Esoderica

Marriage Day One: Sooooode Tired

2011-06-13T19:33:00.000-07:00

Sunday, after a long wedding weekend filled with more wonderful moments and emotions than we could possibly recall, Lib settled on to the couch completely exhausted, and fell fast asleep. At eleven, when I tried to wake her for bed, she kept mumbling nonsense; all I could make out in her tired voice was "is everyone tying them in the front or just the bride?" My little wife, tuckered out from her long weekend had settled in to a deep slumber dreaming of more weddings.

A Wet Knot Is Harder to Untie

2011-06-11T23:59:00.000-07:00

Seconds before the overcast let loose on the forest, just before we ducked into a small potting shed at Rutgers Gardens, there is a picture of Lib, only minutes my wife, in the mist, standing expectantly beneath a tree on a circle of stone by the coy pond, floating in her dress between ferns with a red sash tied around her waist--a picture that no one will ever get to see, but is preserved perfectly and forever for me.

Carpet Diem

2011-06-05T06:01:00.000-07:00

After a long winter of Annie dragging her dog blankets around the house combined with those early puppy months last year, the house started to smell like dog as the weather began to warm up. We decided, since we didn't want our house to smell like animals, to rent the carpet shampooer, two weeks before the wedding, and get to work, last Saturday. Not that our house smelled like piss or anything, it just smelled like dog. It worked like a charm; we moved all the furniture and gave everything the once over. By the time it dried, the carpet smelled fresh and new.

A few days later, however, the house began to smell like acrid piss! Had we stirred up some ancient smell, or had one of the animals thought the place smelled too clean and left her mark? Either way, it reeked of piss. It made no sense, so I got on my hands and knees, put my nose to the ground and began to sniff out the stain. I noticed a slightly darker spot in front of the couch, and when I hound-dogged it, the smell of piss sent me reeling. A whole two days after slaving away on the carpet and we were way worse off than when the whole thing began. Not only that, but the piss smell was also at the top of the stairs leading from the sun room to the basement. It was an all out shock and awe-ful piss war!

I suspected there were hardwood floors beneath, and casually suggested that we rip up the carpet, but Lib would have nothing of it. I even peeked beneath the edge and saw the hardwood; Lib would not even look. I have always wanted hard wood, real hard wood, not this fake crap on the DIY channel, so was a little disappointed. Besides, the old woman who lived here before us carpeted the entire house with the same carpet; it would be nice to have some variety.

We soaked the stain, dried it, tried Spot Shot repeatedly, and nothing. So it was back to the grocery to get the Rug Doctor...again. I had to work, but Lib went over the carpet a number of times, but to no avail. Dumbfounded by the tenacity of the stench, Lib, in the little white dress she had worn to work, then proceeded to hound-dog the entire room searching for another piss stain, but could find nothing. The Seinfeldian stench would not leave the room, and even seemed to grow stronger with each day.

By Thursday, our spirits were broken. There was no getting rid of it. And then Lib said something about just wanting to rip out the carpet. I wasn't sure if she was kidding or not, but the switch in my brain, the same switch that flicks on when regular kissing might turn in to sex, told me that if I played this just right, we would rip out the carpet and expose the hard wood beneath. I walked over to the spot where I had peeled back the carpet a few days before in front of the hearth, and once again exposed just a bit of the shining hard wood beneath, and as Lib approached to give a peek, I pulled back just slightly more carpet so she could get a good look. That's all it took. Lib went down to the basement and emerged with two crowbars, a hammer and selection of small pliers--she was ravenous. She grabbed a corner of the room and went to town on it. Carpet and foam were flying out the front door; the neighbors must have thought we were tearing the whole place down. She couldn't wait till after the wedding. It had to be done now, and we both went at it for a couple of hours until there was nothing left to do but clean up and lie supine on the floor as the diminuendo of our hearts brought us back to earth.

The floor needs work, but Lib has decided, that it is probably too big of a project to sand and refinish this week, so we are going to show some restraint and wait till after the wedding, but I couldn't be happier.

Fair is Foul and Foul is Funny.

2011-05-28T18:12:00.001-07:00

Ever since I have started dating Lib, I have been surprised at what she thinks is funny, and not just funny, but hysterical. For such an intelligent girl, she merely nods with a curt recognition at the wittiest of comments, and says, "funny;" case in point:

In our first year of dating, I had drawn a couple of tapeworms desegmenting on my dry erase board in order to explain how they reproduce for some unknown reason, especially since I teach English. Lib came in and added an entire army of them at the end of the day, all in different colors, all raining down their segments on the eraser ledge like multicolored confetti. I, entirely off the cuff, made a comment about her "ticker tapeworm parade," and she grinned and said, "funny." Fast forward a couple of months to Route 18 where I referred to the traffic jam as "C#^t-lick traffic," and Lib laughed uncontrollably for ten minutes. I guess that's why she loves me: my propensity to swear like a poet.

Case in point:

Just after I was explaining this to coworkers the other day, Lib was riffling through some ancient vocabulary flashcards, asking us to define words like "insouciance", "prolix", and "promulgate." When she got to "bathos" we were stumped, until she said I was a master of this, to which I replied that I was a "master-batho." Lib ejaculated a short burst of laughter, but immediately composed herself, and commented on how perfect my comment was because bathos, it turns out is defined as " a sudden and ludicrous decent from the lofty to the absurd; profound to profane," which evidently tickled her penchant for profanity, but also satisfied her reserved and decorous appreciation for the witty.

Blood on the Rocks

2011-05-07T18:14:00.000-07:00

Today, I expanded my rock climbing experience to actually climbing on real rocks as opposed to the fake rocks that I climb at the gym on a regular basis. Is it harder? Yes. Is it more fun? Yes. Is it scarier? Yes.

When I fall at the gym, I know that a six-inch-thick mat about eight feet long and four to five feet wide will catch me, and if I fall off that, I will fall on the floor beneath which is made up entirely of six inch mats...and, if I am upside-down on the overhang, I will land on an eighteen-inch mat. Outside, depending on how many people are around with pads, I have to fall on a three by five foot mat, six inches thick, that is on top of the hard, unforgiving earth, and often a rock jutting out of the ground just for spite. Granted, I have a spotter, but it is the spotters job to control the fall onto the mat, the hard slab of earth beneath. Since I was only climbing with my friend Tim today, we only had once crash pad; if we missed iy, we were screwed.

I started on an easy V2 called "Lazy Mayzie" and flashed it. No problem. Then I went to "The Lorax" a low but tricky and fun V4, and did pretty well for my first climb, but even after numerous attempts, could not stick the last hold; I was feeling confident, maybe even a bit elated, so we moved on.

We came across a creepy looking V2 called "Dislocator Roof,"which sounds very ominous, and it seemed easy enough, but the top out(where you climb to the top of the boulder to finish) seemed kind of tough because there was nothing to grab. But we set up shop to give it a whirl. Tim went first, and except for the last move topping out had no problem, so he just dropped to the crash pad to try again later.

I was next, and sent the climb easily...except for topping out of course. I breezed through the climb, found a great hold on the ledge, heal-hooked the top, and had most of my weight over, but had shifted to the right of the pad over a craggy outcropping of stone, and when I reached to use the texture of the rock, my body jolted, I heard a girl scream, my hands raked across the granite as a crystal sliced trough my thumb from the tip to the meaty lower half near the wrist, and I fell the twelve feet, fully expecting to land on a slab of granite, but Tim, the best spotter in the universe, guided my falling body directly onto the center of the mat; when I landed hard in the center of the pad, my first reaction was to pat him on the back and tell him what a great spotter he was, followed immediately by checking my blood-covered hand that was dripping all over the ground.

So I taped it up so I could climb the second half of the day. After trying another V4, "Andrew's Boulder Problem" to no avail, I was relegated to easier climbs, because I was tired, injured, and a little freaked out; I can't wait to go back...but maybe I'll invest in a crash pad to at least double our security or maybe I will buy five crash pads just to be safe.

These guys make it look easy and I wish I had thought to use the foot on "Dislocator Roof" like this guy: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pDCqL9_lpI8

Stamp of Disapproval (FUSPS)

2011-04-23T14:10:00.000-07:00

When Lib and I began planning our wedding, we decided to save money anyway we could: use friends for photography and video, get a nice but affordable venue, and not only use an email for RSVPs, but also make our own invitations.

Lib did an amazing job on the invitations. After a few different incarnations, she settled on a nice grocery baggish paper and vellum with a cute dragonfly motif. She typed and retyped everything so it would be perfect, she maximized the use of each sheet of paper, and she slaved, feeding each envelope individually into a persnickety printer--not to mention her slow-ass computer--but she did it. Then she patiently cut out the different cards with a paper cutter borrowed from school, mounted the printed sheets on the background, and tied them all by hand with raffia (a light hay-like ribbon) and sealed them for shipping. Not to mention she had to hand type each address and format the dragonfly into each address label for the thank you cards. My assistance was negligible in this process. Oh, and did I mention that she stopped at the post office with a completed invite to make sure that she got the appropriate stamps?

Well, she did. The woman told her that standard postage would not do, and she would have to buy 64-cent stamps, but that was to be expected; a minor miscalculation on our budget--no big deal. The only catch, according to the woman, was that the envelope shape was abnormal, so we would have to hand deliver them to the post office because of some special handling. Again, no biggie. So, Lib went online, and after much deliberation and some half-hearted input from me, settled on an elegant monarch butterfly stamp. When they finally arrived in the mail today, she rushed them onto the envelopes, and she rushed into the post office at ten till twelve to hand them to the lady personally.

BUT. This was a different lady (I was in the car so this is second-hand) who immediately said that the envelope was too big and would be 88 cents, to which Lib replied something along the lines of "No, I came in the other day with a completed invite and the lady said I needed the 64-cent stamp." To which the lady replied, "No the envelope is too big," to which Lib replied something about how ridiculous the whole situation was, etc. And if you know Lib, at this point, since she had done everything responsible on her end and had been mislead by an imbecile who obviously didn't know her postage, then you know the exact tone she was using, to which the lady replied, thumbing the envelope, "oh this had a ribbon inside so it is a parcel. That means it will be $1.71 for the postage." Things got a little blurry here in her retelling, but I know she took the envelopes back from the lady and we drove the five minutes to another post office to reconcile the issue there.

At the next post office, the lady also seemed incompetent because a man who was asking her legitimate postage questions which she should have known was told repeatedly to just go check online. Little did she know, she would earn her money when Lib approached the counter. To the postal worker's credit, she did immediately say the postage would be $1.71 cents, even though it weighed less than the requirement for a standard stamp. It turns out, that the envelope was one centimeter too tall, and she kept showing us this on a template that showed it would take at least an 88-cent stamp, that plus the tiny raffia ribbon, so light that it would be carried aloft in a gentle breeze, meant that it would be $1.71.

This is where the supervisor was called in, and as much as she explained that it did not ruin our wedding, Lib would not be mollified--and who can blame her--$171!!! So Lib, raised her voice, and cried, and the lady tried to explain how the raffia creates and uneven surface, albeit one millimeter, so it would have to be handled by a special machine, and that machine is what was costing money, and Lib was upset because now her invitations would look dumb with three stamps, totaling $1.92, and the lady tried to placate her with a story of how she put a regular stamp on her invitations and they were all sent back, and then another supervisor came out and said that if the envelope were thicker but even, it would be cheaper than the raffia, and then another lady said something about opening each one very carefully and removing the raffia, and there was some crying, then someone else suggested adding tacky "celebration" stamps to the monarch stamps, and I made a sarcastic comment about boxing the invitations and shipping them flat-rate, and nothing got solved and we left, but not until after the original supervisor said that even the correct shipping would not guarantee their delivery in mint condition, so I got Lib the hell out of there.

Then we had to drive around to three different post offices to find the 64-cent monarch, and I shelled out the extra $120 to have the whole experience over with. We then sat in the car, and Lib and I put two more giant stamps on the envelopes, which are not even that big, and I took them back in, since she was done with post offices for the day, and hand delivered them as instructed by the USPS, to which the lady replied, "These are beautiful, but they are only 88-cent envelopes, who told you to use three stamps?" to which I replied, "There is a ribbon which makes them a parcel, so they are a dollar seventy-one." She then quietly took them from my box and transferred them to a postal crate quietly. But I couldn't leave it at that: "They are definitely a dollar seventy-one though right?" to which she replied with a not-so-convincing, "yeah." I did not tell Lib this part; I drove home.

The Memoirs of Remus Turlington III: Page 1

2011-04-12T12:00:00.000-07:00

It is at a great crossroads in my life that I have decided, not only for my personal satisfaction, but at the behest of certain members of my family, and by family, I mean those closest to me through great joys and tragedies; I don’t limit relations to genealogy for the very reason that I have known drunkards, saints, highwaymen, philanthropists, carpetbaggers, and yankees, and have shared a drink with all of them on one occasion or another, especially the teetotalers; however, they don’t need an occasion to drink, merely a libation put in front of them paired with their predisposition; my predilections are more anecdotal and, I would like to believe, philosophical: the love of wisdom, a concupiscence for understanding, if you will, but I digress—It is with great reminiscence, more of the nostalgic than that of regret, with a fond remembrance that I look back at my life at my ripe, old age: the age I am, not that I act; the truth being that only my dear mother and father, God rest their souls, know the true date of my nascence, and because of the subjectivity of age and the ephemeral nature of life, I have decided that such subjects are irrelevant to these memoirs, which is why I have excluded, for the most part, any sentimental reveries of childhood, which are inevitably obscured not by what we, as grown adults, would have liked them to be, rather, what we think really happened seen through the limited vision of adolescence; nonetheless, I will begin at what I believe is the pinnacle of my younger days, while although I was still full of pith and vinegar, I had settled into a tranquil contemplative time in my life: the halcyon days, as I have titled them here, the time just before all the salt of life stirred me from my naïve stupor: the era of heartbreak, funerals, disappointments, failures, and broken trust: years I wouldn’t trade for all the riches of the Spanish kings of old; heretofore unmentioned in this anthology, for I merely used them for an allusion, not to be treated as their own subject of discussion, so it is with some perspicacity that I dip my quill, figuratively that is, in order to recapitulate, not adumbrate, for what greater tragedy is there than to truncate when a detailed account will only do justice to a life lived in anticipation of the every moment and savored like crawfish and cherry wine; do not mistake this for a mere trumpet blast, but rather a sonata that rhythmically excites yet sooths the reader, so with out further ado, I would like to dedicate this to my father: Arlo Turlington, a man of many words, but few of them articulated, on account he lost his tongue in the war; to my mother, Louisa May Sanders-Turlington, a woman of inexplicable beauty; to Eloise Apache Druthers-Turlington, my little wife who is, I might add, the reason for my very existence and the mother of my next dedication—to my thirteen daughters: Chloe, Eloise, Ophelia, Margarete, Kimberly, Allison, Faye, Gail, Jane, Cynthia, Clarise, Desdamona, and Dixie; the most important women in my life who are, without a doubt, as precious as they are pernicious, which is why I feel obliged to honor them, even Desdamona, who ran of with that colored boy from Yale, by committing every minute detail in these chicken tracks that follow the page much as our lives follow the footprints in the sand toward the inevitable passing of each precious petal of the late summer mums, that wilt like northern folk in the Mississippi sun, which blazes hotter than the fires of hell, a hell which can only be circumvented by true understanding of the manifestation of all virtue, which, in its purest form is the paragon of what the good Lord intended: charity, by which I mean not giving egregiously from excess for accolades and stature, but charity in the sense the we, as decent human beings attempt to find the one true meaning to our existence:

Supermoon

2011-03-10T17:49:00.000-08:00

On Yahoo News:"Will March 19 'Supermoon' Trigger Natural Disasters"

On March 19, the moon will swing around Earth more closely than it has in the past 18 years, lighting up the night sky from just 221,567 miles (356,577 kilometers) away. On top of that, it will be full. And one astrologer believes it could inflict massive damage on the planet. Richard Nolle, a noted astrologer who runs the website astropro.com, has famously termed the upcoming full moon at lunar perigee (the closest approach during its orbit) an "extreme supermoon."

Not much to say about this one, but when does "one astrologer," not astronomer (actual scientist) mind you,get to speak for the rest of them? And what does it say about this one astrologer, Richard Nolle, that the million other crackpots who believe in astrology don't support him? AND! Why does he get a news article? I want an article that says "English Teacher Believes Dynamic Earth Will Cause Natural Disasters." Fortunately, most other crackpots have all put their money on 2012, so they can't jump on the supermoon, soopermoon, or supermun bandwagon at the eleventh hour--yes, I'm talking about you Syntaxin.

Rubes of Engagement

2010-12-24T04:56:00.000-08:00

I had seen the story in the paper about the eclipse, but since it was from one in the morning until five, I pretty much resigned myself to missing this one, but when I woke up and checked my phone to see what time it was, I had a text from a friend that said, "Lunar Eclipse Tonight;" it was 3:45am. By the time I took some pictures, drank some water and pee'd, I was awake, so I made some breakfast and coffee and watched the remainder of the eclipse until Lib woke up.

I tried to get her to come see the last tiny sliver of shadow at the bottom of the moon, but she was groggy, and whined, "I can't see. I don't have my glasses," immediately followed by "Why didn't you wake me up?" in an equally cute and pathetic voice when I explained I had been up for a while watching it.

I did want to wake her, but she likes her sleep, without which she cannot function. I would have liked to propose to her at four in the morning, but thought better of it; I didn't want her to be too groggy to remember it, besides we were planning to exchange gifts after work since we weren't going to be together for Christmas.

So I waited...until 5:30 am, and suggested we open presents, not expecting her to agree so quickly, but she did...then I had to get the ring out of the workshop in the basement without being obvious. The box was too big to hide in my pocket, so I abandoned it--I didn't need it--the ring would be fine in my pocket.

