and smacks them hope with ball-ping hammers, it drives its Hummer over cold toes during Montana blizzards, and then with the Dodgers down by four in the bottom of the ninth it gives you butterfly kisses on your neck as they hit four consecutive homeruns to tie the game, and then hit anoter in the bottom of the 10th to win the game. That's baseball, it's a bastard and Salma Hayek all mixed into one gloriously frustrating package.
I remember being a snot-nosed, rock-throwing, peeing-on-the-living room rug kid watching Dodger spring training games on TV back in Idyllwild and thinking "Oh man, the season's close. I can smell the Dodger dogs." Then myself and Old Man would immerse ourselves in the baseball season, watching just about every game they'd show on TV. Since we were hillbillies living in the boondocks, it was my job to stand up on the roof with the atenna, whirling it about until the picture was clear (we had an A-frame house that was as steep as an Olympic downhill ski run, three-stories, and could get rather slick in those cool April evenings since we lived in the mountains). We'd live, die and curse with each Dodger win or loss from April to, God willing, late October. In fact, I can thank the Dodger organization for broadening my cursing repertoire. If it weren't for them I'd be left calling folks who cut me off in Sun City poop heads and butt munchers.
The Parental Units said they took me to Dodgers Stadium (even when I mention it I hear angels singing) when I was a wee lad old enough to piss enough but not old enough to scratch that migrant ball itch. My first baseball memory was at age 3. We sat somewhere near right field and cheered for Reggie Smith (I'm sure it's fun to say "Reggie" when you're three, that's why I was such a big fan of his). He's the first ballplayer I remember liking.
With baseball, you have to take the lows with the highs (isn't that just like life?). I learned that the hard way in 1980. At the height of my snot-nosed, rock-throwing, peeing-on-the-living room carpet career, I can remember bawling my eyes out behind the couch as that beach-blonde suck ass Dave Goltz (I harbor no grudges, sure, and maybe some day I'll talk about how I plan to rip Tom Niedenfuer's testicles out of his sack inch by inch with needle-nose pliers) bent over for the Houston Astros in a one-game playoff that decided the National League West. The Dodgers lost 7-1, and if I ever see Dave Goltz on the street, I'm going to shove a spoon through his ear.
All became right with the world next year, when I watched Kenny Landreaux squeezed home Bob Watson's fly ball to seal my first World Championship as a Dodger fan. At the ripe age of 9, with the world waiting for me to grab it by the horns, I thought these World Series Championships would grow on trees for the Big Blue Wrecking Crew.
I was wrong. (I'd talk about the 1988 season, but I can't without sobbing tears of joy and wetting myself uncontrollably. So y'all will have to wait on that one).
However, as I break the news to Wife that Summer Michael will visit beginning April 2, hope springs like an old man with a fresh batch of Viagra in his drawer. With pitchers and catchers reporting today for the Dodgers, the preperation for Summer Michael's visit has begun. Wife will bucker down for the next 8 months, hoping to weather the storm - alive - while I slowly deteriorate with Summer Michael into the depths of masochism as I watch the Dodger trudge on.
Oh man, I can't wait.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Schot(tenheimer) in the dark
I thought about this long and hard - approximately three minutes - and found my job lacks pizazz. This realization came after sitting in my favorite room at the prison work camp - the men's room; stall number one is perfect for deep thoughts (and belting out building-rattling grunts).
A copy editor can only read so many letters complaining about train whistles (yeah, as in the train driver blasts the tweeter so the alzheimer patient blocking the train crossing in their Lincoln Continental can maybe remember to move their wrinkled ass before they end up as cottage cheese), President Bush (he's either the second coming of Jesus Christ or the Devil with a Texas drawl) and illegal immigration (unless the immigrants are going to glean they're orange trees or blow three-foot layer of Arizona dust from their sidewalks the blue hairs don't want 'em around) before said copy editor feels he or she would be better suited scraping up pig shit with a soup spoon for ten hours a day than reading the prescription-drug addled ramblings of our local seniors.
The truth is any monkey can do my job: choose an editorial that espouses the newspaper's libertarian philosophy (Marijuana is good, taxes suck ass), select some letters to the editor that mistate facts and labels other letter writers as pinheads and nincompoops, and finally find a cartoon that pisses off the community. See, job done. Thank you for subscribing to Old Folks Journal where each new subscriber is given a free colostomy bag.
And this was all brought on by the San Diego Chargers - my Chargers, lord I'm proud - which canned their head coach more than a month after their season ended. I've watched the Chargers since 1981, so I know the organization better than I know my own hairy ass. Wife always says I make insightful comments between expletives when watching or listening to their games. Head coach material is virtually stenciled on my nose.
Then, there is this. I've been a fantasy football, baseball, hockey, basketball (both college and NBA) NASCAR and hockey owner/GM since 1998. I've won two titles (former Charger coach Marty Schottenheimer can't say that) - NBA and NHL - a host of second place finishes in baseball and half dozen playoff appearances in football. I'm a proven winner. I turn programs around with the talent given.
I'm dusty of the resume as I type. I'll revamp the objective, changing it from saying "Seeking a low paying position reading letters to the editor written by seniors who can't remember their names, but know enough to send an e-mail decrying the fall of civilization because their senior center discontinued serving tapioca pudding with their split pea soup," to "Seeking high paying position in the National Football League to land better seats for games and extra tailgating slots for my Charger friends." In work experience, I'll mention my one day of practice with the University of Nevada Las Vegas football team - they went 1-10 the year I practiced with them, they could have better utilized my talents during game day - which shows I'm a "players' coach" who is willing to get dirty with them in the trenches. And I play injured too, as witnessed by fellow prison work camp mates a few weekends ago, when I played a game nearly one legged the entire day, throwing a pair of touchdowns, catching one, and intercepting a sure TD.
As far as working with the a-hole Charger general manager, AJ Smith, he'll know I'm not planning to interview my brother for the defensive coordinator position. In fact, he'll be pleased to learn I don't have a brother to interview - a sister, but she doesn't know a football from a bowling pin - so right there I'm a step ahead of the other candidates. AJ may as well send Norv Turner a "Thanks, but no thanks" card, ship Ron Rivera back to Chicago, tell the Super Bowl 41 honk there's no reason to wave his new ring inside the Charger facility, the Bolts have their man. If it makes him happy, I'll hire Jim Mora Jr. as my offensive coordinator. He can ease my transition into the NFL coaching ranks.
Describe my style of coaching? I'm a delegator. Why take all the responsibility on myself? That's what coordinators, assistants and players are for. I'm there to look pissed off (most of the time it comes across as needing to let loose a good growler in the bathroom) when the camera pans my mug on the sideline, while the rest of the time I pace the bench with a headset on (maybe I can get them to play REM in the ear phones) waiting for the linemen to dump a cold bucket of gatorade on my head. That's what a head coach does.
The Chargers really can't go wrong by hiring me. I'm relatively cheap, which should cover my lack of real NFL coaching experience. Then again, that never stopped San Diego before. Yes, I'm looking at you Mike Riley.
A copy editor can only read so many letters complaining about train whistles (yeah, as in the train driver blasts the tweeter so the alzheimer patient blocking the train crossing in their Lincoln Continental can maybe remember to move their wrinkled ass before they end up as cottage cheese), President Bush (he's either the second coming of Jesus Christ or the Devil with a Texas drawl) and illegal immigration (unless the immigrants are going to glean they're orange trees or blow three-foot layer of Arizona dust from their sidewalks the blue hairs don't want 'em around) before said copy editor feels he or she would be better suited scraping up pig shit with a soup spoon for ten hours a day than reading the prescription-drug addled ramblings of our local seniors.
The truth is any monkey can do my job: choose an editorial that espouses the newspaper's libertarian philosophy (Marijuana is good, taxes suck ass), select some letters to the editor that mistate facts and labels other letter writers as pinheads and nincompoops, and finally find a cartoon that pisses off the community. See, job done. Thank you for subscribing to Old Folks Journal where each new subscriber is given a free colostomy bag.
And this was all brought on by the San Diego Chargers - my Chargers, lord I'm proud - which canned their head coach more than a month after their season ended. I've watched the Chargers since 1981, so I know the organization better than I know my own hairy ass. Wife always says I make insightful comments between expletives when watching or listening to their games. Head coach material is virtually stenciled on my nose.
Then, there is this. I've been a fantasy football, baseball, hockey, basketball (both college and NBA) NASCAR and hockey owner/GM since 1998. I've won two titles (former Charger coach Marty Schottenheimer can't say that) - NBA and NHL - a host of second place finishes in baseball and half dozen playoff appearances in football. I'm a proven winner. I turn programs around with the talent given.
I'm dusty of the resume as I type. I'll revamp the objective, changing it from saying "Seeking a low paying position reading letters to the editor written by seniors who can't remember their names, but know enough to send an e-mail decrying the fall of civilization because their senior center discontinued serving tapioca pudding with their split pea soup," to "Seeking high paying position in the National Football League to land better seats for games and extra tailgating slots for my Charger friends." In work experience, I'll mention my one day of practice with the University of Nevada Las Vegas football team - they went 1-10 the year I practiced with them, they could have better utilized my talents during game day - which shows I'm a "players' coach" who is willing to get dirty with them in the trenches. And I play injured too, as witnessed by fellow prison work camp mates a few weekends ago, when I played a game nearly one legged the entire day, throwing a pair of touchdowns, catching one, and intercepting a sure TD.
As far as working with the a-hole Charger general manager, AJ Smith, he'll know I'm not planning to interview my brother for the defensive coordinator position. In fact, he'll be pleased to learn I don't have a brother to interview - a sister, but she doesn't know a football from a bowling pin - so right there I'm a step ahead of the other candidates. AJ may as well send Norv Turner a "Thanks, but no thanks" card, ship Ron Rivera back to Chicago, tell the Super Bowl 41 honk there's no reason to wave his new ring inside the Charger facility, the Bolts have their man. If it makes him happy, I'll hire Jim Mora Jr. as my offensive coordinator. He can ease my transition into the NFL coaching ranks.
Describe my style of coaching? I'm a delegator. Why take all the responsibility on myself? That's what coordinators, assistants and players are for. I'm there to look pissed off (most of the time it comes across as needing to let loose a good growler in the bathroom) when the camera pans my mug on the sideline, while the rest of the time I pace the bench with a headset on (maybe I can get them to play REM in the ear phones) waiting for the linemen to dump a cold bucket of gatorade on my head. That's what a head coach does.
The Chargers really can't go wrong by hiring me. I'm relatively cheap, which should cover my lack of real NFL coaching experience. Then again, that never stopped San Diego before. Yes, I'm looking at you Mike Riley.
Monday, February 12, 2007
A bun in the oven
Apparently, the bread baker at WonderYeast or Roman Mold has talked with our respective parental units.
The units' desire - obsession is a better word choice - has become overt hints. They want granfreeloaders, and they want them now. You can see it their eyes when they visit. "What the hell's wrong with you two? You don't like sex? Don't know how to do it? Here's a gift certificate to the Spice Channel - it's channel 510 on your TV, we checked - study up kids, because we want some whelps to spoil by next year. Got it? Good!"
My mom said she's worried she'll be too old to enjoy grandfreeloaders. Wife's mom has bought baby toys and children's books. And yet the stork remains grounded, waiting for it's delivery orders. It will be a granny battle royal, too - "So, you got Melissa Jr. some pool toys? Oh, that's sweet. We thought about floaties, but instead went with the a new 250-horsepower Kawasaki jet ski, fully loaded, to toodle around the pool in. We don't want junior(ita) to slip on the stairs, this way he (or she) can pull right up to the edge for a fresh-squeezed juice box. Yeah, we hired a Ismelda here to squeeze the juice out of the cranberries we had shipped special from Wisconsin because little junior(ita) gets only the best from us. Next week we have the U.S. Olympic dive coach coming by to teach junior(ita) how to dive."
Now it appears, in their competitive lust for grandfreeloaders, these wannabes we call our Units have coerced our bread supplier into placing subliminal hints inside our loafs.
I was munching away on my specialty dish during lunch - a turkey and provolone cheese sandwich with spicy mustard - when I noticed a black blob imbedded into the crust of my wheat bread. Typically, I pass such a sight off as a hunk of mold and dutifully rip the offending area off, disposing it in the prison work camp issued receptacle. I realize the mold likely spread throughout the loaf of bread and it should be quarantined in a hyperbaric chamber before it decides to rally it's forces and invade our peaches and cheese. But this wasn't any typical blob of mold, oh no, this had juicy consistency and less fuzziness. In fact, on the fuzzy meter, this sucker was at a zero. I thought maybe our bread forwent the mold cycle and instead invited a tick to harvest its crusty bottom.
Afraid I just injested a family of vegetarian ticks that are on a whole wheat diet kick, I promptly hacked up my specialty into the prison work camp issued vomitorium (the receptacle) expecting to see little ticks setting up camp, pitching tents and roasting undigested bits of Aunt Hattie's finest bread over a tiny flame they built from my paper coffee cup using a paper clip and a pebble as a flint. After reexamining the plump blob, it dawned on me that my slice of wheat bread is an expectant mother. She was hatching a raisin (I found this out like any good 3-year-old would do, I popped it into my pie hole and gave it a taste).
As I see it, the whole wheat loaf we bought had been pimped out by the baker to a cinnamon-raisin loaf. If the bread machine is a rockin' don't bother knockin'. The end result, a juicy, half-ounce baby raisin.
My question is, are there racial lines humping breads follow? How does white bread feel about mating with poppy seed muffins? Will rye and sesame-seed buns get in on in the middle of baking? Is sourdough bread to surly to find a partner?