The ring: I had chosen the ruby for her ring because she likes red, and as a test I pointed out a ruby ring at an antique store to see how she would react--she loved it. When I mentioned the "engagement" word in tandem, she seemed excited, so I decided on ruby.

When I went to the jeweler, he had to have the rubies shipped over because they did not have loose rubies in-store--some jeweler! Actually, the jeweler was great, but I chose the wrong ruby. The red ones were too cloudy and one had an inclusion, so I went with the more fuchsia ruby, and two days later I freaked out because I wanted to get Lib a red ring, not a pink one. After one frantic email about needing a red ruby, the time line, and making it perfect, the jeweler overnighted some more rubies, and I made my third "Top Secret" mission an hour away to choose a new ruby, and it was perfect.

When I handed Lib her first present, I gave her an wrapped-up ornament--every year we commemorate the significant events with clay ornaments we make: this year was our house and our dog--I made her a small hand with red nails and a ruby ring with two small diamonds on the sides and a tag attached to the ornament that read, "Will you Merry me?" By the time she read the tag, I was down on my knee saying the words, and she was nodding her head yes.

A Year of Firsts

2010-11-28T14:57:00.001-08:00

The house. The first year of having a house with the person you love most in the world is a year of firsts, a year of enjoying your life together. So for this blog I should talk about how Lib and I put up our Christmas lights for the first time, and the neighbor was happy and shouted, "It's been twenty years since there were Christmas lights on the house!" It made us feel warm inside. I should write about how we had our first Thanksgiving with Lib's family at our house, about how her sister and she slaved all day in the kitchen making a ridiculous spread of dishes and deserts from scratch, and how delicious it was. And I should probably write about cutting down our first Christmas tree for the house on Friday, trimming it and whatnot, but I'm
not going to.

For the first time this weekend in our house, I was awakened by Lib who heard something moving around the house at two in the morning. She wanted to know if I had crated the dog, but I definitely had. She heard something moving around downstairs, but conveniently forgot to stress that it sounded like an animal running around; she said it sounded like someone was downstairs. I heard nothing. But of course, I couldn't just go back to sleep. I was awake, with my ears peeled. I regretted not keeping a baseball bat in the second-floor bedroom; it was in the farthest corner of the basement with our other zombie killer props from Halloween, including a machete and a field hockey stick, either of which would have been nice to have while I went to see what was going on.

My only option was the chair from Lib's desk, but that was way too unwieldy--I had to go bare-handed and hope the intruder was about five-five, a hundred and fifty pounds or smaller. On my way to the steps, I could see something on the floor in the dark, so I picked it up only to discover the small water bottle we use to "discourage" the cat, but I kept it any way because I guess it was better than nothing and kind of felt like a gun in my hand; besides, an unexpected, well-placed spritz could give me the edge I needed after the intruder heard me creak down every single step past a dark, crumpled-up shirt.

The living room was clear. My courage returned once I had a lamp on and I decided to slink my way along the wall into the kitchen where I could trade up for a knife. Once equipped, I checked the lower two bedrooms and the bathroom so I could be sure that it was clear for later use. Then it was down to the basement, which also cleared inspection--creeping along the basement is a hell of a lot easier without the creaking floorboards of the rest of the house. I made my way back to the workshop, and once again traded up for Lib's zombie ball bat with the bloody "Are we having fun yet" sticker on it, and was emboldened enough to give the house one more cursory inspection as I regrettably turned out all of the lights again and headed up to bed where I noticed the crumpled shirt was actually the cat, who had probably in a fit of anger, knocked over the spritzer bottle and resumed her midnight crazies, waking Lib, and convincing me to find a permanent spot for a baseball bat beneath the bed.

Residual Glee

2010-11-09T14:47:00.001-08:00

While I can't say that in the last year and a half that my blog has really taken off, and while I haven't yet expanded beyond my loyal cadre of fourteen "followers," things are on the horizon.

It seems I may have unintentionally released a quip or two in the wind, where they germinated and eked out a meager life of their own on the web.

It turns out that a Google search of "Residual Glee" will bring up a link to The Daily Sentence of Dave where I commented on a post last year when he complained about children and bubbles. Kind of like when I typed in "fame" for an image and Taylor Swift came up--she must be so proud. Not so impressive? Well, how many of you have been responsible for being one of the top search results for a random phrase you wrote on the web? That's what I thought. It's only a matter of time really before there is a clever Google icon designed after yours truly above the search box on my birthday. They may even be spit-balling the idea of having another "Doodle for Google" contest for just such an occasion.

Oh...Ok--scratch that. This is a bit embarrassing, but I just checked the search again, as I have been every fifteen minutes for the past twenty-four hours, and it doesn't come up anymore.

It doesn't matter that now, a mere day after my initial fame, I don't show up as a top search result anymore; what matters is that for a few, brief, shining moments, anyone in the world could, and many of you probably did, type "Residual Glee" into a major search engine, and chuckle to yourselves while reading my scathing, sarcastic remark about how Dave hates everything that most people enjoy and celebrate. So I had my fifteen minutes, and now it's gone, but the residual hubris (that should get some search results) will last forever.

Scary Story

2010-10-30T12:31:00.000-07:00

We had a scary story contest with some coworkers last night, and I won! This is that story (insert "Law and Order" sound effect):

Pray

Bernice was raised Catholic, which conflicted with her more sinister desires, and since she could not in good conscience seek out their fulfillment of her own volition, every night, she would sleep naked with her ground-floor, bedroom window unlocked, the curtains half open and the red light of her alarm clock illuminating her sunset body in the hopes that someone might sneak in in the middle of the night to have his way with her.

Harker was raised on generic bags of cereal, cable TV and second-hand smoke, and as much as he loved his late-night porn, he loved living across the street from Bernice on the third floor, because he knew that every night he could count on peering directly down into her window from his balcony, and while she was still too modest to undress with the lights on, he would wait to see her glowing red skin punctuated by the darkness of her nipples and pubic hair.

Detective Williamson was looking at the body as objectively as he could, but he knew it would take more time for that to develop. On his first case, he was told by Soryal and the other veterans that "it" was not a person anymore; he tried to remind himself now, months later, but he felt little improvement. He inspected the body from the doorway as the last few photos were taken: "It's all yours."

During the day Bernice was homely, puritanical although not altogether unattractive, but in the low crimson light of her bedroom, she was demure and curvy; her lithe body stretching across the mattress became proverbially seductive--when she felt this, she would give any would-be voyeurs what they were looking for.

Harker waited for this moment every night, and once every few weeks he would get it. When he did, it was never enough--as much as he craved and enjoyed these moments, nothing came close to the flesh. He'd known enough women to know this. Deep inside, part of him knew at some point that watching would not be enough, but he always pushed the thought to the back of his mind and waited. Most nights she just fell asleep, but Harker would always sit, looking down into her apartment, his shelter dog, Stu sat next to him, not knowing what his master was looking at, but no less loyal and attentive. It was a cool October evening when he leaned into railings like jail bars and looked down that he noticed, in time with the breeze, the slightest flutter of her curtains from her slightly-opened window, and he made his way down to the street.

The river of cool fresh air flowed over Williamson's face when Soryal finished printing the sill and frame and opened the window to peer outside. "He came in here. It wasn't locked. Not a smart move on the ground floor. It was still cracked a bit, too. It's no wonder they could smell it outside."

She loved the autumn breeze following her hands over her body, the heat of her blood flooding the tender flesh beneath her hands, and the air washing over her skin reminded her that nothing stood between her naked body and the street. She breathed in a deep, cooling breath of the night air, and felt the short crisp hairs between her fingers.

Harker buried his hand deep into his pocket; he appeared as if he were waiting for a cab, but he had his head cocked ever so slightly to the left listening to the faint mewling that escaped her apartment between breaths. In the darkness that came from the broken streetlight he could sense the heat of her supple skin and the light from her clock emanating from her window hot onto the back of his neck. His hand clenched tight, and he turned ever more slightly to the left.

"You gotta breathe, Williamson, man, if you want to find the killer." Soryal inspired by the crucifix on the wall above the bed, remembered a joke: "Did you ever hear about the flasher that exposed himself to the nun?" Williamson forced a smile and a shallow, stale breath, and planted his hands in his pockets, trying to look inquisitive.

She writhed in the play of light and fresh air on her belly. The man outside on the curb moving ever so slightly caught her eye, and she wrenched her knees over her breasts, pulled her comforter over her skin and shrunk into her headboard, frozen in the night air staring at the shadow in street. When she reached the kitchen, she steadied herself on the sink with one hand; her heartbeat pounded as she drank a glass of trembling water. She settled the empty glass and swaddled herself tighter, safer, into the duvet.

He noticed the air go still. Quiet.

Bernice had been waiting for this; she dreamt of it, but now that it was here, she trembled with fear and excitement. It was what she had always craved, but what she longed for deep in her heart did not match her modest wardrobe, the rosary on the headboard or the crucifix above her dresser--it seemed impossible, evil, and imminent.

Williamson welcomed the joke. It was an excuse to look away, if only for a minute. "He thinks she's going to scream or run off somewhere to pray. So the nun asks the guy if she can see it again, and he can't believe it, so he opens his coat again." The body was tied with the arms outspread at the sides, and the feet were bound together and tied at the center to the foot of the bed. He took a balmy breath to center himself but regretted the decision.

Harker loosed his grip, and looked into the window to see the tussled, empty sheets. The street was quiet and desolate, and the subtle, inviting light of her bedroom tempted him closer. The window slid open, and Harker could feel the heat from her bedroom on his face. The curtains were warm, soft and parted at his touch; Harker slipped inside and steadied himself with a deep breath, the perfume of her room surrounded him--he closed his eyes.

When the first uniformed officers responded to calls that death was emanating from the apartment, they found the empty sheets but no body. By the time Williamson arrived, the bed had been propped on its side, exposing its dark underbelly. He was still digesting the sight. Soryal paused his joke and quizzed him, "Why do this to someone?" Williamson tried to sound confident without breathing too deeply. "I don't know. Seems punitive," He looked at the crucifix. "but kind of intimate. Why the underside of the bed. It doesn't make sense." Soryal smoothed his tie, rested it back on his gut and offered his expertise, "Sometimes "who" is not the hardest part."

When she returned, Bernice closed the window. She regretted her indulgences. She hoped the stranger had moved on, but was reciprocally disappointed that he was not on the sidewalk anymore. It was foolish, dangerous, and above all, it was sinful. From her makeshift gown, she reached underneath her mattress and began to remove something, it felt good in her hand, but she stopped, looked at the street, crawled into bed and removed the duvet. She wondered if she could have done it.

The nipples were dark, cold and tight. There was always something unnatural and empty about the bodies; it never failed to perplex Williamson. He had been at this for a year, and it did get easier, but no less strange. When he started, he expected to see a lot of dealers, gang members, and criminals, and he did, but there were also the random vics: a pregnant woman with groceries who never made it home before the ice cream melted; the elderly man who obviously put up a good fight while being robbed, and the young boy whose evident last moments still haunted Williamson. One woman reminded him of his mother--no one was exempt. This is what bothered him the most. The pubic hair, dark and matted, seemed extraneous on cold flesh-- at the moment, this is what he found slightly unnerving. It was always something different.

Harker braced himself against the underside of her boxspring and felt the weight of her flesh compress the bed against him. He leaned out and peered up from the edge of the frame. He could feel her, hear her breath and smell her shampoo. He was afraid to move. In the partial, crimson darkness, between the mattress and box spring, sticking out from beneath the sheets, he could see where she had partially removed the hard protruding end, smooth and dark, and barely indistinguishable, but he knew what she kept there between her sheets, he'd watched her many times. His hand crept up the side of the mattress, and crested the top where her body radiated in the red light of the sheets.

The mattress held firm under her slow, tortuous undulations. Her warm and busied hand worked silently; her free hand slid across the sheets grasping the edge of the mattress next to Harker's hand.

He knew what she was reaching for--he had seen it before. From where he sat on his balcony, he could not get a good view of it in the dark, but he knew what it was used for, and he had seen it glint from time to time in the ambient rose light of her bedroom. He thought to himself that she would not need it tonight.

At first, the circumstances she had lost herself in were not altogether different from what was playing out in her room. A strange man, heedless surrender, and her iniquitous body. When he grabbed her wrist with his vice-like hands, she could not escape, and did not necessarily want to; she had hoped he was still there.

The body had been lashed to the underside of the bed, and hung there for some days. The blood had pooled on the ventral side of the corpse, leaving a black, demonic mask on the face and chest, and the flesh was taught with gases. Soryal, had seen everything he needed to see, but wanted to let Williamson do his homework: "So the third time, the nun asks the guy, 'I'm sorry sir, but do you mind if I touch it, it's just so--' and this blows his fucking mind, he's like 'Of course!'" The medical examiners office had arrived with the gurney, and Williamson prepared to remove the body. "Don't forget your gloves" Soryal interjected and then continued to pantomime the nun reaching prudently.

Underneath his massive force, Bernice could not escape, but for all her struggling she didn't really want to. She did not worry what he would do with her; her concern was that he might discover her secret. She wondered if he had seen the protrusion between the mattresses, and she wondered what he thought of her--in the middle of it all she was surprised to find herself self-conscious. He must have seen it. He was powerful, and forceful. She wanted only to free her hands, to indulge herself on her terms without the sight of it sticking out of the sheets haunting her, but his grip was heavy and metallic. Harker had already removed his belt, unzipped and was exposed. She wrestled franticly with her arms, but her legs never fought back, and he was surprised at the ease with which he found himself in her thighs on the cusp of her body.

"So she's just feeling his balls, and loving it the whole time, and the flasher is having the time of his life!" Soryal continued to fondle the imaginary flasher as politely as any nun would. Williamson, helping the medical examiner, held fast to the rope and wrist so when the binding was cut, the body would not fall to the ground. It had been there a while. He made the rookie mistake of grabbing the upper arm for support, and when the body shifted, his thumb popped through, pierced the flesh and slid between the bicep and bone; although he had his gloves, he could feel everything through the latex: it was dark, cold, wet, smooth and viscous.

He released his grip when she began to move in time with his body. It was criminal, passionate, and uncertain. He wasn't sure if he would go to jail. He'd never done this before, and while it was, for all intense and purposes, what it was, it was also nothing like he had imagined would actually happen when he crept through her curtains, but more like he had dreamed from his window, playing out like a dark porno. He wasn't sure how she'd react when it was all over.

Williamson had prided himself on never once getting sick, but ran for the door tearing off the sludge covered thumb of the glove from his wrist. Soryal interrupted his joke to laugh, and then continued so the uniform cop standing at the door and the medical examiner wouldn't miss out.

Harker thought for a second that he loved her. The smell of her body. Its subtle tastes and textures. He could have ended it any number of times, but he paused and waited, absorbed and savored it.

Still recounting the tale of the nun and the flasher, Soryal lowered the bed to its normal position and found the murder weapon had slipped out of from between the mattresses onto the floor. He pinched the handle between his thumb and forefinger, inspecting the long, lean blade dangling below the smooth girth of the ribbed hilt, and he made an off-color remark to those present about not knowing which was the "business end."

She arched, freeing her hands. Her chest heaved, exhaling across his forehead and she stretched her arms, coming just short of the blunt end between her mattresses. She twisted and grasped and scratched at the sided of the bed. Moaning and straining, she could not budge beneath his pressing torso. She lunged and searched, finally wrapping her fingers around it just below the knobby end in the clutch and tussle of muscle and sweat. She had been waiting a long time.

The perp was in the back of the squad car in cuffs. The policemen who had arrived first at the scene did not have to look very far to find the killer watching over the body.

From three floors up, across the street, Harker had never noticed the way her front teeth showed just below her upper lip as he did now. He decided he would kiss her when he finished, feeling her lips and the slight press of her teeth on his mouth--she lunged and swung her arm around his neck--he bellowed like a great beast--a wave surged from his lungs, down his spine, through and around his torso, and into her body as he grasped the outside of her shoulders.

She clasped her legs around him and squeezed the handle of the blade tight to his neck as Harker's life weltered over her. His blood coursed across his back as she clung to him pulling him close to let it cascade over her. It was everything she had ever wanted but was too afraid to give into, every urge she had restrained and played over time and again in her mind. He bucked, heaved, sputtered and gurgled in her grasp, and finally, he exhaled. As he slacked in the wet, pooling sheets, she felt satisfied and clean. She released her body beneath him, felt his weight and warmth on her tired frame, and slowly withdrew the hard, blunt handle of the sacrificial dagger from his neck; she held him, exhausted and complete--the red light of the alarm clock shining black over their blood covered flesh. He was her first, she was his last. They were wed forever in this bed. She fell asleep in his embrace.

In the back of the squad car, she prayed incessantly into the handcuffs, the perfect bruises of Harker's grip visible beneath the metal bands. Williamson still didn't understand if she was punishing him, and if she was, why she would sleep over his suspended, putrefying corpse for days--the human heart was still a mystery to him. Soryal walked out next to the gurney, speaking in his old nun's voice and acting out the end of the joke for the cop and the examiner, two imaginary balls in his closed fists, smashing them together to the staccato of the punch line: "DON'T--YOU--EVER--DO--THAT-- AGAIN!" They chuckled. In the apartment across the street from the balcony, Williamson heard a dog crying.

Pound for Pound

2010-10-27T19:12:00.001-07:00

I've been going to the rock climbing gym for some months now, and I have markedly improved. I have also seen other nascent climbers come and go, and I have noted the dedicated climbers who are regulars; I have even made some friends. I have scaled the bouldering ranks from lowly V0 climber to a semi-respectable V3 climber, though I cannot do them all; however, I did ascend a V4- the other day. Pound for pound, you have to develop your skills based on your height, weight and agility, and a tall thin guy can climb better than a guy who is jacked; I have developed as a 5'7" medium-build guy, and I have impressed myself on some days. I have even been invited personally on two outdoor expeditions by other climbers, but all of it meant nothing, until today.