And the grannies went through all this trouble just to pass along a hint that maybe it's time some grandfreeloaders came about to crap on their favorite recliner and fingerpaint on the white cabinets? All they had to do was say, "Instead of coming here for dinner tonight, why don't you stay home and hump out some kiddies."
The units' desire - obsession is a better word choice - has become overt hints. They want granfreeloaders, and they want them now. You can see it their eyes when they visit. "What the hell's wrong with you two? You don't like sex? Don't know how to do it? Here's a gift certificate to the Spice Channel - it's channel 510 on your TV, we checked - study up kids, because we want some whelps to spoil by next year. Got it? Good!"
My mom said she's worried she'll be too old to enjoy grandfreeloaders. Wife's mom has bought baby toys and children's books. And yet the stork remains grounded, waiting for it's delivery orders. It will be a granny battle royal, too - "So, you got Melissa Jr. some pool toys? Oh, that's sweet. We thought about floaties, but instead went with the a new 250-horsepower Kawasaki jet ski, fully loaded, to toodle around the pool in. We don't want junior(ita) to slip on the stairs, this way he (or she) can pull right up to the edge for a fresh-squeezed juice box. Yeah, we hired a Ismelda here to squeeze the juice out of the cranberries we had shipped special from Wisconsin because little junior(ita) gets only the best from us. Next week we have the U.S. Olympic dive coach coming by to teach junior(ita) how to dive."
Now it appears, in their competitive lust for grandfreeloaders, these wannabes we call our Units have coerced our bread supplier into placing subliminal hints inside our loafs.
I was munching away on my specialty dish during lunch - a turkey and provolone cheese sandwich with spicy mustard - when I noticed a black blob imbedded into the crust of my wheat bread. Typically, I pass such a sight off as a hunk of mold and dutifully rip the offending area off, disposing it in the prison work camp issued receptacle. I realize the mold likely spread throughout the loaf of bread and it should be quarantined in a hyperbaric chamber before it decides to rally it's forces and invade our peaches and cheese. But this wasn't any typical blob of mold, oh no, this had juicy consistency and less fuzziness. In fact, on the fuzzy meter, this sucker was at a zero. I thought maybe our bread forwent the mold cycle and instead invited a tick to harvest its crusty bottom.
Afraid I just injested a family of vegetarian ticks that are on a whole wheat diet kick, I promptly hacked up my specialty into the prison work camp issued vomitorium (the receptacle) expecting to see little ticks setting up camp, pitching tents and roasting undigested bits of Aunt Hattie's finest bread over a tiny flame they built from my paper coffee cup using a paper clip and a pebble as a flint. After reexamining the plump blob, it dawned on me that my slice of wheat bread is an expectant mother. She was hatching a raisin (I found this out like any good 3-year-old would do, I popped it into my pie hole and gave it a taste).
As I see it, the whole wheat loaf we bought had been pimped out by the baker to a cinnamon-raisin loaf. If the bread machine is a rockin' don't bother knockin'. The end result, a juicy, half-ounce baby raisin.
My question is, are there racial lines humping breads follow? How does white bread feel about mating with poppy seed muffins? Will rye and sesame-seed buns get in on in the middle of baking? Is sourdough bread to surly to find a partner?
And the grannies went through all this trouble just to pass along a hint that maybe it's time some grandfreeloaders came about to crap on their favorite recliner and fingerpaint on the white cabinets? All they had to do was say, "Instead of coming here for dinner tonight, why don't you stay home and hump out some kiddies."
Friday, February 09, 2007
I worship at the altar of Wikipedia
I love the Internet. I can look up Steve Sax's 1983 stats with the Dodgers while having midget porn playing in another window. If I wanted to learn how to trim my oleanders into giant penises and boobs, type-type-type click poof and there's my info in all its glory. Add some .jpg images, and I'm ready to whack away on my hedges. What the shit a .jpg image is I could care less, just as long as it points out where to circumsize the oleander I'm good to go.
If it weren't for Wife's death grip on the credit card number I'd use the Internet to make enough cash to grow my evil empire. Unfortunately, the woman looms over me with a Catholic nun ruler to rap my fingers if I veer toward any online poker site. I'd be the Doyle Brunson of the Internet Holde'em scene, raking in the cash, watching online suckers left in my wake all the while watching midget porn in another window. Isn't that what the Internet's for, making dough and watching short folks humping on a mini-pool table?
The younguns in my life - that's anyone less than age 30 - tell me there's more to the Web than learning how to get high from whipped cream cans and looking at celebrity mugshots. But when it comes to being with "it" as far as Web thingys I must read, watch, listen too, play with or jerk my junk too I'm a day late and/or a dollar short (I'm always a dollar short because Wife gives me a 50-cent daily per diem, which is just enough to buy a bottle of water at the prison work camp). Friends tell me I have to watch some video on some site because it's "the greatest thing ever!" That claim triggers a response in my head: "Does it include Salma Hayek and an inflatable pool filled with baby oil?" If the answer is no, well, then it ain't "the greatest thing ever" in my book.
That's not to say I haven't followed their advice. If I failed to listen I would have missed out on OK Go's treadmill dance. There's four guys in the band, and with their song playing in the background, they synchronized a dance on treadmills to their tune. I'm not coordinated enough to navigate our sunken shower at 5 in the morning let alone dance on machines where their sole goal is to throw your ass off. This foursome walks, hops and leapfrogs from one treadmill to the other making it look like they're the Gregory Hines of treadmill dancers. Get me on a machine and I'm holding on for dear life, afraid the track will burn my legs to nubs because i'm too damn stubborn to turn the speed down to a leisurely 2-in-the-morning drunk stumble-walk.
Instead of watching donkey shows or listening to crank calls, I found a more intellectual use for the Web. Putting the 8 hours at the prison work camp to better use than actually working, I happened upon the Wikipedia Website. I don't know what a wiki is - I thought maybe it had to do with my winky after drinking too much, kinda like "if you get hammered off a 12-pack of Keystone Light and jello shots your winky gets wiki" - but I know what it does, it kills 8 hours a day Monday through Friday. I'm sure the thing has been around since Al Gore invented the Internet, but with me being so damn hip and on top of the latest Web trends, I'm getting my fill of enough useless information to actually appear like I know some shit when locked in a conversation:
"You're right, Wyoming's law restricting hunters from shooting big game from a public road is a load of crap. But Longbows to be used for antelope, bighorn sheep, black bear, deer, mountain goat or mountain lions must have at least 40 lbs. draw weight or be able to shoot a 400 grain arrow at least 160 yards. How 'bout that to knock your socks off? I read that on the Wikipedia Website. Put that in your pipe and smoke it."