When I walked into the gym and put on my shoes, I was met by a gym employee who greeted me with a fist bump. That's right! When you get to pound "the rock" with a rock gym employee, you've crossed the line from leisurely climber to respectable climber. It's like the secret handshake of a secret and exclusive club, an esoteric club with terms like, flag, barn door, campus and gaston. What else could the fist pound mean? I will admit, I'm not that great; I have a long way to go, but I guess I have reached the point where I have earned enough rock creds to deserve a fist bump. Maybe it was my mastery of the V4-, or maybe it was my scaling and controlled descent of the campus board--I don't know, but I gotta say, it felt good to pound the rock, not only upon entering, but also upon leaving.

Keep the Unhallowed in Halloween

2010-10-12T16:10:00.000-07:00

Some of you might remember my post about keeping Christ in Christmas, but this year I am championing the cause of another holiday, one that some may not even consider a holiday: Halloween. While it may mean All Hallow's Eve, it's more sinister, pagan roots tend to shine through in practice. Now, "holiday," literally means "holy day," which it is in the church, but in the secular world, it exists as more of an unholiday, and that is what I am here to defend.

I was in Lowe's the other day, looking for some hardware, and I noticed that even though it was October 11, they already had their Christmas ornaments on sale en masse. October 11th. I haven't even begun to construct my costume for this year, and those of you that know me know how important my costume is. I cannot allow that while I was in the outdoor, garden area, a midi version "Joy to the World" was plinking over the p.a. system before the leaves had even changed, much less fallen to the earth. Don't get me wrong, a cold, crisp December night driving through the light-stranded suburbs of New Jersey to a good production of "Silent Night" still has the power to make me weep, but before that kind of warm-hearted grace can wash over me in a wave of goodness, I need some evil.

I need my day of death--all souls day. What better way to take the macabre and celebrate our moribund existence bedizened in palor and gore? It's like a New Orlean's funeral. That's a town that knows how to do things. Take Mardi Gras for instance; before the ascetic practices of Lent, everyone indulges themselves in a hedonistic, gluttonous orgy of T and Alcohol before forty days of self deprivation and eating fish (probably just lots of crawfish--and pork), but I'm sure some people do it by the book. My point is: what better way to harken the season of the birth of our savior than by accenting our damnable nature in nefarious garb. As much as we spend the rest of the year posturing like upstanding, moral members of the human race instead of descendants of Cain, we should dig deep into the heart of darkness and bellow; and before we deck the halls with boughs of holly, we should deck ourselves in the trappings and suits of the unholy so that by the time "O Holy Night" comes on in the grocery, I am penitent ready to embrace my fellow man, even if he is holding up the checkout line. Happy Halloweeeeeeeeeeeeen!

Hiatus Is where the Heart Is.

2010-10-03T11:30:00.001-07:00

Where the hell have I been? Well, lets just say buying a house and moving in is a project, and between work and the house, I haven't exactly been inspired to write. It's not that there hasn't been anything to write about either, it was just that after a week of not writing about the house, all the ideas I had had formed into a giant unmanageable monster that looked much like Justin Timberlake's media files in that commercial, so it was a bit daunting to then pick where to start.

So let's boil this experience down to it's purest and simplest form: what is it like having a house? Well, It's like this:

And, it's like this:

And it didn't take long to become like this:

Then it soon became this:

So, if I had to sum things up in one word, it would be:

"This"

Love you Lib!

A Tough Question

2010-07-26T18:18:00.000-07:00

I won't say much about this one, but just ask yourself if you would eat this: 3:00pm randomly placed in the parking lot outside of Target? It's in perfect condition, and seems to have been delicately placed in the mulch by someone who cared about it; maybe they really wanted it but couldn't possibly eat anymore. I thought it looked like it was left for me. I won't tell you if I ate it or not. The real question is, "Would you?"

Rocky Raccoon

2010-07-20T17:23:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, while putting down a little mulch at Mrs. Morrissey's, Jorge noticed a couple live traps in her back yard, one of which contained a raccoon. Mrs. Morrissey informed me that she was actually trying to catch a groundhog, that lived under her porch, but had only caught four raccoons so far, and every time she caught one, she had to pay the company to come remove the animal, and it was getting pretty expensive. She said that they did not kill the animals, but that they released them into the wild; I half expected her to describe a farm where the raccoons could play with all the other woodland creatures and eat their favorite foods out of their very own personalized garbage cans, if you know what I mean.

It was about 92 degrees and humid, and I realized that maybe Rocky's (the raccoon's) placid demeanor was probably not because he was patiently awaiting his trip to "Critter Acres," but maybe he was really just thirsty and hungry. Mrs. Morrissey explained that he had been there for almost two days, and the company had not come to collect the trap yet. I decided to get him a drink. Every day, I take two bottles of frozen water to work, and one was about a quarter thawed, so I set out to give little Rock (the raccoon) a drink.

If you have ever heard a threatened raccoon snarl and growl, then you know that as I poured a little water into the cage and he freaked out, I nearly shit my pants. An angry raccoon sounds much like a wolf and a bear at the same time; nonetheless, he did settle and start lapping up the couple drops remaining.

Before we left, I wanted to make sure little Rock's thirst was quenched so he would be more comfortable waiting for his "ride," so I affixed my frozen water bottle to the top of his cage between the bars so it would drip for a couple of hours, and he could not only have a nice cool drink, but some activity to kill...scratch that--pass the time. Jorge left him a couple crackers, and we were off to the next job.

I would say, based on the above photo, that my little contraption worked pretty well. This blog would be much cuter if I could upload the video on my phone with his rather long tongue flicking in and out rapidly, but this pic will have to do. God speed, Rocky, and enjoy that farm. Maybe some day I'll come see you.

A Special Occasion

2010-07-18T06:44:00.000-07:00

Some months back, I bought Lib's cat, Neb, a mouse that looked rather European and was attached to an elastic string. She was very exited about her new toy the first time we played with it, but I have noticed how cats often tire of a new toy rather quickly, so I came up with a plan: I would put the mouse away and only very rarely play with it to preserve the new-toy mystique. It worked. Some months ago, when we were dogsitting a friend's dog, Neb hid at the bottom of the steps, so I had to attach a dowel rod to the elastic string to reach her. I have since named it Special Occasion Mouse (it even has its own song to the tune of "Secret Agent Man").

So what better occasion to bust it out than last night when Neb chased a bee into the light fixture above the back stairs. Real-live quarry is always exhilarating for an indoor cat, so when I pulled out special occasion mouse to coax the bee out, I was surprised her head did not explode from over-stimulation. Between meowing at the light and batting Spec Oc Mouse when I lowered it, Neb was having the time of her life. The bee seemed trapped and reaching it with the stick was not going to work; plan B was to lower Special Occasion Mouse into the globe so that the bee would sting it and die, and the bee did attack it on several occasions, and eventually went quiet. My plan had worked.

Neb and I goof around quite a bit, but when things get serious, all that teamwork and training really pays off. I know Lib thinks we are silly, but like many other species, playing hones our reflexes and communication skills for when we really need to come together.

Update: Looks like our efforts last night failed. As I was sitting down this morning to write this blog, Neb rousted our prey from some corner and chased it across the room, but we did come together to trap it in a window, where I smashed it with Lib's slipper. Go Team!

Catfishstravaganza III

2010-07-01T07:23:00.000-07:00

You may remember my post last year where my niece, Daisy, was sprawled out sleeping amongst the catfish. Well, regrettably, Daisy wasn't around for this year's excursion, but we went to my uncle's pond again for the third annual catfish catch and fry. The first year we caught around thirty fish in three hours and once we started to fillet them, we realized we had our hands full, but I was impressed more that we cleaned so many catfish while drinking without at least someone slicing a finger off. Last year we ended up with eighteen, and still had our hands full. This year we only scraped by with eight, but that didn't mean it was uneventful-quite the contrary!

The first year, after Daisy had been worn out by numerous catfish, she hooked into General Sherman, a Leviathan of a fish, but as she reeled him close to shore he gave one last lunge and thrash and snapped her line. I saw his head come out of the water, and it looked to me about two fists wide, grizzled and mottled--a true beast. She nearly cried. Last year, Brian hooked into the hogger, we suspect, and battled him until it broke his line. He nearly cried.

This year, was Andy's turn. The day started with Andy creating a song for Brian's fourteen-foot Chinese cane pole he got as a gift on a business trip to China that came in a giant carrying case with a built-in stand: "Brian's Chinese cane pole; it comes in a golf bag and looks so very fine..." It turns out the ancient Chinese secret was how to string the thing, and the directions did not help much, since they were all in Chinese. But I digress. Not long into the morning, after a couple average catches, good eating size, Andy hooked into a whale. It was another battle; we all had our fingers crossed, and fortunately for Andy, the fancy golf/cane pole bag had a retractable landing net that Brian used to bring the monster ashore. I swear I had seen that mottled face two years before...General Sherman! He weighed 5lbs 2oz and measured at 26.5 inches. Now whether this is The General or not remained to be seen, but he definitely fit the bill.

Brian, still reeling from last years disappointing loss, cast his lot in the same deep hole as last year's battle royale. I had sent him off for more bait because he had shoes on, and I didn't, so he left his pole and jogged to the other side of the pond while I watched his pole leaned against a giant rock, a pretty safe spot to leave your pole, unless General Sherman is actually still in the pond. I saw the pole bend violently, but by the time I ran the eight feet back to it, it had lifted of the ground, bounced off the top of the rock, and shot into the pond. Before I could get my phone out of my pocket and dive in (which I was poised to do by the time Brian sprinted back in a panic) the pole disappeared like a shot into the deep. Brian stood in disbelief, both hands pasted to the top of his head, staring into the abyss.

Maybe The General had not been caught. Maybe our arrogance had made us feel comfortable and safe. Maybe something greater than all of us decided we needed a slice of humble pie. Regardless, I felt responsible. I had sent Brian for more bait, and I had been on watch when the pole was ripped from the shore. The only chance I had was to drag the pond with my catfish rig in the hopes I could snag the pole. Brian was disheartened and pessimistic, and Andy just watched shaking his head at my pathetic attempt to redeem myself. What were the chances?

It turns out, they were pretty good! On the fourth cast and drag, I felt my hook snag something. Everyone held their breath, and when my hook came out of the water, it was attached to fishing line, and right behind it emerged Brian's pole, tip first like Excalibur from the murky depths, but the fish was not there. Directly after, on the same rod, we suspect that Brian caught the very same fish who had just taken his pole.

Overall, I only caught one catfish, but we had a great time and plenty of fish for a successful cookout over an open fire. Whether or not Andy actually did catch General Sherman or not remains to be seen until next year, but there were enough close calls and snapped lines to lead us to believe he may still be out there waiting and laughing at our pathetic attempt to tame the creatures that lurk fifteen feet below the surface of my aunt and uncle's pond.

The Crap is Always Sweeter

2010-06-24T07:06:00.000-07:00

Not to get too sappy, but there is nothing like driving back to the Midwest, and nothing smells better than cow shit. Why cow shit? Easy. I grew up with it--not that I grew up on a farm or anything, but the smell was never very far off. In Jersey, at least where I live, towns are asses to elbows, and livestock is not the driving economic commodity, so it's rare to smell manure unless you're putting down some mulch, but even that is not nearly the same. So when I get to smell pure unadulterated cow manure instead of exhaust, it's a real pleasure, especially when it's a sure sign post that I am getting closer to the people I love and miss, very few of whom actually smell like cow shit.

Absolutely Smashing

2010-06-15T17:46:00.000-07:00

I actually do work. After I finished exams today, I was hanging out, doodling on the board, and when I gave the head I was drawing eyes, it looked spookily familiar, so I finished it, and much like the picture in my last post, it was pretty accurate. Now, granted, I'm not dealing with the most difficult subjects, but I gotta say, it's not a bad Billy Corgan, especially for using a broad-tipped dry-erase marker.

And a Pinch to Grow an Inch

2010-06-09T19:33:00.001-07:00

The other day, my students in my class of thirty were a little loud, so I just stood in the front of the room and raised my hand with four hardly extended fingers in the air, and the students immediately became perplexed and silent. It turns out that everything I need to know about classroom management, I learned in fourth grade.

I explained to my students that in fourth grade, Ms. Preuter would hold up her hand in the lunch room or assembly, and if you got up to four fingers, you had best shut it. I then proceeded to tell them all about her. I explained how she would spank us in front of the class on our birthdays and give us candy. They thought it was the strangest thing they had every heard; I remember loving it. I explained how we earned points throughout the year to spend in her point store at the end of the year, and how I saw the challenger explode in her room over and over in 1986.

If you were in kindergarten through third grade, she seemed like the scariest, meanest thing on the planet, and I remember dreading getting into her class. I remember how grown up the fourth graders were to put up with such a tyrant; I used to think that when I got to the fourth grade I was really going to have to get my affairs in order and be diligent if I were going to survive. It was a milestone.

I remember how wonderful and caring of a teacher she actually was. There was nothing to be afraid of, unless you screwed up. When you're ten, you have the ability to create and imagine things like monsters in your closet or for your homeroom teacher, and even though I had Ms. Watkins, who was equally wonderful, my afternoons with Ms. Preuter were nothing like I had imagined and I still haven't gotten my affairs in order, but she was a wonderful teacher, and while my students couldn't fully appreciate the accuracy of my impromptu sketch, I figured some of my readers might.

Happy Birthday, Us!

2010-05-31T05:41:00.000-07:00

Some people ask if sharing my birthday with Lib takes away from my birthday, but I like it. Most people (girls) think it's really cute when they find out and make high-pitched cooing and cat noises , while others (guys) want to puke. I believe one guy at work even responded with "That's gay."

The big problem with sharing a birthday with your significant other is "what do you do?" I decided to take us both to Cirque du Soleil to see "Ovo," and it was pretty awesome, but I couldn't have prepared for the gift (knock on wood) that we got on Sunday, our actual birthday.

On the way to the city on Saturday, our real estate agent, Nancy, began texting us excitedly about a "cute cute cute house" that was perfect for us. I planned on seeing after the holiday, but Lib texted her that we would be available Sunday morning, and she was more than happy to meet with us. What are the chances that we would find the perfect house on our birthday? Not as slim as putting in an offer and finding out it was accepted within a few hours,but we are going into attorney review on Tuesday, and should have the inspection by the end of next weekend.

It has three bedrooms and one bath. The house is a nice Cape Cod with a finished basement that includes a separate laundry room and a separate workshop. Oodles of storage. Not only is it in great shape, but it was built in 1949 by the man who lived in it and built other homes in the neighborhood. His widow moved out a week ago at the age of 88. She left the place immaculate and left us the original blueprints and every receipt for every appliance. The place has a good feel to it. It feels like a family lived and grew in it for sixty years, and I gotta say it's a bit intimidating to pick up where a family like that left off. I'm getting a bit mushy. On a lighter note the basement is all pine paneled walls--feels a bit like a Pocono cabin in the 70s. Were totally going to have an appropriately themed party when we move in since there is a pine bar built in also.

The lady was thrilled that a young couple was buying her home, but not as excited as Butch, the very nice man who lives next door who came into the house (when he called her to tell her to sell it to us she said she signed the paperwork) yelling "hello?" so he could shake my hand and tell me how excited he was that we were going to be neighbors. He even offered us use of his lawnmower until we could afford one...at the low cost of $500 for the gas.

I can't wait! (knock on wood)-Pine, lots of pine to knock on.

Yet Another Saturday

2010-05-25T03:12:00.000-07:00

When you walk into the Mutter Museum in Philadelphia, it seems kinda small, but when you consider exactly how many syphilitic skin samples, excised carbuncles or deformed skeletons you can fit into two stories, it starts to seem rather large. The impacted colon that is the size of a ...I can't think of anything but that amorphous, serpentine tentacle that comes in the ship on Abyss and looks the lady in the face--like that but a colon, big and brown, is pretty unsettling if you consider carrying it around in your abdominal cavity. And if you're into looking at different deformed fetuses preserved in jars and getting really sad, then this is your kind of place.

However, if you are overly empathetic or a hypochondriac, DO NOT GO HERE. You will be miserable. If you are squeamish or faint of heart, then stay home--I take that back, you should go here (except hypochondriacs) just to see what kind of terrible, painful and debilitating growths and deformities the human body is capable of. You should go. You should learn. And you should leave the place being thankful that you are happy and healthy...for now.

Just Another Saturday

2010-05-10T19:23:00.000-07:00

This is actually a post about last weekend, but it has taken the whole week for me to really process and accept what happened. Lib's sister Rach, who is wonderful, came over for dinner and brought her friend Dina with her, who is also very nice to have around. We had a nice dinner, and I went out to get some drinks afterward.

When I returned, I was surprised to find that I was involuntarily assigned the character of Lila, a game piece in the board game Sweet Valley High. So I played, but it was a little awkward searching Sweet Valley High School high and low for Ken, my supposed boyfriend. When the game got close, I had to fight tooth and nail to keep my boyfriend or steal someone else's, and considering Dina is a lesbian, it was probably one of the most warped games of Sweet Valley High ever played, but Lib won anyway, so I guess Dina and I were off the hook (besides, I think we were both eyeballing the game pieces).

After Dina left, Rach convinced us to watch The Human Centipede on On-Demand. If you weren't aware, The Human Cenipede is an independent horror flick that is about two trashy New York girls who set out across Europe to go to clubs and party, but when their car breaks down in the forest, they make one of many idiotic decisions that leads them to a mad doctor's house. I say "mad" because he used to separate Siamese twins, but decided he wanted to reverse his talents to create. The movies starts with the good doctor weeping in his car over pictures of his experimental abomination consisting of his three rottweilers, who are lovingly referred to on the small headstone in his back yard as "My Sweet Three Hound" just before he shoots a trucker with a tranquilizer who had pulled over to take a dump on the side of the highway. The result of his experiment and the girls' bad decisions is a "creation" that consists of three people sewn mouth to ass to create a three segmented human centipede. The movie went south from there--way south.