I can only go to the bathroom so muchto waste time at the camp before it looks like I'm a Coke addict needing a fix every 90 minutes, so I have to fill the time somehow. Enter Wikipedia, the perfect work avoider. Earlier this week, I found myself reading about the Pine Barrens in New Jersey. I have no plans to visit the wilderness park, and I'm pretty sure Wife would smack me upside the melon with her Catholic nun ruler if I suggested it as a vacation spot for the Melissa clan. The Barrens were featured in a Sopranos episode a while back and I just needed to know more. My thirst for knowledge about the Pine Barrens hit Defcon 5 and wouldn't be quenched by listening to tales from New Jersey natives like the head boob at the prison work camp. So Wikipedia to the rescue.
After that, I read about Yellowstone park. I always wanted to know why the damn park smelled like overcooked eggs and stale farts. Who doesn't, right? The Yellowstone plateau sits on an active caldera - bet you didn't know that - and it's a matter of time before the place blows and melts the rest of us into black hunks of obsidian. With Yellowstone about to go nuclear, the construction of the Melissa End-of-the-World Yellowstone Volcano Shelter has begun in earnest. I strapped the dogs to the wheel barrow and taught them to dump the dirt I'm shoveling out of the future basement at the Compound. If Wife's attitude doesn't change in regards to this project and start shoveling or picking at Arizona's concrete ground layer she may find herself without a room when Old Faithful spews molton Earth poo across North America. I plan on charging five bucks per head - pretty cheap, wouldn't you say, to save your nuts from the end of the world. Knowledge is power, my friends, and its not always free.
And speaking of desert earth, I read an article that talked about the Sahara Desert. "Who in their right mind would live in a desert that gets hot enough to cook a cornish game hen?" I asked myself. It was a job for Wikipedia. That led me to Death Valley, because dammit, the U.S. has all best stuff and there's no way Africa can beat us in deserts either. Put Death Valley and the Sahara in a Thunderdome death match, our hunk of desolate land would kick that barren stretch of African sand's ass three ways from Sunday. In this case, size doesn't matter. At least that's what the U.S. government's propaganda tells me. I found that on the Web as well. I guess you can't believe everything you read online.
Finally, because I'm paranoid the bean in my skull is shrinking, I looked up the human brain. I needed to know why my brain was chock full of useless tidbits that pushed out usefull tidbits like whether a pair of African swallows could maintain air-speed velocity while carrying a coconut. After reading about mid brains, homonculouses and the medulla oblongata I hit a spot on the page that stated in colored boxes: "The neutrality or factuality of this article or section may be compromised by weasel words," and "The neutrality of this article is disputed." What the hell kind of crap is this? Apparently, evil Web doers in this world spout crap from their mouths that aren't exactly true or are said to further their own personal agendas.
My innocence shattered, I came to terms that not everything I read on the Net is truth. Captain Kangaroo and Mr. Rogers weren't Navy SEALS that held off a Japanese unit during the battle for Wake Island, Mars will not be the closest it's ever been to the Earth, and despite the strongly worded e-mail Microsoft will not send me 10-grand for replying to their message. Truth is sometimes hard to find on the Web, you have to be a human lie detector to comb through the layer of BS.
Unless you read this site, then everything is true.
If it weren't for Wife's death grip on the credit card number I'd use the Internet to make enough cash to grow my evil empire. Unfortunately, the woman looms over me with a Catholic nun ruler to rap my fingers if I veer toward any online poker site. I'd be the Doyle Brunson of the Internet Holde'em scene, raking in the cash, watching online suckers left in my wake all the while watching midget porn in another window. Isn't that what the Internet's for, making dough and watching short folks humping on a mini-pool table?
The younguns in my life - that's anyone less than age 30 - tell me there's more to the Web than learning how to get high from whipped cream cans and looking at celebrity mugshots. But when it comes to being with "it" as far as Web thingys I must read, watch, listen too, play with or jerk my junk too I'm a day late and/or a dollar short (I'm always a dollar short because Wife gives me a 50-cent daily per diem, which is just enough to buy a bottle of water at the prison work camp). Friends tell me I have to watch some video on some site because it's "the greatest thing ever!" That claim triggers a response in my head: "Does it include Salma Hayek and an inflatable pool filled with baby oil?" If the answer is no, well, then it ain't "the greatest thing ever" in my book.
That's not to say I haven't followed their advice. If I failed to listen I would have missed out on OK Go's treadmill dance. There's four guys in the band, and with their song playing in the background, they synchronized a dance on treadmills to their tune. I'm not coordinated enough to navigate our sunken shower at 5 in the morning let alone dance on machines where their sole goal is to throw your ass off. This foursome walks, hops and leapfrogs from one treadmill to the other making it look like they're the Gregory Hines of treadmill dancers. Get me on a machine and I'm holding on for dear life, afraid the track will burn my legs to nubs because i'm too damn stubborn to turn the speed down to a leisurely 2-in-the-morning drunk stumble-walk.
Instead of watching donkey shows or listening to crank calls, I found a more intellectual use for the Web. Putting the 8 hours at the prison work camp to better use than actually working, I happened upon the Wikipedia Website. I don't know what a wiki is - I thought maybe it had to do with my winky after drinking too much, kinda like "if you get hammered off a 12-pack of Keystone Light and jello shots your winky gets wiki" - but I know what it does, it kills 8 hours a day Monday through Friday. I'm sure the thing has been around since Al Gore invented the Internet, but with me being so damn hip and on top of the latest Web trends, I'm getting my fill of enough useless information to actually appear like I know some shit when locked in a conversation:
"You're right, Wyoming's law restricting hunters from shooting big game from a public road is a load of crap. But Longbows to be used for antelope, bighorn sheep, black bear, deer, mountain goat or mountain lions must have at least 40 lbs. draw weight or be able to shoot a 400 grain arrow at least 160 yards. How 'bout that to knock your socks off? I read that on the Wikipedia Website. Put that in your pipe and smoke it."
I can only go to the bathroom so muchto waste time at the camp before it looks like I'm a Coke addict needing a fix every 90 minutes, so I have to fill the time somehow. Enter Wikipedia, the perfect work avoider. Earlier this week, I found myself reading about the Pine Barrens in New Jersey. I have no plans to visit the wilderness park, and I'm pretty sure Wife would smack me upside the melon with her Catholic nun ruler if I suggested it as a vacation spot for the Melissa clan. The Barrens were featured in a Sopranos episode a while back and I just needed to know more. My thirst for knowledge about the Pine Barrens hit Defcon 5 and wouldn't be quenched by listening to tales from New Jersey natives like the head boob at the prison work camp. So Wikipedia to the rescue.
After that, I read about Yellowstone park. I always wanted to know why the damn park smelled like overcooked eggs and stale farts. Who doesn't, right? The Yellowstone plateau sits on an active caldera - bet you didn't know that - and it's a matter of time before the place blows and melts the rest of us into black hunks of obsidian. With Yellowstone about to go nuclear, the construction of the Melissa End-of-the-World Yellowstone Volcano Shelter has begun in earnest. I strapped the dogs to the wheel barrow and taught them to dump the dirt I'm shoveling out of the future basement at the Compound. If Wife's attitude doesn't change in regards to this project and start shoveling or picking at Arizona's concrete ground layer she may find herself without a room when Old Faithful spews molton Earth poo across North America. I plan on charging five bucks per head - pretty cheap, wouldn't you say, to save your nuts from the end of the world. Knowledge is power, my friends, and its not always free.
And speaking of desert earth, I read an article that talked about the Sahara Desert. "Who in their right mind would live in a desert that gets hot enough to cook a cornish game hen?" I asked myself. It was a job for Wikipedia. That led me to Death Valley, because dammit, the U.S. has all best stuff and there's no way Africa can beat us in deserts either. Put Death Valley and the Sahara in a Thunderdome death match, our hunk of desolate land would kick that barren stretch of African sand's ass three ways from Sunday. In this case, size doesn't matter. At least that's what the U.S. government's propaganda tells me. I found that on the Web as well. I guess you can't believe everything you read online.
Finally, because I'm paranoid the bean in my skull is shrinking, I looked up the human brain. I needed to know why my brain was chock full of useless tidbits that pushed out usefull tidbits like whether a pair of African swallows could maintain air-speed velocity while carrying a coconut. After reading about mid brains, homonculouses and the medulla oblongata I hit a spot on the page that stated in colored boxes: "The neutrality or factuality of this article or section may be compromised by weasel words," and "The neutrality of this article is disputed." What the hell kind of crap is this? Apparently, evil Web doers in this world spout crap from their mouths that aren't exactly true or are said to further their own personal agendas.
My innocence shattered, I came to terms that not everything I read on the Net is truth. Captain Kangaroo and Mr. Rogers weren't Navy SEALS that held off a Japanese unit during the battle for Wake Island, Mars will not be the closest it's ever been to the Earth, and despite the strongly worded e-mail Microsoft will not send me 10-grand for replying to their message. Truth is sometimes hard to find on the Web, you have to be a human lie detector to comb through the layer of BS.
Unless you read this site, then everything is true.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
I'll sleep when I'm dead
There was a time I wouldn't hit sack before midnight.
Sleep? What's that? I'm a college student. I'll catch a few Zs when I croak. That's what I'd tell folks. Give it some time, they'd say, you'll be singing a different tune in 10 years. Go eat a prune, I'd tell them.
I lived in Las Vegas for four years, and attended UNLV (that would be the No. 25-ranked Runnin' Rebels, mind you - Go Rebs!). But because I was so damned adorable as a kid, and that adorableness extedned into my 20s and now my 30s, my parental units would come to visit once a week. They couldn't live without their Mikey. Of course, I thought it was suspicious when they would call me from the road and tell me to meet them on the lawn whereupon they'd chuck both suitcases at me and peel off for the casinos. They would show up at dinner time, broke, drunk and asking if they could borrow 50 bones to get home. That's how my units roll. (If you're thinking about moving to Las Vegas, don't, unless you enjoy hobos disguised as family members, friends and assorted drunks you never met before crashing your apartment which is no bigger than a water heater box).
Because I'm a good son, I'd take them out to dinner - nevermind that they blew their wad drinking $1 margaritas at Palace Station and playing 50-cent Keno - and invariably Dear Ma would ask, "Where do you find time to sleep if you're always studying?"
Perception and reality are often at odds, aren't they? Why destroy the woman's hopes of her only son becoming a successful executive assistant (us Melissas dream high, don't we?) instead of a slack-jawed journalist. Obviously, the jig was up as I'm the latter, not the former.
"Dear Ma, don't worry about me. I study hard so that one day you can drink all the Franzia White Zinfadel you like and play $1 Keno until the tip of your index finger is permanently set at a 90-degree angle from pushing the numbers on the screen."
"Ah, my dear angel."
While Dear Ma and the Old Man thought I was hard at work, pouring over text books thicker than my weiner (I know, Wife, that ain't saying much), the truth was there were no books to pour over where I went, unless you count the drink menus, the upcoming events schedule and the UNLV coeds conveyor-belting their way through the Crown and Anchor Pub. Vegas doesn't have a last call, so I fed the drink factory until 1 turned to 2 and approached 3 on many a weeknight. That would leave enough time for Mr. Sandman - or was it Mr. Foster's Lager? - to kick me into bed for a 3-hour catnap before the alarm would signal my next 20-hour day.
That was college life for me. Three or four times a week; soak, wash, rinse, repeat. Not in bed by 12 and to hell with three square meals. I'll sleep plenty when I die.
Well, those a-holes who said I'd be singing a different tune in 10 years were goddamn right. Going to bed at midnight is a dream now. I have to guzzle an industrial-size, super-strengthed pot of coffee just to make it past the bewitching hour. And it better be that Dark Arabian coffee shit, don't come at me with your pansy-ass Columbian crap, that's for folks who can't stay awake past 10.
Here's what I'm talking about. ABC, because they must hate my guts, pushed one of my favorite TV shows - "Lost" - back to 9 p.m. my time. We have a DVR, because Wife loves me plus she's a "Jag" addict (DVR might not be the right term, it's more a JagR), but a lot of good the contraption does when every yahoo at work is talking about how Sawyer and Sayid had a little Brokeback Island encounter at the end of the last episode (if you're a regular viewer who hasn't seen Wednesday's show, you'll be in for a treat - "I can't quit you Sayid!").
So thanks to the jerk offs at ABC, I had to take a nap Wednesday, after work, so I could keep the peepers open until 10. Mid-afternoon naps have become part of the post-work prison habit, sometimes after the nine minutes of hell at the gym and especially on the weekend, and while it's only 30 minutes (never more, never less; my body is precision instrument and knows when the Sandman's time is up) its enough to boost my energy level to 10 - and dare I dream - maybe 10:30 p.m.
But, really, what's next? Early bird dinner specials at 3? Am I at the age where I must sprinkle Metamucil on my Cheerios?
Wife is doing her part now. She's on this high-fiber diet, which means I'm on a high-fiber diet, and we've been scarfing down dinner earlier and earlier each day. I really think she's prepping me for old age. And scary enough, I'm almost there. If you call my house at 8, I'm liable to yell, "What kind of animal calls at this hour?" I don't go out after dark, and my bladder is about as strong as a piece of soaked rice paper.
The Old Man could have warned me, or Dear Ma could have clued me in that all those long nights of studying would catch up with me, and 10 years later I'd be crawling into bed at 9 without enough energy to scratch my nuts. Thanks Units. No more Franzia White Zinfadel boxes for you.
Sleep? What's that? I'm a college student. I'll catch a few Zs when I croak. That's what I'd tell folks. Give it some time, they'd say, you'll be singing a different tune in 10 years. Go eat a prune, I'd tell them.