Needless to say, I was relieved to wake on Sunday having not dreamt that I was a teen-aged girl searching for her boyfriend in halls of The Black Forest High School, only to end up with my best friend and I sewn face to ass to a Japanese man who doesn't speak any English in a crazy naziesque doctor's remote torture farm, but I fear that some repressed image or scene from the film will one night as I sleep, unexpectedly well up from my subconscious and send me into convulsive fits or at the very least therapy.

The Bald and the Beautiful

2010-05-06T12:05:00.000-07:00

I have a theory. This usually precedes cockamamie ideas from your friends or drunk people that make no sense. But I have a theory--a real theory. Today, I noticed a coworker, not a close coworker, but someone I see and don't know his name, and he has the dumbest hair cut. In the late nineties, it may have been cool, but I'm not sure it belongs in the 21st century, especially since we are on the second decade already. My question is: why would someone keep a stupid haircut for so long?

This is where my theory comes into play. I have noticed this trend in others, mostly men, who cling to a certain era of fashion, whether it be in clothing or hairstyle, and this is my theory: These people must have gotten laid more at this time in their lives than any other when this style was in fashion and not much prior; as a result, they are afraid to let go of the style of the times, or zeitstyle, because either consciously or unconsciously, they attribute their animal magnetism to the "look." What is even more tragic about the condition is, I believe, that even after they stop getting action, the afflicted are too afraid to abandon la moda for anything, even in the face of complete abstinence, believing that something must be just around the corner. Why else would people still wear stone-washed jeans, or even more rare, the netted t shirt?

Case in point: Seven or eight years ago, my friend's cover band played in a bar full of forty-somethings. My other friend and I went to see the show, and there was this guy who looked exactly like Steven Segal--exactly. Not only was it his features, but also his hair(the slick, pulled back, tiny ponytail) and his dress(the small-collared black shirt buttoned all the way to the top). Even this guy's mannerisms, the squint and the raspy soft but firm voice were just like Segal, but it wasn't Segal. Ten to twenty years ago, this guy probably cleaned house with the ladies, but in 2002, he looked a bit foolish. But to play the devil's advocate, I must ask: should he have abandoned the look for the sake of not looking like a washed-up, B-list movie star (who would later have his own reality show) or should he get out of the shower, towel off on a bamboo mat, light some candles next to his plastic buddha, button his satin shirt and head into cougar central in the hopes that some fine lady has been carrying around a fetish for the star of Hard to Kill for the past twenty years? I think you know the answer to that; otherwise, we would not have the pleasure of seeing the Steve Perry and Kenny Rogers look alikes on the streets of our fair cities from time to time.

Not that I am completely free of this same fate; I realized that if being completely bald ever becomes taboo or pass'e, I might be mistaken for one of these guys, but in my defense it's not that I'm clinging to a ravenously sexy period of my life( because I don't think I've ever had one)but because I don't really have a choice, unless the male-pattern-baldness horseshoe becomes a turn-on. Could I become some anachronistic egg head that passersby will point to and laugh? Will I be the like the guy who thinks he's Burt Reynolds or Dee Snyder? Will my perfectly shaped head come to haunt me because I can never carpet it in thick lustrous waves of shiny, healthy hair?

Just as I started to get a bit panicky, something occurred to me, as if God heard my cry de profundis and decided to send the spirit of comfort and reassurance to let me know that everything is all right--that everything would always be fine, and that I would never be that guy unless I failed to update my wardrobe or facial hair: Bald is the new black. It's classic, simple, and if done tastefully, will never go out of style. It changed Michael Chiklis from the fat eighties comb-over commish to the bald, unrelenting (though morally corrupt) badass, Vick Mackey. I'm perfectly fine! I'm going to be OK!

"F" FarmVille.

2010-05-02T06:01:00.001-07:00

That's right, screw FarmVille! Success in farming is not about how many friends you have on the Internet, it is about hard work, which according to Michael Bluth is "the sweet sting of sweat in your eyes."

Finally, Lib and I got to start working on our own little ten-by-ten plot at the community garden yesterday. Sure, I can't expand to the "great big ol' plantation" like in Farmville, but I can actually eat what grows in this farm. I don't need to fertilize my neighbors, and I don't lose myself staring mindnumbingly at the screen while a thirty-second loop of maddening country twang created by an intern in NYC (which was actually charming for the first three loops) plays over and over and over and over until my brain actually turns off waiting for the last percent of my pattypan squashes to finish "growing" so I can harvest. Thoreau would be rolling over in his grave, and he may actually leave his grave to stab me in the face with a loon if he knew that that is what I had resorted to. So I have decided to focus my efforts on the earth, the real soil that brings real life to nutritive vegetation.

It was a hard five hours under the baking sun, clearing grass and weeds with and breaking up our plot with a maddock. We worked some lime and corn gluten into the soil, put up a tiny fence, and got everything ready for planting. Even Lib took a few swings with the maddock to get things moving along.

So you can probably bet on seeing some garden blogs thrown in here and there, and I will try to limit it to the most exciting moments, but I'm not really sure what qualifies when it comes to gardening. Maybe I will eat one of the habaneros I plan on growing, or maybe I will attempt to make the world's largest salad...or maybe I will just keep posting busty pictures of Lib sweating under the sun every so often...or maybe she won't like that, so here is one. Enjoy.

What kind of man...

2010-04-25T19:52:00.000-07:00

After watching three hours of a Survivorman marathon today, I was having dinner--chicken bryan, mashed sweet potatoes with goat cheese (Lib's delicious experiment), scalloped potatoes, and green beans. I couldn't get enough; I kept eating, and didn't get full, but eventually I had to stop myself because there was no good reason to keep on eating. I had just watched Les Stroud survive a week on nothing but a clover and a chipmunk and talk about how a tiny crispy rodent would give him the energy he needed to continue through the Sonoran desert on foot. If that is true, my dinner could power a small city. I never felt like a pussy for eating too much, but I did feel like a chubby little débutante for wanting a third helping of sweet potatoes and cheese and a third helping of scalloped potatoes, which of course are made with cheese, and this was only after seconds of green beans and finishing Lib's chicken. What kind of man needs that much food? I wouldn't last five minutes in the wild without a meat sled and cheese tree.

Is that you, Sea Bass?

2010-04-21T19:28:00.000-07:00

I was hesitant to write this post, because twice on the drive back to Ohio, I left my phone in the car and regretted doing so both times; I missed one necessary photo for the blog, and was nearly deflowered.

When we stopped the first time in Pennsylvania, the rest stop turned out to be an old corporate building that had been converted into a franchise rest stop and gas station, and while I don't feel that most truck stops are the classiest joints off the highway, this was a step or two below; however,when we walked in, there was a sign on the cork board decrying child prostitution. While Lib was going to the restroom, I noticed a sign drawn on a poster-board and colored with marker for "Chinese Massage" where a rather simplistic stereotype of an Asian was massaging a equally simplistic lighter colored man who was lying face down on an implied cushion table while his feet transformed into some rather suggestive white billowing ejecta with the words "Complete Release" flowing out of him. I immediately thought of my blog, but realized I had forgotten my camera in the car and figured I would just have to give up posting it on the blog. It has haunted me for the past few days, so I recreated here, and am impressed that I got it so close.

Not only that, when we left the rest stop, just in case I did decide to take up the sign's offer of a complete release, there was a semi parked across the lot where I could have repented; it had a cross made of yellow utility lights mounted on the trailer and the words, "Mobile Chapel: Transportation for Jesus" painted down the side. They had set up shop, and there was even a door that led into the side of the trailer. I guess someone was tired of being trapped in the bible belt and got his CDL, probably at the same place he got his preacher's certification.

Later, it rained so hard in Ohio that I couldn't see, so we stopped one last time in MacDonald's to pee and snack. I realized I didn't have my phone, but could see no reason that I would need it unless someone held up Micky D's and I had to call the cops. As soon as I got about halfway through my "regular release," in the bathroom, the door opened, and the lights went off. If you stop on a road trip to use the restroom and the lights go out as someone enters, it can only mean one thing.

Naturally, I thought, "This is it. This is really happening" and I got into the alert, defensive position as I finished taking my piss, hoping I wouldn't have to use my kung fu, and by that I means scream like a girl. I listened for the impending approach of work boots on tile and the metallic sound of overalls springing open just before the sound of denim ruffling to the ground, but the the lights flickered and I realized it was only the storm and I had been spared being sodomized for a little while longer. But I still had to find my way out, and it was a large bathroom. You don't exactly walk around with your arms in front of you feeling your way out in the dark unless you want to make friends or end up with a hand full of urinal cake...and that's if your lucky.

If I had my phone to illume the darkness this wouldn't have been an issue, but I gotta tell you how relieved I was when I saw the long thin ray of light outlining the door, and I propped it open a with a "wet floor" sign because the would-be-assailant who had walked in earlier had decided he didn't need lights and continued into the stall to take a dump. I was glad to get back on the road, and I didn't look back.

Old Friends

2010-04-19T12:19:00.001-07:00

My weekend started on Friday driving the ten hours to Ohio for my friend Jared's wedding celebration in Springboro. For as wonderful as it was to see everyone from college, some people I haven't seen for eight years, it almost seems like it didn't even happen. By the time I talked to everyone, the night was over, and I found myself driving the ten hours back on Sunday, wondering where it all went. The wedding, the friends, the past nine years...

Kentucky Dave, who I haven't seen in ages, has two kids now, and his son looks like a stout version of him. I have many stories of Dave from college, but at the wedding my favorite, new story of Dave was that one morning recently, he took his dog out to go to the bathroom, and because he was tired, and since he has his own eleven acres in Kentucky, he decided to put on his boots--only his boots--when he let the dog out. When his dog ran off, he went after it, and on the edge of his property, he saw a turkey blind set up with a man in full camo inside (even if Dave did see the guys face he would have reacted the same) so he waved to the hunter inside and headed back to his house naked as a jay bird...wearing boots.

Seth, one of the most talented artists I have ever known, is teaching art to the elderly in the basement of a retirement home, and seems to be quite content yelling at old people for not trying hard enough. Seth, who used to drink green Kool-Aide from a jug he labeled "life" and died his goatee to match with said green Kool-Aide, Seth who was commisioned to paint the portrait of the dean of the school he gets to attend for free because his wife works there, Seth who popped up a train stop away from me in Brooklyn one random evening years ago. Seth who will always be a true artist and land on his feet no matter what because of his amazing spirit and talent.

Josh ingratiated himself well with Lib by helping us write poetry for the newlyweds on personalized postcards left on the table for us at the reception. Each started innocently enough but turned into the most vile, horrific, satanic wedding verse known to man. Lib took the prize for best line with "throw blood on the coals where lovers roast" and Josh took the best rhyme (slant) for matching sinewy with eternity. While most grooms would be averse to such a gift, I remind myself that not only was Jared a Danzig and Slayer fan back in the day, but he also once drew a picture of a goat-headed Satan that was so evil that he burned it behind his barn because he was afraid of it.

I could go on forever about all of my friends: Clint, Andy, Mike, Chad, and their better halves. Even Stefan showed up which was a nice surprise, but I think it scared Lib a little when he pulled out the halloween party from 1999 and most of us were women in some form: wench, drag queen, prom date with retainer, and of course Corey who had just "come out" was Ginger Spice--I don't remember it being so gay, and it was difficult to explain to Lib within reason why so many straight men were in drag in some form, but it just happened that way.

It was worth the drive. Even though it was here and gone and will probably never happen again, I was glad to see everyone at one time. And even though I felt like I didn't really get to see them, it is only because all of these guys were such great friends that unless you sit down with them one on one, you feel kinda cheated. But that's the price of getting everyone together in one place.

P.S. whoever has the great group photo, I need it for the blog.

Atlantic City

2010-04-12T09:38:00.001-07:00

Before we went to Atlantic City for his thirtieth birthday, British Dave had said he did not care how much money he won or lost as long as he woke up next to a dead prostitute--seems reasonable. I wasn't sure how deeply we would delve into depravity on Saturday, but I was sure it wouldn't end up in a dead call girl--probably.

I have never been to a casino, and I never really gambled much other than the odd twenty dollar buy-in Texas Hold'em game with friends, so I was not exactly at home in the Borgata--none of us were. Dave is a poker man, but Fil and I haven't played for years. To tell the truth, we were the three most awkward, out-of-place tools walking around dumping five dollars here and there into video poker and slots, but Fil did win $91.50 on Double Diamond, which he only played to get a free drink from the waitress walking around. And he did win a little money on three-card poker.

After Fil's stroke of luck, and after Dave lost $120 on three-card poker, we sat down at the $2-$4 for a little Texas Hold'em. Dave was paired with a couple of weather-worn, retired, old poker dealers who took his money in what he called a slow, painful death, and Fil had a nice stack for a while until he suffered the same fate. I, however was seated at my own table with a bunch of old men, and I had no idea what I was doing.

Now, anyone that knows me, knows my hands shake a bit sometimes, so it doesn't take much when I get nervous to start shaking like the dickens. This is one of the reasons I am pretty transparent at games that require composure, like chess or poker or picking up women. I decided that I would just get used to the pace of the game and the betting, and that I would keep my cool--sounded like a fool-proof plan. On my first hand, the dealer gave me pocket aces; I immediately began shaking like a shitting dog, and everyone folded anyway--I don't know how they knew. My next hand was a queen eight that I folded because I'm stupid, but would have won on with a full house. I won the third hand, but that was it for quite a while. The rest was pretty much me playing every hand. When the people at the poker table say "you have to give him credit; that took balls," it means you should have folded.

After a brief water and Advil break in the room, we headed over to The Racebook where Dave gave Fil the lead (guess) on a horse that was 5/8, and Fil won a few bucks; we had a bourbon on the rocks, and went back to the tables. This time we all got to sit together, and the two old ladies were still there; at one one point I believe Dave called one of them an "old beast." Being at the table with they guys just meant that I got to watch Dave and Fil lose their money while they got to watch me slowly build a small poker dynasty that culminated in me leaving the table with $145, minus the money Dave had spotted me for the game.

The evening ended in Fil failing to capitalize on an invitation to the craps table with a high-strung hottie, a late-night grilled cheese and Guinness Stout, and some drunken frat boy vomiting the into empty glassed left on the slots. I had a great time, really, but I feel bad that the evening ended not with Dave passing out next to a dead prostitute, but drifting into the land of Nod like one of the children in Whoville nestling down to dreams of Christmas morning.

Happy birthday, old bean! And thank you Kate (his lovely wife) for setting the whole thing up.

Gnat this Time!

2010-04-09T09:13:00.000-07:00

Last week we found ourselved infested by friut flies. It started as a few, but suddenly turned into dozens of the little bastards buzzing around the apartment. You can probably figure out how Lib felt about the whole ordeal based on the picuture above that she drew on her Monday night note that she wrote while I was teaching the GED. Tuesday we looked up some strategies for getting rid of them. Before the website listed how to kill them though, it gave a list of preventitive measures to take to make sure they stay gone once you have killed the little buggers. Some were reasonable:

Store trash in a covered bin. (Reasonable)
Do not toss food garbage into waste-paper baskets (Duh, but it happens.)
Cover your fruit bowl or store fruit you wish to keep in the refrigerator. Also, raisins, dates and prunes are favorite attractants (It happens to the best of us).
Use or discard all overripe fruit. (again, duh, but OK). Clean the seals of your refrigerator door, the top and under the fridge, especially clean the evaporation pan if it has one (believe it or not, I acutually do this when I clean).

As understandable as all of these little pitfalls are, we were not guilty of any of them.

Sadly, because some people are just complete slobs, the website felt it necessary to state the obvious--also, anyone who knows me knows that I am kind of a slob, so coming from me, this must be pretty bad.

Clean opened containers of fruit juice, fermented or vinegar products, for example ketchup, siracha or cooking wine. Seal them well. Keep these in the refrigerator if possible. (Do people really leave open fruit containers and ketchup sitting out?)

Wipe up crumbs and spills from your cabinets, counter and floor. (Crumbs maybe, but who leaves things spilled?)

Take out all trash--do not re-use the plastic liner garbage bags. (WHO DOES THIS?)

Dump mop water, clean the pail, launder the mop rag. (Maybe if you live in a janitor's closet.)

Take out your compost and keep your collection bin covered and food additions to your pile buried beneath yard waste. (Who leaves their compost inside?)

Do not use manure, beer or rank water for fertilizer near the house (I don't even understand this).

It turns out all you have to do is put some apple cider or balsamic vinegar in a cup with some dish soap. The vinegar smells like rotting fruit and attracts the flies, while the soap reduces the cohesion so the gnats, thinking they will be able to use the surface tension, sink to a vinegary death. We filled three with apple cider vinegar and I did a test cup with balsamic. It works pretty damn well, as you can tell from Lib's drawing from my Wednesday night note.

The Road to Ruin... aka New Jersey

2010-04-05T15:25:00.000-07:00

I learned on my eleven hour drive from Asheville that everything from D.C. north sucks in terms of traffic. I learned that if I don't stop to fill my tank I can go 440 miles, but that three miles before my exit, my gas light will come on, and I may regret testing the endurance of my car in such circumstances. I also learned that if I don't drink anything extra, I can hold my piss for five hours without it getting so intense that I have to stop. And oddly enough, I learned that if it is eighty degrees and sunny, and I apply sun screen to my forearm to prevent truckers' arm, that the sun and smell trick my brain into thinking I am coming home from the beach, and it takes two hours longer for me to get angry in traffic because subconsciously, I have spend the day at the shore, and I am blocking out that I have to work the next day from 6am to 10pm. So, I guess I learned that I can make it from Asheville, NC with only one stop, and as any true road tripper knows, that's pretty good. While my average speed for that long leg was 55mph, it was the constant congestion and construction that slowed me down, but I refused to empty my bladder or fill my tank, and dammit, that's somethin! That's hardcore(but I did have to go to work today)!

A Nice Cold One

2010-03-21T18:21:00.000-07:00

While I was standing in line to get an ice cream tonight, there was a young man, about thirteen, in front of me wearing shorts and a t-shirt shivering as he waited to order his ice cream, and I thought, "What an idiot--kids are so f-ing stupid. Why would anyone that cold wait in line to make themselves even colder?" but then I wondered how many times I had stood drunk in line at a bar to get another beer, and it all made perfect sense...he must have been drunk.

The End of Adventure?

2010-03-12T10:13:00.000-08:00

I thought when I went for my checkup in January, it would be a handshake, a pat on the back, and a quick cough with a gingerly touch. All my bloodwork and urnalysis came back perfect. Cholesterol and blood pressure were spot on and my testicles were the picture of health. So when the doctor said there was an anomaly on my EKG, I was a little surprised that I had to reschedule for an echocardiogram. He said the delay in the signal to my heart could be normal for me, but he just wanted to check.

I went in a couple of weeks later for my ultra-sound, and they told me I wouldn't have to come in if everything checked out. After a week, I hadn't heard anything, and I assumed everything was fine. However, just as I was heading out the door to tutor one evening, my phone rang and I recognized the number. My heart sank a little when I answered and the doctor was on the other end.

I wasn't getting a good signal, and I couldn't hear very well. He said he would call me back. He called four more times, but there was no one when I answered. When he left a message, I figured it wasn't that serious, but it just said to call him back--my heart sank a little more.

When I finally called back the receptionist took my name, and said, "Eric, the tests show you have a mitral valve prolapse." AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH WHat? My heart stopped. "...which is something that you were born with and is not a problem. There is no treatment, and you will be fine."

I think I would have started with, "Eric, YOU'RE OK" followed by a brief, benign description of the "condition," but that's just me. What do I know. Thankfully, though, I can keep adventuring, and my blog won't die at the age of thirty-three.

A Promise of Adventure

2010-03-09T19:11:00.001-08:00

You know how some people look in the mirror and hate themselves? Well, that's how I feel when I look at March on my blog, but without the self loathing--I guess I just hate my blog this month, but if my blog looked in the mirror, it would hate itself, and that ain't right. This has been a boring month. I will try to turn it around by next week. I'm going to put on my adventure shoes and see what I can stir up. Wish me luck.

General Education

2010-03-08T19:15:00.000-08:00

Tonight, my GED students were a little unclear about a question regarding birds drinking milk from bottles by puncturing the lids with their beaks after watching other birds do it. Some of them argued that it was the answer involving the instincts of the birds, but I explained that it can't be instinct for them to drink milk because birds don't have nipples, and they instantly understood why they were wrong.

A Piece of the Rock

2010-03-08T18:59:00.001-08:00

I went to the rock climbing gym for the first time ever the other day, and it was awesome. I had always wanted to go in the past, but it just really didn't come up; however, recently, it seems to have come up a few times, so I just went.

I was worried that I wouldn't be able to make it up, but it was easier and harder than I thought it would be. Easier in that as long as you can get a decent foothold and some good grips, you're fine. Harder in that if you don't think ahead, put your arms too close to your body, panic, use your arms too much, or wait to long to make a decision, you are screwed. My arms were burning, quivering, lifeless hunks of meat and bone (mostly bone) at the end of three hours.

I tried seven different climbs, and made four of them, but I was angry every time I didn't make it. Conversely, on highest wall, on the second easiest path, I made it halfway and thought I was screwed, but somehow I made it, and it was a pretty exhilarating victory; however, there were some young kids who were better than I, but they weigh seventy pounds.

I was not sore, but my limbs were tired as hell. Thursday, I'm going back, and I won't leave until I conquer at least one of the bastards that gave me too much trouble last time. I hate working out, but I like climbing stuff--this could be my new thing.

WTF(armVille)?

2010-03-04T18:43:00.000-08:00

I know it's sad, but I joined Facebook, not out of some intense longing to reconnect with long, lost friends from the past; it wasn't out of a sense of online community and camaraderie--it was to play Farmville.

Now, I will admit, I have been friended by some people I have not seen for years, and it's nice to be able to see what they are up to and exchange a comment here and there. And I love the anticipation of wondering who will pop up next.

But what keeps me coming back, at least ten times a day or so, is my damn fake farm, which is actually a pretty crappy version of SimCity, but they figured out how to keep me from getting burnt out because, at least in the beginning stages, I can only play about five minutes until I have to quit because I can't do anything from four to 72 hours depending on what I planted. The sad thing is, it is a matter of pointing and clicking with the requisite dexterity of a chimp, and it takes about the same amount of brain power too. So why, when technically I am using the same buttons and muscles to pay my bills or write lesson plans, do I think I am having so much fun making a vaguely resemblant avatar amble around a 32-bit farm?

My cow just mooed in my other tab, so I have to go milk it...seriously.

Early Bird

2010-03-02T17:36:00.000-08:00

I got to sleep in late today because I had a doctor's appointment, and it felt great to get two hours extra sleep. I got dressed and hit the road, hoping that the corner store would still have breakfast sandwiches and hash browns for breakfast. Much to my relief, they actually had more sandwiches and browns than normal, and then I realized that most normal people get to work at eight or nine, not a quarter after six. I may leave work at three every day, but it's great when you get to leave for work at eight in the morning with the sun high in the sky--it's a whole new world full of sandwiches and sunshine. I guess the early bird doesn't get the worm.

What's the Hops on the Crops!

2010-02-24T03:13:00.000-08:00

I don't know by what divine intervention it all happened, but all I know is that three months ago, I did not like hoppy beers; they were too pungent and tangy. It was like when I was a kid and my dad would give me a drink of his Old Milwaukee Light or a got a sip of my granpa's salted Goebel's--it just tasted bad(probably still would, but for different reasons). Then I grew up and reached the proper age to drink a beer, but still, it was Bud, Miller, or Coors--turns out they don't even use grains anymore, just corn and rice because it's cheaper, and hop extracts.

When I had my first Guinness seven years ago, I was in heaven. For the last few years, I have preferred a good old malty beer like a porter, draught or a good ol' stout, especially in the winter.

But for whatever reason, after my sister bought me a nice hop head from a micro-brew for Christmas, I have developed an affinity for the hoppier beers. A good Dogfish Head IPA or a Saranac pale ale is not as overwhelmingly bitter and perfumy as I had previously thought. For years, I couldn't stomach a Boston Lager, but now, I wouldn't mind sitting down to dinner with a classic Sammy. Either my tastes are becoming more sophisticated or I am finally becoming an adult, because as all children know, adults like things that taste like shit. So maybe this weekend I will settle down with some IPA and a plate of chicken livers and watch some PBS.

Either or...

2010-02-22T18:54:00.000-08:00

It was cute when a little European lady asked me tonight in the GED class whether she should pronounce "either" as "eether" or "ayther" and I just looked at her and said "either." Not that it was brilliant. It's one thing to get a laugh out of a bunch of naive sophomores, but to get a group of adults from many different backgrounds to laugh, even just a little is pretty satisfying. Even the big construction guy laughed. This is the same guy who was as happy as a little kid to get a math problem right when he realized he could do it and giggled--you don't see that every day. Either way, it's a satisfying job.

Tootoring

2010-02-16T17:04:00.000-08:00

Not that anyone will be surprised, but as I was walking across the street to tutor at the library tonight, I realized that I had really needed to cut a muffin before I went in, or I would have to wait an hour before I could toot. "Toot" is underestimating it a bit though; I had to fart--big time. It was dark. I looked behind me and readied the trumpets for the fanfare, but just as I was about to sound off, a woman approached on the adjoining sidewalk and I had to retract. It was a close one.

I waited an hour, building steam.

When I left, I quickly rounded the corner away from the public entrance, checked behind me and ahead of me and released the hounds. We all know how this ends: Just as I trumpeted a reverie to wake the dead, a woman rounded the corner of the neighboring building just as I was finishing off an impressive string of three horn blasts into the silent, snowy night. Oh well, I felt better.

This is How We Brew it!

2010-02-15T12:35:00.000-08:00

We were supposed to go the the city to see the Tim Burton exhibit for Valentine's Day, but I underestimated the ticket sales three months after the exhibit opened, so when I checked the night before, it was too late. Fortunately, Lib was quick on her feet and suggested we make beer like we did last year. So we did.

Our brewmeister was a nice sturdy guy with a shaggy chin-strap beard and a wool cap on who reminded me of Johnny K (Don Oso), and his name was Jeremy, so I will refer to him as Jeremy K. He knew his beers and was a very nice guy, much like Don Oso. Lib asked him about a million questions and he only stumbled on the question about what exactly tannins were, but overall, he had an impressive knowledge of beer and brewing. He encouraged us to reach in and taste all the grains if we liked, and Lib, who thrives on tasting and comparing things was in heaven because, last time, she though she had to sneak samples. We made an Irish Lager named "Wasteland Lager" after T.S. Eliot's poem that includes:

Frisch weht der Wind
Der Heimat zu.
Mein Irisch Kind,
Wo weilest du?

After our brewing, we went to Masala, an Indian buffet, and stuffed ourselves on Lib's dime with every flavor under the sun (in India). But it is not the food that gets the focus on this blog, it is the jet engine powered hand dryers in the bathroom that impresses us every time we go, so we recorded ourselves getting our faces blown off (see below).

After lunch we headed over to Red Bank and milled around one of the antique shops for a while and Lib picked out a pretty little antique pendant of polished quartz. She used the mirror on the car visor to take this picture because she wanted me to post it, and while it is a pretty pendant, I am more impressed by her thinking to use the mirror to view the screen on the camera for the perfect shot.

By the time we got back from our big day, we settled in with a bottle of wine, some Borderlands on the 360, and called it a Valentine's for the year.

I Wanted to Believe

2010-02-14T05:49:00.000-08:00

I discovered the source to this:

http://esoderica.blogspot.com/2010/01/i-want-to-believe.html

I could tell you that I discovered the source of the mysterious rings. I could tell you I was making breakfast yesterday, with a spatula in one hand and the non-stick spray can in the other, and as I was attempting to affix the snap-in-place lid to the can without the use of my spatula hand, I braced the bottom of the non-stick can on my stomach while wearing my white undershirt, and it all made sense that there would be a dirty, dusty ring at the bottom from sitting on the counter while cooking; seeing as how I am not the cleanest person in the world, it would gather dirt and gunk and leave a perfect ring on any light-colored shirt that I happen to be wearing at the time. I could tell you that, but it would be way to mundane.

Blizzard Entertainment

2010-02-10T16:50:00.000-08:00

We have two days off of school because of the blizzard, so I felt like I should get out and dig the cars out so I would have an excuse as a thirty-three year old man to go and play in a foot and a half of snow. So I strapped on my red hunting hat and my boots, grabbed my shovel, and headed out into the great white open. It was also my first snow storm with a beard.

I discovered that this is what beards are for. In the past when I have had a beard, people would ask me for help in any warehouse store that I entered: Lowe's, Home Depot, and even Costco. I didn't like being stereotyped (maybe it's because I also suffer from the "every bald a-hole with a goatee" complex when I don't have a full beard), but I guess if people want to assume I am handy because of my beard, they can believe that.

Walking out into snow with a beard is another level of rugged and burly altogether, something like walking into the woods with an axe, flannel, and yes, also a beard. I dug out my car, Lib's car, our neighbor's car(after she struggled for quite some time) and then later, I dug out another of our neighbor's parking spots as I was walking by and he was trying to clear it (10 inches mind you) with a Swiffer (obviously he didn't have a beard) so his mother could park.

Afterward, Lib came out and we walked almost a mile to the liquor store to get wine for dinner, but it was closed, so we went to CVS and got Cheezits, Gummi Bears, Sour Patch Kids, Sour Melons, a Peppermint Patty, and a giant bag of Peanut M&Ms (we needed snacks for when we play Borderlands on the Xbox 360 all day tomorrow). And while Lib does not have a beard, I like to think that it was my beard that got us both through the long trek tackling the arctic conditions and safely back home again.

NOTES: If I got paid for every product I just plugged in this blog, I would be a rich man. Also, for those who read my last post, there are no ghosts in the photo above; they are just snow flakes.

A Ghost of a Chance

2010-02-01T19:17:00.000-08:00

Why do I watch a paranormal research show every chance I get? I don't really know...well, maybe I do. I have always been intrigued by the idea of ghosts. During the day, I think it would be awesome to see a ghost, but during the night, especially when I'm alone--not so cool anymore. Maybe that is why I watch. Or maybe I watch because it is just bunch of mindless garbage that I would like to believe.

I would hate to see the ratio of hours of paranormal shows watched to semi-convincing seconds of footage. I would even wager that the ratio of something happening in a baseball game is higher, but who cares? Do ghosts exist? I don't know, but I'll watch.

What makes it even worse is that every network is jumping in on the game, and paranormal investigators are becoming as ubiquitous as reality television. Here is a breakdown of what I have seen so far, in no particular order.

Ghost Hunters: Semi-reliable, but no convincing evidence that cannot be faked; however, I have seen some cool clips--but also some shameful excuses for evidence: If you put a flashlight on the ground, off camera, tell a ghost to turn it on, and then act like it turned on and pan the camera down to it, there is something wrong. Even if it did happen, cut the clip for believability's sake. I can do a similar trick where I make my leg disappear behind a towel. But I give you the top spot, Jason and Grant, "great investigation"--fist pound.

Ghost Hunters International: JV team of Ghost Hunters Orig. They tired to get the same burly, trustworthy man's man for credibility,the kind of no-BS, "I'd have a beer with him" type, but they have failed to create the same veracity, limited as it may be. Also, how do you travel the ancient world and come up with less than the domestic team?

Ghost Hunters Academy: Steve, get over yourself. Tango, get over Steve. Do not watch. Once again, the Jersey girl was the biotch.

Ghost Adventures: Paranormal melodrama at it's finest. Zac is a spaz. I'm watching him right now, and I can't believe he is any more than a charlatan like the old lady at the fair with a tarot tent (that works out and gels her hair). Aaron, I almost believe your burly teddy-bearness...almost. Nick, good scared face when necessary. These guys get more evidence than any other show--I'll give you a guess why, and it's not their in-your-face provoking that does it. Watch the episode where the shadow of a hand comes behind Zac--not only can it be faked, but it CANNOT possibly or logically be real, even for something from another dimension; they are hoping we are stupid (I am stupid enough to watch, but not believe--that still means I'm stupid).

Paranormal State: Has a Christian bias, which actually makes it creepier in some cases. They seem to come across a lot of demons, but I think they only take these type of cases; conversely, Ghost Hunters never comes across demons. Is this a result of the assignments they take or their producers? These guys actually pulled of a brilliant one: I saw a clip of a figure moving through the woods that I thought was compelling, but when they showed it to a teammate, he insisted it was just fog. I found myself disagreeing with the guy because it was not fog, there was no way that was fo....ohhhhhh. Well played on the reverse psychology, boys. All in all. No real evidence, but I like their psychic, Chip Coffey(who now has his own spin-off, Psychic Kids)and Loraine Warren, an OG, creepy mainstay in the paranormal community.

The Haunted: Animal Planet's spin that is not so much about investigations, but uses the classic ghost show format of reenactments unless there happens to be some footage or EVP's available from previous investigators. They justify it's existence by having an animal tied in however loosely. It can be the ghost of an animal, an animal's reaction to a ghost, or maybe just an animal reenactor. This is for when you have seen all the other shows and need a fix.

Ghost Lab: Again, just because you have two burly men with goatees who drive around a cosmetically high-tech lab truck, it does not mean you are reliable. These guys get EVPs that are so clear it makes you wonder what the other guys are doing wrong. Well, I'll tell you: they don't have the portable lab for faking evidence. Although I did like the idea of putting out a series of EMF gauges to track ghost movement down a hallway. The more you high-five and bump chests, the less I believe you.

Paranormal Cops: Saw this once. Cops investigating the paranormal under the assumption that these manly guys are believable because they are the salt of the earth. Great Chicago accents, but not really impressive based off what I have seen. They use evidence tape, and some CSI forensics to add credibility to something that can't be proven. It seems to be a thrown-together, bandwagon, strike-while-the-iron-is-hot production just like those biker guys who save kittens. Yes, we have sunk this low as a society.

Living with Ghosts: I have only seen the commercial for this, but it looks pretty bad.

I would feel better if I didn't think they were playing us for a bunch of fools, or if I saw anything worth note that I could use to justify my addiction. But like the lowly addict that I am, the more junk they peddle on my cable box, the more I watch, even if I have to break open my TV and snort it out with a hollowed-out coax.

But since I am watching, I will say this:

1. Stop analyzing video of dust. There are no orbs, period. Do not say they are moving intelligently. Dust is one-billionth of an ounce and flies in any pattern you can imagine. It can flash and flicker, and a fart from across the room will make it do crazy things. Dust!

2. That being said, Stop analyzing farts. A friend of mine pointed out recently that most EVP's are statistically more likely to be farts and they rarely sound like words.

Here's a test. Listen to what they tell you it is saying, and see if it sound like those words. Then change it to anything you want with the same number of syllables(you will have a chance since they replay them fifty times) and see it it sounds like what you made up. Do not be as impressionable as they want you to be (or they are).

3. Just because you debunk a couple of things does not mean you are not lying to us. The producers are trying to create credibility, I know. I'm sure it works on a lot of viewers, including me at times, but I figured it out. Creating credibility does not give you the green light on painfully obvious fraud.

4. The more evidence you get, the more fancy crap you use, the less reliable the show, and the more I watch--doh!

5. The infrared camera picks up heat signatures. You constantly refer to feeling cold spots, but NEVER when you have the infrared camera (FLIR) at your disposal; however, you do pick up hot spots which you claim are ghosts--make up your mind: are ghosts hot or cold? Seriously.