I lived in Las Vegas for four years, and attended UNLV (that would be the No. 25-ranked Runnin' Rebels, mind you - Go Rebs!). But because I was so damned adorable as a kid, and that adorableness extedned into my 20s and now my 30s, my parental units would come to visit once a week. They couldn't live without their Mikey. Of course, I thought it was suspicious when they would call me from the road and tell me to meet them on the lawn whereupon they'd chuck both suitcases at me and peel off for the casinos. They would show up at dinner time, broke, drunk and asking if they could borrow 50 bones to get home. That's how my units roll. (If you're thinking about moving to Las Vegas, don't, unless you enjoy hobos disguised as family members, friends and assorted drunks you never met before crashing your apartment which is no bigger than a water heater box).
Because I'm a good son, I'd take them out to dinner - nevermind that they blew their wad drinking $1 margaritas at Palace Station and playing 50-cent Keno - and invariably Dear Ma would ask, "Where do you find time to sleep if you're always studying?"
Perception and reality are often at odds, aren't they? Why destroy the woman's hopes of her only son becoming a successful executive assistant (us Melissas dream high, don't we?) instead of a slack-jawed journalist. Obviously, the jig was up as I'm the latter, not the former.
"Dear Ma, don't worry about me. I study hard so that one day you can drink all the Franzia White Zinfadel you like and play $1 Keno until the tip of your index finger is permanently set at a 90-degree angle from pushing the numbers on the screen."
"Ah, my dear angel."
While Dear Ma and the Old Man thought I was hard at work, pouring over text books thicker than my weiner (I know, Wife, that ain't saying much), the truth was there were no books to pour over where I went, unless you count the drink menus, the upcoming events schedule and the UNLV coeds conveyor-belting their way through the Crown and Anchor Pub. Vegas doesn't have a last call, so I fed the drink factory until 1 turned to 2 and approached 3 on many a weeknight. That would leave enough time for Mr. Sandman - or was it Mr. Foster's Lager? - to kick me into bed for a 3-hour catnap before the alarm would signal my next 20-hour day.
That was college life for me. Three or four times a week; soak, wash, rinse, repeat. Not in bed by 12 and to hell with three square meals. I'll sleep plenty when I die.
Well, those a-holes who said I'd be singing a different tune in 10 years were goddamn right. Going to bed at midnight is a dream now. I have to guzzle an industrial-size, super-strengthed pot of coffee just to make it past the bewitching hour. And it better be that Dark Arabian coffee shit, don't come at me with your pansy-ass Columbian crap, that's for folks who can't stay awake past 10.
Here's what I'm talking about. ABC, because they must hate my guts, pushed one of my favorite TV shows - "Lost" - back to 9 p.m. my time. We have a DVR, because Wife loves me plus she's a "Jag" addict (DVR might not be the right term, it's more a JagR), but a lot of good the contraption does when every yahoo at work is talking about how Sawyer and Sayid had a little Brokeback Island encounter at the end of the last episode (if you're a regular viewer who hasn't seen Wednesday's show, you'll be in for a treat - "I can't quit you Sayid!").
So thanks to the jerk offs at ABC, I had to take a nap Wednesday, after work, so I could keep the peepers open until 10. Mid-afternoon naps have become part of the post-work prison habit, sometimes after the nine minutes of hell at the gym and especially on the weekend, and while it's only 30 minutes (never more, never less; my body is precision instrument and knows when the Sandman's time is up) its enough to boost my energy level to 10 - and dare I dream - maybe 10:30 p.m.
But, really, what's next? Early bird dinner specials at 3? Am I at the age where I must sprinkle Metamucil on my Cheerios?
Wife is doing her part now. She's on this high-fiber diet, which means I'm on a high-fiber diet, and we've been scarfing down dinner earlier and earlier each day. I really think she's prepping me for old age. And scary enough, I'm almost there. If you call my house at 8, I'm liable to yell, "What kind of animal calls at this hour?" I don't go out after dark, and my bladder is about as strong as a piece of soaked rice paper.
The Old Man could have warned me, or Dear Ma could have clued me in that all those long nights of studying would catch up with me, and 10 years later I'd be crawling into bed at 9 without enough energy to scratch my nuts. Thanks Units. No more Franzia White Zinfadel boxes for you.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Barnes & Noble should name a wing after me
I'm a sick man. I'm a weak man. I admit it, I've let my addiction dictate my life.
I should have picked up heroin when it was fashionable. Instead of listening to Nancy Reagan telling us to say "no," I should have said "yes" when the cocaine lines were passed my way. I missed out on the good addictions - alcoholism would be perfect, but the hangovers the next morning zap my desire to toss back another gin and tonic, and that's critical to any good alcoholic, keeping the buzz alive with another Jack and Coke - and all that's left is the ugliness that is a book-buying addict.
Hello, I'm Mikey, and I'm a book buyer. Hi, Mikey. I don't necessarily read the books I buy, I just buy them to leave on the shelf.
I blame college. Telling me I have to buy the fourth addition of "Why Sloths Eat Their Poo" for my Intro to Sociology class when the third addition contained all the same information save one paragraph that described the consistency of said poo made about as much sense as having to read such a textbook. There I was every September and January in the school bookstore buying books I had little intention of reading (maybe that's why my school record is incredibly mediocre - you mean I was supposed to read those short storys for class? Who knew!). Don't get me wrong, I love a good tale. Sit me on a sun-drenched beach with a good book and I can kill out seventy pages in a day (I'm not exactly a fast reader, to be honest, I'm maybe a step away from reading out loud to myself; if you see me reading aloud, I'm not reading to you, I'm just sounding the tough, five-letter words). I just didn't like overpaid, pompous gas bags (professors) telling me what to read. If they need a book to teach from, why the heck is my tuition money paying for them to stand in front of us sheep to puke out what the book said. Either teach me or shove the book in my paws and tell me to return in December for the final.
Schools always denounced peer pressure when I was growing up, but they conveniently looked the other way when it came to buying books. In fact, they were as bad as my old man telling me I had to drink down the Schlitz before running on the field for the Idyllwild Little League championship game. "Look," the professor would say, "don't be the one chucklehead who didn't buy the book, hurry out with your eighty bucks and buy your 29-page school book. Be like your classmates, they're all going to buy it." And like a good bong smoker I succumbed to the pressure and started buying textbooks, which quickly turned into rock star biographies, recommended novels (key word is recommended, much different than required or we'll fail your ass), novels with cool looking covers (look at the pretty colors), and true crime mob stories. If it had pages with words, I was pumping the story through my eyes and into the visual cortex of my brain. I'd go to charity book sales and punch out seniors if they reached for the same 50-cent copy of some lousy John Grisham book. "Watch out, old man, you don't want to get hurt over 'The Pelican Brief' do ya? I'll rip out your oxygen tube and hook it to a helium tank."
Barnes & Noble should write me a thank you note. Wife and I (she's almost as sick as I am) single-handedly bought both Barnes, and his bed buddy Noble, their yachts, 14-bedroom mansions in the Poconos and their extensive (I'm guessing, them being booksellers and all) library of books. Without our contributions, those two schmucks would be running stores for used coloring books. I'm waiting for my cut, you a-holes, or at least a free cappucino in the Cafe.