6. Any face you see in a window is a distorted reflection. Being visual, social creatures, our brains are programmed for facial recognition. This is reason we see faces in rocks, or clouds, or wood grain, the same reason people see Jesus or Wayne Newton on potato chips.

7. We get it: you "did not believe in ghosts until you had a life changing experience." That experience was that you couldn't get an acting job, so now you pose as a blue-collar worker who moonlights as a paranormal investigator. I smell an Emmy.

8. Keep shoveling. I love it.

For the record, Lib is a bit ashamed at how much I know about these shows. So am I. I guess it's just the shame that comes from being an addict.

The Pigeon

2010-01-28T13:57:00.000-08:00

This is another old file I found in the vaults. I wrote this back in college for a poetry class, so it's about twelve years old, but if you know the original poem, it might be a little entertaining if not exhausting. We had to do a parody of poem, and instead of picking a manageable sonnet or something, I chose to spend three hours doing this.

The Pigeon
A parody of Edgar Allen Poe’s The Raven

Once upon a midnight drunken, in my sofa softly sunken,
Leafing through many a curious issue of some soft-core porn.
Over the toilet I was hanging, when there came a horrid clanging,
As if someone was a’banging, clanging at my trailer door.
“It’s just Jenkins,” this I muttered, “clanging at my trailer door-
Just John Jenkins, nothing more.”

It was foggy I recall. Maybe sometime late last fall,
And the smell of stinking offal crept in through my taped-screen-door.
Prayed to God I’d see tomorrow, wished I had a gun to borrow,
To put an end to all my sorrow, sorrow for that nameless whore.
For that cheap, unchary chippy whom I call...the nameless whore,
Cause she slipped out the back door.

And the dusty, dry, uncertain flapping of each flowered curtain
thrilled me-- filled my shorts, the likes you’ve never seen before.
So to stop the pulsing pounding of my heart, I started sounding,
“That you Jenkins, boldly banging, clanging at my trailer door?
“That John Jenkins boldly banging, clanging at my trailer door?”
It’s just Jenkins, nothing more.”

Then I finally found some strength, and blurted my thoughts at length:
“Sir,” said I, “or Ma’am, your coming late sure makes me sore;
Over the toilet I was hanging, and so rudely you came banging,
And so loudly you came clanging, clanging at my trailer door,
That my neighbors probably heard you”-here I opened up the door—
Lawn-chairs there and nothing more!

Across the trailer park I stared, shivering, because I was so scared,
Psycho, shivering, shaking-scared, like no one ever shook before.
The creepy quietness unbroken, on my stogy I was tok’n,
And the only words there spoken were the screams, “You stupid whore.”
This my neighbor called his wife as he kicked her out the door—
Domestic violence, nothing more.

Back into my trailer turning, to the smell of tobacco burning,
Then again I heard a banging, somewhat louder than before.
“Dammit,” said I, “dammit who is pounding at my window lattice?
Let me go check what the threat is, but if it’s just kids I’ll sure be sore!
Let my temper cool a second, so as not beat them like before,
It’s just kids and nothing more.”

Then I opened up the shutter, and with many a flap and flutter’
Inside flew a dirty pigeon, from the Baptist church next door.
Not a single sound he made; found a spot, and there he stayed.
“This is what made me afraid, now perched above my trailer door,
Perched upon the helmet of Dallas, just above my trailer door?
A stupid pigeon, nothing more!”

This dumb bird tricked me to thinking, probably cause I was drinking,
That my life was in grave danger from someone, I could have sworn.
“Though your chest is green and shaven, at least” I said, “you’re not the raven,
Dirty, dumb, and pesky pigeon, flying from the church next door.
Tell me what your special name is, what they call you right next door.”
Said the pigeon, “Nevermore.”

Baffled by the bird so queer, then to hear him say so clear,
Though I knew not of his meaning; what he meant by nevermore.
For I cannot help but say that no one else in no other way
Ever yet was cursed with having a pigeon above their trailer door—
bird or beast on helmet of Dallas, just above their trailer door,
With such a name like, “Nevermore”.

Then that pigeon, sitting lofty on the Dallas head cooed softly
That one word, as if himself in one big terd he did outpour’
Nothing else that pigeon said, and then just sat there as if dead.
Then I in a whisper said, “Other pests have left before—
Tomorrow morning he will leave me, like the cherished nameless whore.”
Said the pigeon, “Nevermore.”

Startled by the silence broken by that word so clearly spoken,
“Probably,” said I, “all it can say is that one word and nothing more.
Learned it from some unsexed master’s wife who met with sad disaster;
He cheated bad and had a bastard, then her screams this burden bore,
Cut him off from any sex-life, that celibacy promise bore,
Screaming, ‘Never-nevermore.’”

This damn pigeon kept me thinking, so I sat and kept on drinking,
Strait I pulled a beanbag chair in front of bird, and helmet, and door.
There upon the vinyl sinking, I engaged myself to linking
Psychosis with my sanity; thinking what this pesky bird on door-
What the hell this dank and dirty, fat, and filthy bird on door
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

Then I sat engaged in matching the bird with my incessant scratching:
That mangy pigeon’s leeching lice had bored into my hairy core.
About the bird I sat divining, with my body: scratching, reclining
On that itchy beanbag lying that the Stroh’s light gloated o’er,
But whose vinyl lime-green lining with the Stroh’s light from the bar,
I shall press, ah nevermore.

Then the air grew thick, I choked, as if by some unseen smoke
Puffed by bar-flies whose breath now stunk from smoking since the age of four.
“Wretch,” I cried, “what devil has sent thee, by the demons he have bent thee,
Alcohol was my sweet nepenthe, and I loved that nameless whore!
Chug, o chug this kind nepenthe, and forget that nameless whore!”
Said the pigeon, “Nevermore.”

“Bastard!,” said I, then inflected, “bastard bird diseased, infected!
Whether Satan sent thee, or you smelled peanuts on my floor,
Cut to the chase damn bird,” I ranted, “ in my drunken world enchanted-
In this trailer you have haunted, tell me dammit, I implore-
Is there- can I drink in heaven? Tell me, tell me I implore!”
Said the pigeon, “Nevermore.”

“Bastard,” said I, then inflected, “filthy foul diseased, infected!
By the heaven high above us, and the God whose name I swore,
Tell this body liquor laden, if, within the distant heaven,
I shall clasp a bawdy maiden whom I call the nameless whore-
Clasp that leathery, busty maiden whom I call...that nameless whore.”
Said the pigeon, “Nevermore.”

“Let that be your word of leaving, bird or fiend!” My lungs now wheezing -
Get the hell out from my trailer, to the Baptist church next door!
Let no birdshit be a token of the crap that you have spoken!
Leave my drunkenness unbroken! Get the hell off of my door!
Leave your beak out of my peanuts, and get your ass from off my door!”
Said the pigeon, “Nevermore.”

Then that bastard, never flitting, still is sitting and is shitting
On the Cowboy’s helmet, just above my trailer door.
And his eyes have all the seeming of a dog in heat that’s dreaming,
And the Stroh’s light over him streaming, red-lined shadows on the floor;
And my soul from off that beanbag that lies sitting on the floor
Shall be lifted-Nevermore!

A Wrinkle in Rhyme

2010-01-27T02:49:00.000-08:00

When I decided to have my students read "Light breaks where no sun shines," a poem by Dylan Thomas, I chose it because it was cryptic and dark, but also optimistic; I thought it would be a nice challenge for my honors students. Maybe my brain wasn't working at five in the morning when I chose it or maybe I'm just an obtuse moron, but I completely missed:

A candle in the thighs
Warms youth and seed and burns the seeds of age;
Where no seed stirs,
The fruit of man unwrinkles in the stars,
Bright as a fig;
Where no wax is, the candle shows its hairs.

I was was lucky that my students were just as dense as I was. I picked up on it halfway throught the day when I asked, "What does he mean 'the fruit of man unwrinkles?'" but fortunately no one noticed what I noticed, and I skipped it and moved on. When I got to my last period, I realized what was going on in the whole stanza, plus I had asked them to identify the central image of each stanza. Fact: It only takes one kid to figure it out, especially when it is the most vocal kid in the class.

Needless to say, I had to play it off like it was no big deal, but if you know anything about a room full of teenagers who have discovered something even remotely dirty, even "honors" students, that is easier said than done. But they were honors kids, so I just explained that in a poem that addresses rebirth, the phallic imagery of this stanza is merely illustrating how the next generation brings hope and "burns the seeds of age," and that procreation is necessary for the hopes of any generation. I'm not sure if they bought it.

Story Time

2010-01-24T08:21:00.000-08:00

I have opened more blogs to lie fallow until I have the time and wherewithal to cultivate them, but here are a few test seeds.

http://estoricatime.blogspot.com

http://ihavegivenuabag.blogspot.com

I Want to Believe

2010-01-22T16:00:00.000-08:00

A couple of weeks ago I put on my new sweater that has large gray, red and white horizontal stripes about four to five inches thick, and I noticed a faint ring in the area under my ribs and above my stomach like someone had rested a drink on my belly. Obviously, I hadn't rested a drink on my sweater, but something like that probably caused it. I would have happily moved on with my life, never giving a moment's thought to it ever again, but a few days later, I put on my cream sweater, and I saw the same ring in the same spot as my other sweater. Strange. When I checked my original ring sweater, I found that there were two rings.

Once again, I would have probably forgotten any of this ever happened, but when I put my cream sweater on for work today, the dim rim of some mystery source was still visible. I mentioned it to some people at work today, and they were as perplexed as I was, but no one could offer a reasonable explanation other than a circle left by a drink even though it was a little larger than a bottle or can, but I know I haven't reached the level of sloth that allows oneself to rest his drink on his stomach. Lib's theory that its from water soaking off the counter as I'm doing dishes doesn't jive either because they are perfect circles in the same spot and location--they shouldn't be that consistent and perfectly round.

Others have proposed a laundry theory and I thought maybe there was something in my closet where I throw my dirty clothes, but in both cases, clothes are crumpled, and the mark would be uneven. I wonder if it is on my other sweaters, but is too faint to be seen because they are darker. This is a real conundrum.

Later, I was once again beckoned to retell the mystery at the bar, Lib asked me to raise my shirt, and there, in the same spot on my t-shirt (and keep in mind, the t-shirt and sweater were not on at the same time the ring appeared on the sweater) was another circle--same size, same spot.

Before we left, a coworker noticed ring on Lib's shirt too, but we quickly realized that it was smaller and remembered that she had put a drink on her stomach in an attempt to figure out the origin, which made me feel better because I was afraid it was contagious.

I have no reasonable theories about the appearance or the source of these sweater circles, but I can assure you all, it will not be forgotten until I solve this enigma.

My Hero

2010-01-22T07:27:00.000-08:00

In fourth grade we had to pick two celebrities to write a letter to, and we eagerly awaited some kind of response, because when you're ten, celebrities are a big deal; they are not real people yet.

I chose Bill Cosby and Sylvester Stallone--obvious right? I'm surprised they never did a movie together.

I don't even know if "The Cosby Show" was on air yet, but I remember liking Bill Cosby and I know how First Blood affected me the first time I saw it at my parents' friends house. By the time Rambo II came out I was a Stallone nut. If I had known he was only 5'7" I would have identified with him even more. Cobra was a bit scary, and I never really bought the metaphor in Over the Top, but the lesson "DTA"(Don't trust anyone) still sticks with me from Lockdown and I always made sure to remeber that in case I ever went to prison and needed a mantra.

I think you can probably figure out who wrote me back with an autographed, glossy black-and-white of himself walking through the jungle, shirtless and scarred, carrying a compound bow. I always imagine what my life would be like had "The Coz" written me back instead.

100th Post

2010-01-20T05:39:00.000-08:00

What does one do to celebrate his 100th post? Simple. Amish Erotica--or as I like to say "Amirotica." I wrote this over six years ago after having a conversation at work about what would be considered "sexy" to the Amish, which was only stirred up because I was explaing how I had once seen a hot Amish girl at a lawnmower store in Ohio. So here it is.

Book Section from Samuel Will Butter Your Bread by Amos Stoltzfus

From Chapter 1: "Churning"

… The sun came up over the Fisher’s barn sending a long shaft of bright daylight through the hay loft and penetrated the cracks onto the earthen floor where Rebecca was in the midst of clutching and tugging at Besse, a mature Hertfordshire, for the morning milk and daily cream. It was a hot day in June. It was even hotter beneath the heavy layers of denim that had heretofore been strong enough to keep young Miss Fischer’s desires under wraps and well with in the bounds of proper Christian behavior.

Rebecca had been at the butter churn for over an hour when Daniel walked in with the young calf over his shoulder.

“Miss Beiler? Do you mind if I rest a moment inside your barn. I reckon this here calf is about to die of a heat stroke, and I myself could sure use a break,” said Samuel, and he squatted down on a stool resting the young calf between his thighs and tugging slightly at his neck.

“Sure, come in out of that heat. You look parched, Mr. Fischer can I get you anything?”

Their eyes met only briefly before Samuel wiped the sweat off his brow; he knew exactly what he wanted, and it was buried beneath layers of Puritan doctrine and cotton for one man, but not enough to keep the devil out. Rebecca feeling a bit embarrassed by the silence and her own thoughts turned her attention and frustration once again to the butter churn and polite conversation.
“I missed you at services last week, Samuel.”

“Daniel King had a problem with his hog sluice that demanded immediate attention. I didn’t right feel like I’d be servin God if anything happen to those poor creatures…but it was kind of nice.”

“Nice? What was nice?”

“Not havin to listen to that old man at the pulpit, he can just be so dry sometimes. And for hours.”

Daniel was right, Reverend Lapp was dry, but just hearing Daniel talk so uninhibitedly sparked something within Rebecca; she had never heard anyone speak with such sin on his lips as she had just now heard. She had hoped to have the butter churned before noon, and it looked like it would be closer to a quarter till at her new pace. Yes, Reverend Lapp was dry, but Rebecca was not.

At that moment, the calf squeezed between Samuel’s knees, let out a bellow as if something had prodded it into a sudden frenzy, and as Samuel tried to restrain the wild animal in his loins; Rebecca churned the butter as if spurned by some deep dedication to dairy. Samuel wrestled with the taught, strained, lunging, young bull chafing against his denim. Rebecca, knowing he would not have the strength to fight it himself, rushed to his assistance, and in the clutch and tussle of the barnyard frenzy, she lost her balance. Holding on to the wriggling, slithering mammal with one hand, Samuel reached out and caught her by the bare wrist…

From Chapter 2: "Guess Whose Coming to Dinner"

…Rebecca knew that “Amish” was derived from the name of its distinguished founder Jacob Amman, but this evening, to Rebecca, Amish seemed more as if it had come from the Roman god of love, Amor. She had once caught a glimpse of a pagan book one of the city children had torn a page from and showed her at the heritage festival where her family sold dairy and candles. The picture was of a plump fleshy human creature with wings and a bow and arrow that filled people with love, but to Rebecca the thought of being hit by an arrow, even if only figuratively, did not conjure up the proper Mennonite emotions she had always be taught to restrain. The thought of her flesh being pierced by a heart-shaped arrow called up a russet shadow to her wan complexion, and she thought back on the morning in the barn with Samuel.

Samuel. Rebecca had forgotten that the Fischers were coming for dinner in just under an hour. She immediately pulled her sleeve back over her wrist and scuttled between the kitchen and dining room setting the table. She was hurried. Her parents would return from town at any minute. She struggled to keep the thoughts of Samuel in the back of her mind, but it was difficult; if an Amish woman had ever needed an air conditioner, it was now. Samuel had become an entity that ebbed and swelled in Rebecca’s consciousness lapping against the dry, sandy shores of proper conduct and puritan restraint. Rebecca felt like the rough craggy rock just out of reach of the cool undulating froth and spray, but after years baking in the sun, the tide was moving in. The Fischers would arrive within the hour.

At dinner, Rebecca’s father Amos sat at the head of the table, and the rest of the family and company were seated along the sides; however, the placement was not as random as it seemed. While Rebecca’s family was on either side of her, Samuel had made it a point to sit directly across from Rebecca. For the restless couple, dinner was swirling mix of reverent nods, talk of crops, and thanks to God, punctuated by a few stolen glances at forbidden extremities as the other offered seconds or passed the butter. It was an evening of nervous out-of-place questions and awkward, over-thought responses.

“Do you need…. I mean…would you like some more butter for your corn on the cob, Samuel?”

“I buttered…It’s good butter…I mean sure.”

“I churned it myself” replied Rebecca. She flashed a glance at Samuel and dropper her eyes into her lap, smoothing her napkin and breathing her heart back to a steady rhythm. Just as she had regained her composure and her cheeks returned to their appropriate pasty complexion, she had a thought. A wicked thought.

Weeks before, she had been walking alone in the woods, which was inappropriate enough, but the thrill kept driving her forward. Her feet were tired, and the Johnson’s pond was cool and green; the creek dribbled and rippled into the pond, and the smell of water lilies tempted her ever closer to the edge. Being completely alone she sat down on a large slab, pulled her knees to her chest, slid off her boots and stockings, and ever so gently slipped her long tendril legs up to her calves into the pond. It was peaceful, but not just a quiet peaceful, a serenity that came with being free from all the rules and customs that can wear out nature’s children. For a moment she had even thought about swimming, but what if somebody saw her?

Just as she had completely shut out the rest of the world, she heard a crack in the path behind her. She jumped to her feet, but in her panic scraped her toe on the rough granite bed. A sting of heat jolted up her thigh and she collapsed. When she looked up, Samuel Fisher stood over her with his Winchester resting on his right shoulder and a half-smile slung over his left cheek. Leaning on one arm, and holding her foot in the other, she let go only long enough to cover herself with her skirt. Samuel was like Paul Bunyan standing over her; she never knew one frame could hold so much man.

“Can I help you up, Rebecca?” Samuel reached for her hand, but she could only look into his big Dutch eyes. It was all she could do hold herself up. Between the pain in her foot and something she couldn’t understand, she felt as if she were hiding some precious secret underneath her dress. A secret she dare not tell. Samuel kneeled on the giant rock leaning on his gun, and with the opposite hand gesturing to the bottom of her dress asked, “May I?”

Rebecca slid the edge of her dress just over the front of her foot. A light gloss of sweat broke on Samuel’s forehead, but he took a breath and took her toes in his hand; with his thumb and forefingers he spread them as gently as if her were admiring the first flowers of spring. Rebecca shrieked. Whether it was from pain or not, she could not tell, but she was blinded and confused by the flash of lightning that coursed through her. Rebecca reached to brace herself on the butt of his rifle, Samuel tensed. Rebecca held tight, and with the slightest slip of her hand, discharged a round into the air--and with every lightning flash, a crack of thunder.

Then it was quiet. With all the delicacy of a petal on a pond, she slid into unconsciousness, and floated home in a world of dreams—in Samuel’s arms.

When she came to, she was sitting across from Samuel at the dinner table, and everyone was staring austerly at her.

“Would you like some more turkey, Rebecca?”

A Drop in the Can

2010-01-18T13:17:00.000-08:00

I guess when the doctor told me I was going to have to get blood work and urinalysis at LabCorp, I expected a freestanding scientific building filled with people in lab coats whose only concern was my health and well-being--a place where doctors sent their patients to get the best care, something like a secret James Bond criminal complex, but for medical processing. Instead, the corporation aspect of the whole thing was more of a franchise crammed in a corporate complex where they huddle everyone in a waiting room and hire the absolute minimum in "quality" healthcare workers to take blood and be otherwise completely inept.

I don't know much about customer service, but I know a few things. First, when you call someone up to the window and get their insurance and information, you don't just hand the card back with no direction, you give a "Thank you, please have a seat until your name is called," or a "Pease step through the door to the first door on the right" or something like that. Instead, they just hand your card back and you stand there like an idiot. I assumed they were ready for me and went through the doors, but they rudely chased me back out, and I saw a few people stand around like small children with the goldfish look on their faces until they were curtly told to have a seat instead of being instructed politely when they got their insurance cards back, but that would have been too easy.

When I was finally called back, the secretary/medical assistant handed me a cup and directed me to the bathroom to get my urine sample, but she didn't tell me where to go when I was finished. I didn't really have to go at the time, but I made it happen: I drank a gallon of water from the sink and found my Zen. Afterward, confused and with my sample, I had to walk to a completely new woman and ask her blindly what to do now that I was holding a cup of piss. That's when the secretary instructed me to go back out into waiting room in front of everyone with my cup of piss. Now, I'm not that bashful, but I was a little self-conscious carrying my pee cup into a room full of strangers. Not only did she make me carry my urine out front, but also decided that this was a good time to inform me that my doctor, unbeknownst to me, had ordered a stool sample, and once again, in front of everyone, talked at length for all to hear about how I was going to have to take a dump in a orange and clear bag with a biohazzard logo, which she handed to me in public and proceeded to inform me that they were out of shit testers, so I would have to call back later in the week so I could come back in another day after dropping a dugan in the bag.

Once again, I was completely surprised and perplexed. First, I had no idea that I had to give a stool sample for a simple check up visit, and secondly, again, she gave me no details other than that they were out of dooker tests. What is the best method of getting the terd in the bag? Do I pinch one off directly in the bag, or plop elsewhere and transfer? Exactly how much of my feces do they need? Could have been useful information. My thinking is this: if you don't tell me, I'm going to make sure you get enough, because I'm sure as hell not going to come back if it's not sufficient.

Finally, she sent me back to get my blood test, but vaguely said go to the first open room. There was an empty room and one with a nursish type person in it--what did she mean by open? So I asked, and I was met with disdain by the troll of a medical technician who told me to come into her room: she then proceeded to apologize for the temperature in the room because she had the window open--someone either puked or passed out, and I did hear a wailing cry when I was in the bathroom trying to concentrate, which also jived with Lib's story of a grown woman walking out crying with her mother. The nurse wannabe took my blood, making every effort to not make eye contact with me while exuding utter and complete misery and loathing . The only thing she did right was take my blood. When she was finished she just said, "OK." Once again I had to ask if that meant I could go, or if I had to check in somewhere, and once again I was met with bitchiness, so I left.

I can't wait to go back carrying my bag and its precious cargo just to drop it with a resounding thud on the reception desk for the wonderful girls of LabCorp (in front of a bunch of strangers).

Not Just Some Bald A-Hole

2010-01-13T11:43:00.000-08:00

I noticed something very peculiar yesterday. As I got out of my car to run into Target, a blond woman was coming out to her car, and she made "interested" eye contact with me. Maybe I'm crazy, but I felt very awkward and smiled back, even though she hadn't really smiled at me, but had smiled with her eyes. Then, as I was walking into another store, two women came out from the back--an older lady and another young woman--and by God, I swear the younger woman gave me the same look (or someone put ecstacy in my coffee at work). Then, when I walked into Kohl's, I swear, a cougar checked me out from behind a cash register, and later, when I got pizza, the muscle-bound guy who is usually a total a-hole to me was joking around and laughing with me (gay?). Now either there was some unknown factor I don't completely understand at play here, or the planets were aligned in such a way that it was the one day of my life when I was at my sexiest, or...or maybe it is just bacause I grew in my hair and a full beard a little and stopped being mistaken as a skinhead, so people were just being friendly instead of afraid that I was full of hate and unpredictable rage because I looked like a smaller version of Ed Norton in American History X. That actually makes a hell of a lot more sense than anything else. Oh well.

Magnum Cum-Laude

2010-01-08T11:55:00.000-08:00

I always feel a little strange and a little proud when I buy condoms, especially when I have to ask for them specifically. Once in Brooklyn, I was picking up some on the way back after a night out, so as the guy in front of me was making his purchase, I was staring over his shoulder weighing my options, and, evidently, the Polish lady behind the counter was familiar with the "I'm on my way home to get laid after being out at the bar with my girlfriend" look, and yelled, "Estra Larch?" I wasn't clear on what she meant, so I asked for clarification and she repeated, "Estra Larch? in her thick, Eastern-block accent.

I have never been ashamed of my penis size, and I have never had any complaints, but at that moment, I was faced with the choice of buying "estra larch" condoms I couldn't use or admitting that I just needed regular sized, which may not seem like a big deal, but as a man, you do want to say, "Yes. As big as you have, please." It would probably feel like you have graduated at the top of your class when they hand you your diploma, shake your hand and then you make a speech about how you are going to use them in the future, but at the same time you don't want to have to tie the condom on like a bandanna to keep it secure. So I had to openly admit in front of all the clientèle that I had an average penis, which is harder than you might think.

Just for the record: this is the smallest I could make the image to fit on the screen if that tells you anything about estra larch.

Home for the Holidays

2009-12-30T17:48:00.000-08:00

What is home? Home, as I was reminded walking out to my car Christmas eve, is the way the moonlight washes blue over the snow and how the train sounds in the distance, the way the snow smells and the wind sounds blowing through the barren trees--home has a quiet and a beauty all its own, and it is like no other place on Earth. It is the squirrels and the streetlights and the smell of the fire that comes from every house and no house but has always been there. And my family is there. Home is where I was sick for most of my trip and lied on the couch watching TV for three days, but if you have to get sick, you might as well do it when you are visiting your mother. Home is where taking care of her sick son is like riding a bike, I guess, because she's still got it. I did not get out much, but it was nice not to run around like a mad man for once, and it was nice just to be "home," really home, for once. So nice that I stayed an extra day to actually spend with my parents. I miss them. My only regret is that I didn't get to spend much time with my sister and niece.

Nagativity

2009-12-20T16:38:00.000-08:00

Today, Lib and I went to her family Christmas. When we pulled up to her uncle's house, the "Keep Christ in Chrismas" sign in their front yard was half covered in snow, and I was thinking to myself that it was a nice sentiment if you wanted to make sure that "the reason for the season" was not forgotten in all the colored lights and materialism, but did it really warrant a posted sign that looked more like an election campaign? Were we voting somewhere to keep Christ in Christmas or was it an anonymous ballot in each of our hearts? But that is not the issue--as we walked in the house, the nativity scene in front was covered in eighteen inches of snow, and only poor Joseph's head was left peering out above the snow while Mary, yes Mary, the second greatest mother of all time (love you, mom--#1), and Jesus himself were burried under the snow. Now, if you're going to post that sign, if you really want to keep Christ in Christmas, then the first thing you have to do when it snows is dig his divine little butt out.

Dreams Do Come True

2009-12-16T05:48:00.000-08:00

I don't know if it was finding out another one of my friends is having a baby paired with getting new tires yesterday because my old, bald ones contributed to the accident I got into where I hit a pick-up truck just before Halloween, but last night I dreamed that I was driving my father's truck down a hill and got into a minor head-on collision when a woman drifted into my lane. The damage was insignificant, so I got in the truck to continue on my way, but there was one of my friends' babies in the car, and it wasn't in a car seat; so fortunely, I found a backpack that when unzipped, unfolded a car seat for the child and strapped him in, which ended up saving his life because the same thing happened fifty feet down the road when another woman drifted into my lane, and this time, she smashed the front end of my dad's truck. I felt like an idiot, and I wasn't sure how to explain to my father that I had wrecked his truck twice. But I think he understood, because in the next scene of my dream, I was riding in the truck with my father when a woman drifted into his lane and we got into a head-on collision. Thankfully everyone was OK. However, not unlike many real-life accidents, when I awoke this morining, my neck was stiff and kinked up, and I couldn't turn it. But really, what did I expect after getting into three accidents last night?

One for the Glass Cases

2009-12-15T09:13:00.001-08:00

I was talking to my students today about Holden's red hunting cap in The Catcher in the Rye and how he gives it to his litter sister Phoebe to somehow protect and preserve her even though she is clearly growing up. That hat, to Holden, is a retreat and a reminder of childhood and he would put it on in vain attempts to be someone he used to be in a world that used to exist; it allows him to act like a child, and it protects him from the wind and cold in what he sees as a cruel world. As the kids were drawing Phoebe, they asked me to draw the hat, and as I was doing so, I remembered for the first time that I used to have a tan cap with ear flaps that I bought specifically for campfires with my friends in the cold, which were quite often. So as the kids were working on their assignments, I found myself thinking of that hat and that time period and getting sentimental and longing for those years during and right after high school. Maybe it was because those memories had been so long stored that the smell was fresh, but they were so vivid and real when they rushed back that I just wanted that hat, and those friends and a campfire. But that is not how it works. But it was nice to remember anyway. See you guys soon.

System Failure

2009-12-09T10:07:00.000-08:00

I don't know what I should focus more on with this post: the fact that the XBox 360 is a piece of crap because, in the past week, two of my friends' machines have broken and so has Lib's; the two hour plus journey to find a T8 star torque bit to take the XBox apart, which ended in success the next day after hours of deep searching at the Englishtown Flea Market; or maybe I should write about how I ran to the store for thermal paste and when I came back, Lib had abandoned the "how to fix your Xbox" video on Youtube to watch thermal video of people farting. Either way, the attempts to fix the Xbox ended in failure and Microsoft is getting what they want because we are going to spring for a new one--you win, jerk offs!

A Carcass Carol

2009-12-04T09:19:00.000-08:00

I think Thanksgiving is officially over. I finished my turkey lunch (six days of turkey out of the past eight) and that was the last of it. But I am proud of what I did accomplish because I know I could go for a few more days if there were turkey available; however, maybe it's time for me to put thanksgiving in the past and focus on Christmas...Shoes.

25 Days of Christmas...Shoes

2009-12-03T12:13:00.000-08:00

I have decided to sing "Christmas Shoes" every day at work until Christmas just to annoy my coworkers. There is a clear division of those who support and sing along with me and those who scowl. This is one of those things that sounded like a great idea at the time, but three days into it, I'm not sure that I have the stamina. If I want to saturate the English Department with the song, I must be the fountain spewing forth the cloying, sentimental swill that is "Christmas Shoes", and as it becomes more stagnant with every day, I feel the ill effects of contamination. I may have committed myself to delving deep into the heart of darkness, and I am not sure that I will come out of this the same person who started this joke. I love you all.

Turkey: Five days out of seven. Two out of three meals today.

Christmas Fever

2009-12-02T12:34:00.000-08:00

Well, turkey fever didn't last long...or did it? On Friday morning, Lib and I went to the tree farm and cut down a spruce tree in the prime of its life so we could hang lights and bulbs from it (I wonder if this is a happy fate for trees or if it's like having your dog fixed and dressing it up in your sister's clothes and jewelry while it's still groggy). Either way, it was a nice time for all. The cat seemed to take a real interest, and led Lib and I around the tree in circles as we hung the lights; then she(the cat not Lib) proceeded to bat any ornaments that weren't hung high enough or nailed down into the stairwell, collecting them at the bottom of the steps. Later, Lib dug out the Fimo (clay) and we made a couple of ornaments for the tree. What kind of ornaments does one make to celebrate Christmas you may ask? Easy...Sushi. Mine is the appetizing tuna roll with ginger and wasabi, while Lib went for the inside-out California roll with black sesame seeds. We are officially knee deep in the holiday season, people. And don't worry. I haven't left Thanksgiving and Turkey Fever completely behind. Lib and I made another Turkey on Sunday just because we wanted to and will be eating more leftovers for dinner tonight with homemade macaroni. Days I have eaten turkey: four out of the past six and counting.

Turkey Fever

2009-11-25T05:19:00.000-08:00

I just want to say that I love Thanksgiving. I love turkey. Lib and I made a Fakesgiving meal with a roaster chicken, but it was perfect. Tis the season to unbutton your pants and pass out on the couch. I'm not saying anything new here, but enjoy the weekend; love the people you are with and thank God you are alive.

American Justice

2009-11-19T14:41:00.000-08:00

You know that idiot that takes a left turn at a light right in front of you? Well, that was me last month, and as a result, I got into a minor accident when I slid across the rain into a pickup truck. I told the guy we should call the police for insurance purposes, just to make sure he didn't have any problems getting his truck fixed since it was my fault. Because of my consideration for his situation, I was cited and told that I would have to go to court for failure to yield the right of way.

The cop played it off like it was no big deal and told me, "We have to cite accidents, but if you go to court and talk to the prosecutor, he will take the points off your license and you will just have to pay the ticket." I appreciated his candor and figured I would just suck it up, go to court, and have the charges reduced--easy-peasy.

So, on Tuesday, I went to court. Oh the stories I could tell. The court was the most confusing, unorganized place I have ever been. No one knew what they were doing, and when anyone asked a question, the bitch of a clerk just yelled at them and made them feel stupid. There was no record for me, and she told me I had to notify them seven days before the court date, but I wasn't contesting, I just wanted the charges reduced, so she told me to go to the window and talk to them, and when I did they told me I didn't have to check in, so I took my seat. When I took my seat, they told us all if we were pleading guilty to the ticket to get in line, but when we got in line, the clerk yelled at us again and told us if we had already checked in to get sit down, the guy behind me just shook his head and laughed, and we sat back down--keep in mind I had yet to check in and wasn't even sure an hour into this ordeal if my ticket was going to be addressed.

After a few shoplifting and DUI cases, the judge took a fifteen minute recess, reconvened, tried some driving without a license cases, took a fifteen minute recess, reconvened, ignored the people like myself who hadn't actually committed a crime, tried some more cases, and took another recess while the good people of Central Jersey who had either changed lanes without signaling or failed to yield had to sit perplexed and annoyed while the criminals got to go home.

Justice is a business, not and ideal. They know they are wearing you out. After three hours you just want to go home. A girl who was driving 20-25 miles over the limit got scolded, fined and sent home. All of us who had made a minor mistake were looking around wondering why we were saved for last. We found out. You don't "talk" to the prosecutor and get the points taken off of your licence. The violation gets reported to the DMV, the DMV puts points on your license, and they report the points to your insurance provider who then jacks up your premium. So, if you want the court to reduce your violation, you have to pay them $400 to lie to the DMV. And it's all "legal." Sound like a bribe or extortion? That's what I thought too.

I Predict--VICTORY!!!!!!!!!

2009-11-02T12:48:00.000-08:00

I don't mean to brag, and I know I haven't blogged in a while, but I did win the best costume award at the Halloween party last Friday. Now sure, it was a small party of primarily English teachers, and it was the equivalent of winning the "pork queen" title in a small Midwestern town, but it was a victory nonetheless. When I get the video, which does the costume justice, I will post it, but for now, I will post a couple of pictures here.

Notes of Pride:

The whole thing collapsed to fit in my car and assembled in minutes.

I ran a light from the strand into the crystal ball to light it up.

I wrote my own fortunes that dropped from the platform into the slot.

I painted eyes on my eyelids for an authentic plastic, creepy look (shown in photo).

The lights were activated by a start button and played a creepy song.

I could actually move around pretty well, even in the booth.