My collection has swelled to the point I don't think I'll live long enough to read everything, and like any good junky, I blame someone for that, too. The king of schlock himself - Stephen King - who lured me into his crack den of novels and have left track marks on my brown ocular orbs, mainly due in part to his Dark Tower series. It was fine when first book clocked in at a little more than 300 pages, but then the psycho couldn't leave well enough alone and slowly the page numbers for subsequent DT books crept skyward. The final book in the series weighs in at 1,000-plus pages. I haven't written more than 1,000 pages in my life and this putz put down that much in one story? At least King is considering his fans' safety, if an intruder got past our vicious watch dogs I could still smack him over the head with "The Dark Tower." Instead of carrying mace, I'm giving Wife the book as protection when she walks along those dangerous Sun City streets. You can never be safe enough out there with rowdy bands of seniors prowling the roads for under-35 prey.
I've given the next book I plan to read more thought than what I'd name my kid, and looking at the book shelves, I'm overwhelmed. Baseball books, boxing books, novels about low-lifes, mobsters, old dudes riding bicycles across the country, a young wizard and his mates foiling diabolical plots perpetrated by a madman who shall not be named; there's too much to choose from and I'm afraid my eyeballs are going to pop out of my head, flip me off and leave out the front door.
Then again, there's always audio books. Crap, my ears just sucked into my head, hiding from the thought of having to listen to King blather on, reading a 1,000 page tale.
I should have picked up heroin when it was fashionable. Instead of listening to Nancy Reagan telling us to say "no," I should have said "yes" when the cocaine lines were passed my way. I missed out on the good addictions - alcoholism would be perfect, but the hangovers the next morning zap my desire to toss back another gin and tonic, and that's critical to any good alcoholic, keeping the buzz alive with another Jack and Coke - and all that's left is the ugliness that is a book-buying addict.
Hello, I'm Mikey, and I'm a book buyer. Hi, Mikey. I don't necessarily read the books I buy, I just buy them to leave on the shelf.
I blame college. Telling me I have to buy the fourth addition of "Why Sloths Eat Their Poo" for my Intro to Sociology class when the third addition contained all the same information save one paragraph that described the consistency of said poo made about as much sense as having to read such a textbook. There I was every September and January in the school bookstore buying books I had little intention of reading (maybe that's why my school record is incredibly mediocre - you mean I was supposed to read those short storys for class? Who knew!). Don't get me wrong, I love a good tale. Sit me on a sun-drenched beach with a good book and I can kill out seventy pages in a day (I'm not exactly a fast reader, to be honest, I'm maybe a step away from reading out loud to myself; if you see me reading aloud, I'm not reading to you, I'm just sounding the tough, five-letter words). I just didn't like overpaid, pompous gas bags (professors) telling me what to read. If they need a book to teach from, why the heck is my tuition money paying for them to stand in front of us sheep to puke out what the book said. Either teach me or shove the book in my paws and tell me to return in December for the final.
Schools always denounced peer pressure when I was growing up, but they conveniently looked the other way when it came to buying books. In fact, they were as bad as my old man telling me I had to drink down the Schlitz before running on the field for the Idyllwild Little League championship game. "Look," the professor would say, "don't be the one chucklehead who didn't buy the book, hurry out with your eighty bucks and buy your 29-page school book. Be like your classmates, they're all going to buy it." And like a good bong smoker I succumbed to the pressure and started buying textbooks, which quickly turned into rock star biographies, recommended novels (key word is recommended, much different than required or we'll fail your ass), novels with cool looking covers (look at the pretty colors), and true crime mob stories. If it had pages with words, I was pumping the story through my eyes and into the visual cortex of my brain. I'd go to charity book sales and punch out seniors if they reached for the same 50-cent copy of some lousy John Grisham book. "Watch out, old man, you don't want to get hurt over 'The Pelican Brief' do ya? I'll rip out your oxygen tube and hook it to a helium tank."
Barnes & Noble should write me a thank you note. Wife and I (she's almost as sick as I am) single-handedly bought both Barnes, and his bed buddy Noble, their yachts, 14-bedroom mansions in the Poconos and their extensive (I'm guessing, them being booksellers and all) library of books. Without our contributions, those two schmucks would be running stores for used coloring books. I'm waiting for my cut, you a-holes, or at least a free cappucino in the Cafe.
My collection has swelled to the point I don't think I'll live long enough to read everything, and like any good junky, I blame someone for that, too. The king of schlock himself - Stephen King - who lured me into his crack den of novels and have left track marks on my brown ocular orbs, mainly due in part to his Dark Tower series. It was fine when first book clocked in at a little more than 300 pages, but then the psycho couldn't leave well enough alone and slowly the page numbers for subsequent DT books crept skyward. The final book in the series weighs in at 1,000-plus pages. I haven't written more than 1,000 pages in my life and this putz put down that much in one story? At least King is considering his fans' safety, if an intruder got past our vicious watch dogs I could still smack him over the head with "The Dark Tower." Instead of carrying mace, I'm giving Wife the book as protection when she walks along those dangerous Sun City streets. You can never be safe enough out there with rowdy bands of seniors prowling the roads for under-35 prey.
I've given the next book I plan to read more thought than what I'd name my kid, and looking at the book shelves, I'm overwhelmed. Baseball books, boxing books, novels about low-lifes, mobsters, old dudes riding bicycles across the country, a young wizard and his mates foiling diabolical plots perpetrated by a madman who shall not be named; there's too much to choose from and I'm afraid my eyeballs are going to pop out of my head, flip me off and leave out the front door.
Then again, there's always audio books. Crap, my ears just sucked into my head, hiding from the thought of having to listen to King blather on, reading a 1,000 page tale.
Friday, February 02, 2007
Pain in the sprain
Dr. Ripple's first words to me yesterday were, " You did a number on my ankle." How would you take that?
What number did I do, doc? I didn't realize there was a numbered system. Am I looking at a two? A four? Three hundred and eighty two? My mind becomes a CSI camera - if you watch the television show then you know its the kind that speeds through a dudes nutsack and settles on his sperm factory to see the little guys playing poker and shooting pool (that's what they do when not 'working') - and it magnifies the ankle a bajillion times. Inside, the bones are snapped and beer is flooding the blood stream, which explains the constant buzz I've had for five days. Not too mention, those jagged edges must be poking the skin like sadistic acupuncturists because the pain has intensified ten fold. Someone could punch my left ball right now and I'd still wail about my left wheel.
But then Dr. Ripple (don't think I didn't notice his name rhymes with cripple) qualifies his statement. "We didn't see any fractures." And I jump up, chest bump Dr. cRip and proceed to breakdance on the tile. No break. He goes on to tell me how there are three ligaments that keep the ankle in place and that sprains stretch those ligaments. I've sprained mine enough that I'm sure I could take the slack, tie 'em up, and my ankles would be as good as new.
The doc drones on about the ligaments as if he was giving a lecture series about my purple foot, but like any class I took in school, I checked out about 90 seconds in. Thanks doc, but really, unless you're Salma Hayek wearing a sun dress on a breezy day, I don't need to hear that much about my ankle's ligaments. What the ankle does with its parts is no business of mind. Just as long as it does its job, that's all I care about. I'm a deligator, not a micro-manager. My glazed look doesn't exude the hint I'm throwing at Dr. cRip that after hearing no fracture he could stop tracing on my skin where the liggys go, what they do on their time and how if they weren't attached my ankle would flop around like it was dead mackrel.
Fourteen minutes later, Dr. cRip finishes his disertation on the three liggys and gets back on topic. "Some people get sprains and they can continue playing on it. Some are eight to 10 weeks. Yours looks about four weeks."
I've always been horribly average.
The first step, doc says, is to stabalize the extremity - I love it when they call the a body part an extremity, it makes my foot and ankle feel more important when described with big words - and there's a couple of options: the ski boot which eats half of your leg and feels like you're tugging an olympic bobsled with each step, or a stirrup brace that velcros around the calf. I don't know how much that last option cost (I was afraid if I declined either option Mike Tyson would jump out from one of the exam room cabinets and bite the hell out of my bad ankle), but my guess was cheaper than the boot, so that's what I chose. Of course, I'm starting to regret it as I lash the velcro straps together, envisioning a day in the not so distant future where the strap grabs more leg hair than velcro and I'm left with a six-inch-wide lane of hairlessness.
Another problem I foresee is that said brace will prohibit me from wearing my favorite article of clothing - no, not a black teddy, you pervs - shorts. The brace is hospital white and for fear of being mistaken for a short bus student, I must hide the safety harness under jeans. I could be more self confident and pull off the look of start white ankle stirrup and black shorts, but I'm not. More, I'm afraid the brace's whiteness will blind onlookers if the sun hits it just right, then the poor sap who looked into the light will sue the shit out of me and have to give away our cats. Hmmmm, then again...
The nice thing about Dr. cRip was that he didn't judge. He was explaining different athletic braces I could wear while pretending to be the LaDanian Tomlinson of Sweetwater Park, and I piped up with "I have a brace that laces up." Of course, the next question out of his mouth was, "Were you wearing it?" Car alarm chimes went off in my pea brain, and I though he was going to stand up and pistol whip me with the stirrup brace when I said, "well no. I hadn't had a problem..." Doc didn't let me finish the statement, instead he just waved off my feeble justification and went on again about the three liggys in the ankle. I guess that's his mental safety mechanism when he gets frustrated with a patient.
"No doc, I didn't get out of the way of the car because I did't think it would hurt when it rolled over my ankles."
"That's OK, did you know this ligament here connects the front of the ankle to the foot..."
"You don't say?"
I have a return visit scheduled in four weeks. I'm sure Dr. cRip will still be talking about those liggys after dealing with me again.
What number did I do, doc? I didn't realize there was a numbered system. Am I looking at a two? A four? Three hundred and eighty two? My mind becomes a CSI camera - if you watch the television show then you know its the kind that speeds through a dudes nutsack and settles on his sperm factory to see the little guys playing poker and shooting pool (that's what they do when not 'working') - and it magnifies the ankle a bajillion times. Inside, the bones are snapped and beer is flooding the blood stream, which explains the constant buzz I've had for five days. Not too mention, those jagged edges must be poking the skin like sadistic acupuncturists because the pain has intensified ten fold. Someone could punch my left ball right now and I'd still wail about my left wheel.
But then Dr. Ripple (don't think I didn't notice his name rhymes with cripple) qualifies his statement. "We didn't see any fractures." And I jump up, chest bump Dr. cRip and proceed to breakdance on the tile. No break. He goes on to tell me how there are three ligaments that keep the ankle in place and that sprains stretch those ligaments. I've sprained mine enough that I'm sure I could take the slack, tie 'em up, and my ankles would be as good as new.
The doc drones on about the ligaments as if he was giving a lecture series about my purple foot, but like any class I took in school, I checked out about 90 seconds in. Thanks doc, but really, unless you're Salma Hayek wearing a sun dress on a breezy day, I don't need to hear that much about my ankle's ligaments. What the ankle does with its parts is no business of mind. Just as long as it does its job, that's all I care about. I'm a deligator, not a micro-manager. My glazed look doesn't exude the hint I'm throwing at Dr. cRip that after hearing no fracture he could stop tracing on my skin where the liggys go, what they do on their time and how if they weren't attached my ankle would flop around like it was dead mackrel.
Fourteen minutes later, Dr. cRip finishes his disertation on the three liggys and gets back on topic. "Some people get sprains and they can continue playing on it. Some are eight to 10 weeks. Yours looks about four weeks."
I've always been horribly average.
The first step, doc says, is to stabalize the extremity - I love it when they call the a body part an extremity, it makes my foot and ankle feel more important when described with big words - and there's a couple of options: the ski boot which eats half of your leg and feels like you're tugging an olympic bobsled with each step, or a stirrup brace that velcros around the calf. I don't know how much that last option cost (I was afraid if I declined either option Mike Tyson would jump out from one of the exam room cabinets and bite the hell out of my bad ankle), but my guess was cheaper than the boot, so that's what I chose. Of course, I'm starting to regret it as I lash the velcro straps together, envisioning a day in the not so distant future where the strap grabs more leg hair than velcro and I'm left with a six-inch-wide lane of hairlessness.
Another problem I foresee is that said brace will prohibit me from wearing my favorite article of clothing - no, not a black teddy, you pervs - shorts. The brace is hospital white and for fear of being mistaken for a short bus student, I must hide the safety harness under jeans. I could be more self confident and pull off the look of start white ankle stirrup and black shorts, but I'm not. More, I'm afraid the brace's whiteness will blind onlookers if the sun hits it just right, then the poor sap who looked into the light will sue the shit out of me and have to give away our cats. Hmmmm, then again...
The nice thing about Dr. cRip was that he didn't judge. He was explaining different athletic braces I could wear while pretending to be the LaDanian Tomlinson of Sweetwater Park, and I piped up with "I have a brace that laces up." Of course, the next question out of his mouth was, "Were you wearing it?" Car alarm chimes went off in my pea brain, and I though he was going to stand up and pistol whip me with the stirrup brace when I said, "well no. I hadn't had a problem..." Doc didn't let me finish the statement, instead he just waved off my feeble justification and went on again about the three liggys in the ankle. I guess that's his mental safety mechanism when he gets frustrated with a patient.
"No doc, I didn't get out of the way of the car because I did't think it would hurt when it rolled over my ankles."
"That's OK, did you know this ligament here connects the front of the ankle to the foot..."
"You don't say?"
I have a return visit scheduled in four weeks. I'm sure Dr. cRip will still be talking about those liggys after dealing with me again.
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