The Mushroom Project

2009-10-16T07:23:00.000-07:00

This is a story that I used to tell Lib last year that I never finished. She would claim that it was something I did when our relationship was "green" and exciting; it was a story she would have me tell when she couldn't sleep and she wanted to hear my voice--it was also a story that I would tell when I was tired and wanted to sleep, but I did get some really good ideas out of it, and while it was rough and impromtu, I have wanted to refine it and write it down, so I created The Mushroom Project. I need to imbue it with some overall purpose and meaning, but the plot, while scattered, will work. I don't know exactly where it's going, but I decided to make a blog so I would have more satisfaction than just starting at Microsoft Word knowing no one would ever read it. The only real issue is that the order will be posted in reverse, but I'll worry about that when it becomes an issue. Until then: http://www.themushroomproject.blogspot.com/

Every Bald A-Hole II

2009-10-14T18:41:00.000-07:00

Today, I was in a parent-teacher conference, and a very nice woman came to check on her son's performance. As I wrapped up the conference, she asked, "Were you in Salt Lake City this summer?" Now, I have never been to Salt Lake City, and nothing against the Mormons, but I can see no real reason for going there; more importantly, why would an woman ask a teacher if he had been to Utah? So I said no, I had never been there, and she replied, "Oh, it must have been someone else." ???????????????? I guess she thought she had seen me. Once again, I guess any bald a-hole with a goatee must be me. Speaking for rugged, bald men, I am getting sick and tired of being depersonalized--just last week, a woman asked me for help in the hardware section of Wal-Mart because obviously, I worked there, and this is not the first time: I have been asked for assistance at Costco, Home Depot, Target, and Lowe's. What the hell does a white, bald man with a goatee have to do to break through this stereotype? We just want to know how to be seen as individuals, and not some stock handyman who can help with any home improvement question. And for the record, no we do not all know each other.

Tiger Mountain Peasant Song

2009-10-13T14:42:00.000-07:00

I first heard Lib's sister and her friend sing this with a ukulele before I heard the original Fleet Foxes version(is it really a version if it's the original?), which were both incredibly beautiful, but not as good as these two Swedish girls. Also, the girl on the right reminds me pictures of my mother when she was younger and reminds me my niece too, which is nice since I don't get to see them much.

I'm Your Ooogie Boogie Man!

2009-10-11T19:19:00.000-07:00

I was looking through my old emails this weekend and I came across these pictures from six years ago when I went to the Hasbro Halloween party. I spent a week constructing my OogieBoogie, and it was the last time I really put any effort into into my costume.

Between a lack of inspiration and life getting in the way, I just haven't really lived up my standards, but that is all about to change. I can't reveal anything prior to this year's party because there is a contest, and if I can pull off my costume idea (which I'm not too worried about), I may be able to take the grand prize; the only thing that kept me winning at the Hasbro party was my friend Jared (right), a guy who grew his beard for over a year to be the perfect Jack Sparrow and the fact that there was no competition, but I was told we were all pretty close, even though Jared converted a case of beer to a Duff case that played the Duffman song. Not bad for competing with toy designers--a party full of teachers should be easy pickings. Mwahahahahahhaahhahahahaha!

Here's a shout out to the rest of the gang:

Rico as Scorpion
Phil as The Jerk
Clint as 80's Clint
Christie as Clint (the nail polish on the tooth was perfect!)
Jennifer as Gem
Travis as Slash

Was it all a Dream?

2009-10-10T06:32:00.000-07:00

Here's an interesting story. Yesterday I was at one of the local establishments having a couple of beers (a few laughs) with some of my friends, and I discovered something very intersting about an experience I had at one of their houses.

Some time back, maybe a year and a half ago, I was staying over and slept in his basement--it was anything but restful. I had one of those waking dreams where I believed that I had awoken, but I couldn't move. There was the presence of a man walking around me who was not happy, a very menacing figure. It was a spirit;I remember him being tall and shadowy, and I remember being paralyzed and afraid of him. He had no features outside of the shape of a man, and he did not want me there; that was very clear. It came from the stairs and circled me. I kept trying to wake up, but in the "dream" I was awake. I'm still not sure, but it was very creepy. I never said anything because I just assumed it was a dream, even though it seemed real.

Yesterday, I was talking to his girlfriend, and she was telling me how when her friend came to visit who is "sensitive," they asked her about the house, if there was anything going on in his place(at this point in her story I started telling her the details before she said them to see if they jived). I said "it is in the basement"; the friend had said the basement stairs (I slept at the foot of them). I said it was not happy but not evil (the same words that her friend told her). I said it was definitely male, but I don't think the friend gave a gender. I could see that my interjections were creeping her out.

Coincidence? There is actually a pretty good chance it was coincidence. If you had to name a creepy place in anyone's house, the basement would probably be the first. His basement is finished and nice; I've never felt creeped out in the slightest down there before, and it's not like I haven't been down there since--I just don't care to sleep down there, that's all. "Unhappy but not evil?" Well, I think that would just about sum up most ghost descriptions--how many happy ghosts have you heard of? I just think it's interesting and possible.

Did You Mean This Culvert?

2009-10-10T06:00:00.001-07:00

Well, Brandmanager, I just wanted to say: I saw your comment on my punching machine post(very esoteric), and if this is the guy you are talking about, then I agree wholeheartedly.

Bearly Funny

2009-10-07T09:48:00.000-07:00

One of the teachers at work, a fan of Ingloreous Basterds, was telling us how he loved that movie and how he was now referring to himself as the "bear jew," a large, savage, jewish, nazi-killing soldier in the film, but not because he is any of those things (except jewish), but because he is very hairy. A half an hour later, as I was running out in the country, I thought how witty and funny it would have been if I had said, "That's funny, because my friends call me 'Gentile Ben!' I was pissed that not only had I missed an opportunity, but I missed the greatest double pun of all time, and I couldn't go back and explain it to him after the fact. Sure it's still witty and clever, but had I thought of it off-the-cuff and delivered it without missing a beat, I would have been crowned the cleverest man of all time. But I was a thirty minutes too late, and that makes all the difference.

Once in highschool, my teacher was reading us a note from his sponsored, African orphan where the kid was talking about his uncle Pepto, and I responded immediately with "Does he have an Aunt Acid?" I brought the house down. But there was no delay. No less impressive was last year when Lib drew tapeworms all over my dry-erase board in different colored markers with milti-colored segments raining from their intertwining bodies; it looked so festive that I referred to it as a "ticker-tapeworm parade". I didn't even know I was going to say it until it came out of my mouth; instead of laughter, she just grinned and nodded because she doesn't find witty things funny, but if I make a fart noise or create a new vivid string of swear words, she laughs uncontollably for minutes, which actually makes up for it because I'm vulgar and childish much more than I am witty.

Since this unheard pun had been eating at me for days, I finally had to tell the "bear jew" about my missed opportunity. I didn't want to, but I thought he needed to know--and it's funny. To my relief, I was met with laughter and a high-five, so even though it went against everything I stand for, I felt validated, and that is what is important. And since he thought it was funny, you have to read about it.

170 lbs. of Muscle

2009-10-04T10:02:00.001-07:00

Friday night at one of the local dives, there was a boxing machine that tested how tough and manly someone was based on his (or her) ability to punch a cheap vinyl bag. The machine then registered the punch somewhere between zero (hopeless) and a thousand (boxer)--below "boxer" was "killer", which doesn't really make sense, but whatever. Dave gave it the first smash and got somewhere between 500-700 (brutal) on both his punches. I stepped up directly thereafter and registered a pathetic 490 (anemic) but then followed up with a stronger second punch in the high five hundreds to earn my "brutal" status, which made me feel a lot better, even though I feel there should be something between "anemic" and "brutal," but I'll take it. The largest guy in our party was too self conscious to play, but I let it slide since I watched him manhandling people in a comedy club fight last year as his girlfriend pinned a guy to the ground with her knee, and I tried to pull her giant brother off of another guy who he had thrown over a table. (See "Daily Sentence of Dave" September 29, 2008 for story) And I might add, Dave did come from the exit before the action ended, and disappeared into the melee. I don't know what he got into, but his wife said a couple of times that evening that she wanted to take him home so she could...well, let's just say she was turned on.

Back to the boxing machine: later in the evening, a monster of a man walked into the bar who was about six-feet-six, 250 lbs, a real meatball, so when he stepped up to the bag and was about to give it a wallop, I took my time buying a beer so I could have a better understanding of my shameful kiddie punches. He gave it a blast into the six hundreds, and it was clear from across the bar that he had only lit up the third light: "Brutal". He must have missed, or maybe the girl behind him punched it, but no! He wound up and gave it a second smash--pretty solidly, I might add--and still only registered a brutal. No kidding.

This can only mean one thing--ok, two: first, the machine could be worn-out and inaccurate, or the second possibility, which I think is more likely, Dave and I are actually bruisers who could hold our own with large muscular men, and even though they may end up taking us with their slight, high-sixhundreds edge, we would do some damage with our nearly-equal, fivehundreds "brutal" strength.

Gastrocnemesis

2009-10-03T05:48:00.000-07:00

I tried running barefoot, really barefoot, the other day. Ok, I did cheat a little bit. I ran barefoot on a treadmill to see what it was like without having to worry about rocks, glass or syringes; and I have to say, it was great. It took some time to get used to, but once I got warmed up, it was very liberating. Without the weight and constiction of shoes and socks, I didn't even get tired. I only went a mile and a quarter at eight miles an hour, but other than trying to stay on the treadmill, it was effortless. Even though I was feeling good, my feet were getting a little raw and I was rattling the entire apartment building, so I decided to stop.

After that, I felt so good that I needed to burn off some more energy and took off on a short run in my sandals--running on the street is different because you actually have to propel yourself forward; on a treadmill you just have to move your feet. Either way, it felt good, and as I was rounding my way back to the apartment, full stride in my sandals, the universe, in order to show its support for my grass-roots return, sent a hippie on an old bike with a big red beard and thrift-shop wardrobe who cheered, "Yeah, man! Run, man, yeah." I felt like I was truly born to run. The next day, however, the universe decieded that maybe I was getting ahead of myself and crippled me with sore calves and raw feet, and two days later, I am still hobbling around(Lib says I look like Frankenstein's monster) waiting for my legs to stop hurting so I can get back out and run.

A Little Squirrely

2009-09-30T17:00:00.000-07:00

I just remembered that at the beginning of my run yesterday, I was heading down the sidewalk when I saw a squirrel noshing on some grub at the edge of the sidewalk. As with most squirrels that have been semi-domesticated by living in housing developments, this little fella didn't seem to care that I was barreling down the sidewalk at him, but I figured that he would bolt long before it got awkward or uncomfortable. Animals generally get the hell out of the way at a pretty consistent distance. For instance, a deer will leap into the woods anywhere between one hundred yards and twenty yards. The smaller the mammal, the closer you can get, while blackbird or a robin will fly away at around ten to fifteen yards; a dumb-ass turtle dove, however, will let you get within twenty feet, and an asshole pigeon stays just long enough until you think it's not going to fly away. Squirrels are usually somewhere between a bird and a pigeon...usually. As I approached the squirrel, it didn't seem to pay much mind, and as I got even closer, I started to worry that it was going to do that frantic, unpredictable squirrel-spasm dance where it darts in front of the car changing direction sporadically until it ends up passing underneath your car unscathed or sometimes not. It's a little scarier when you're not surrounded by tons of steel, especially when you get so close to the squirrel that you can see its cataracts, and at the last second it looks up with smokey gray, glazed-over eyes and resorts to the aforementioned, panic dance. Am I afraid of a squirrel? On the record, no! Off the record, I started juking and high stepping into the grass for what would have been a spectacular five-yard touchdown run but was actually an embarrassing, shameful tantrum that required me to quickly regain my composure and run the remaining 3.9 miles like a normal human being that wasn't scared by a cute little rodent with a fluffy tail...and demonic eyes.

The Last Leg?

2009-09-29T17:10:00.000-07:00

I know it has been a while since my last post, and I accept full responsibility for shirking my duties as a blogmaster. I haven't really been up to much, but I have been doing a lot of grading, and I feel this post getting more boring as I sit here typing it. Is this the end of my blog? Have I run out of things to say? Maybe. You don't really know something like that for sure until it actually happens. In the past week, I have made raisin bread and focaccia with my bare hands, I made chili on a grill, and I ran four miles in 28:28; however, I don't have an orginal, quirky way of describing any of it. I think school is frying my brain and tapping my creativity, but I promise you (all three of you) that I will give it the old college try--whatever that means.

Squid Pro Quo

2009-09-22T16:09:00.000-07:00

A headline today read, "US scientists net giant squid in Gulf of Mexico." Well, anyone who knows anything about the fabled architeuthis knows that there are some really giant squid out there, the largest having yet to be seen. When a headline hits the papers like the aforementioned, you click and await to be amazed, impressed, and maybe a little emotional. Sure, I have never done anything to advance the studies of giant cephalopods or their discovery, but I have watched people on TV work very hard, and according to the narrator, they have been working for years. As a result, I too have been waiting for this discovery for years, albeit years condensed into an hour on cable. So when I get to the article and the squid is only nineteen feet long, I scoff. Come back when you catch something that can take down a large sailing vessel or at least leave giant scars in the leathery hide of a sperm whale. Ask yourself this: Can each suction cup rip the face off of a dolphin? If not, I don't want to see a headline; chum the local taverns with your fishtales. We (the researchers and I[through cable])have found some really large specimens in the past few years, and nineteen feet is bait fish. I hate being an elitist, but this is my life for an hour(including commercials) every few years. Come back when you have something to offer.

Grin and Barefoot

2009-09-21T15:46:00.000-07:00

I'm not saying I have completely bought into the whole barefoot running craze, but that is only because I am only half way through Born to Run. Have I jumped on this bandwagon? No. Absolutely not. But I am running next to it barefoot. Or at least in sandals, and I am thinking of jumping on. I will never be a Caballo Blanco, white horse, and I will probably never run more than six miles, but I do have a heavy, heal pounding stride that will probably smash my knees and ankles. If this works, it just means I will run more naturally and efficiently. It seems primal though, running barefoot, and since I can't live in a jungle, this is as close as I get to primal. I will never be Caballo Blanco, and I may look silly running down the road in my sandals, but it does feel pretty good, and I think I will stick with it. And maybe one day the locals will refer to me as the white monkey, El Mono Blanco.

2009-09-16T18:41:00.000-07:00

Sometimes when you arrive at your destination in the middle of a great song, you don't want to get out of your car. Especially when that song is November Rain. It was right before Slash's third guitar solo when the song takes that dark turn and then they start repeating, "Don't you think that you need somebody..." so I told myself that I would go into work, and the end of the day, it would be my treat/surprise when I finished work for the day. I forgot about it during the course of the day, and when I turned my car on to Axl and Slash, I was surprised and happy with myself because, much like Axl and Slash, I rock!

Born and Bread

2009-09-14T15:43:00.000-07:00

Lib says that when you make bread from scratch it comes to life; I'm inclined to believe her. You don't really experience the bread when you make it in a mixer. Not that I have ever made bread in a mixer, but I have tried twice by hand. The first time, it died, but this time it was perfect. After I mixed everything together by hand, I kneaded it on the counter, and it became elastic and firm, and oddly enough, the dough rolled up felt like a little baby butt. It grew in the bowl covered by a towel that bulged like a belly, and after being worked into another little roll, I placed it in a bread pan and put in the oven...just like a baby.

Coupleganger

2009-09-12T15:51:00.000-07:00

After the movie 9, Lib and I were leaving the theater when she pointed out that our doppelganger couple was right behind us, so when we had to turn around because we were going out the wrong theater exit, I got a good view of the bald guy and his girlfriend with red-brown hair as she was heading out of the wrong exit and also had to turn around, and when we got the the car, Lib said we should have talked to them but mused that maybe they too had to get home to their crockpot while I wondered to myself if the guy had to take a big shit.

Truly an Honor

2009-09-11T08:24:00.001-07:00

I gave my American Lit. Honors class the Meyers-Briggs personality test, and they had to research their character profiles last night and write a response. One student who found out that he was an ESTJ came in and blurted to another, "I found out one of the famous people who had the same personality as me!" which prompted the other student to ask, "who?" and when the ESTJ said, with much enthusiasm, "Andrew Jackson!" the other kid, disappointed and jealous, muttered, "Lucky."

The Root of Evil

2009-09-08T05:04:00.000-07:00

Normally, I don't use my blog as a forum for talking about a movie--unless that movie is as strange as Little Otik, the story of a barren couple who has their hearts set on having a baby. The husband, in a twisted gesture after digging an eerily human stump out of the ground at their weekend cottage, fashions a creepy baby for his wife, who should have been appalled and insulted by it, but immediately reacts by treating it as if it were a real child by clothing it with the outfits she had bought her unconceived child, much to the surprise of her shocked and disturbed husband...but what did he expect? It is the best Czech movie I have ever seen, and even though I have never seen a Czech movie before, that should not detract from my admiration of it. Normally, when I'm watching a movie and I say aloud repeatedly, "that's messed up!" it means I don't like the movie, but a giant, rooty, flesh-eating infant, it turns out, has wrapped his little tendrils around my heart.

2009-09-03T07:33:00.000-07:00

Someone once asked my grandfather if he was a Catholic because he had eight children, and he replied, "No, I'm just a good-looking protestant."

It Takes Two

2009-09-02T06:19:00.000-07:00

On our way to the restaurant for the rehersal dinner, Lib and I parked in a parking garage in Newport, Kentucky and decided to take the stairs up to the ground level instead of the elevator, and as I was about to press the bar on the door, Lib made an indistinct warning noise because she thought the door was an emergency exit; I was startled and annoyed, but the door did say, "Push for 15 seconds. Alarm will sound. Door will open," which made no sense, but we assumed that, for some reason, maybe security concerns, they did not leave the doors unlocked, but must unlock them for people coming in and out, which still didn't make sense, but by this time we were just confused. We pushed the door, it buzzed, and we waited fifteen seconds...nothing. We were more confused. Lib held down the bar for about ten seconds, a little red light started flashing faster, and Lib let go, but the buzzing noise continued, and the door unlocked. To the left of the door was a sign that read, "Emergency Exit" with a little picture of a person escalating a stairwell, and realizing we had just set off the alarm, we opened the door and bolted up the stairwell with the emergency alarm resonating through the parking garage, but halfway, Lib's conscience got the best of her, and she decided, much to my further annoyance, that we should tell someone, so we decended the staircase and walked all the way back to the booth by the gate and told the attendant, who broke out in wild laughter and told us she would take care of it. We took the elevator after that.

Olmos...But No Cigar

2009-08-24T18:30:00.000-07:00

Ok--So Lib and I were bored, and we made a some of the cast of Battlestar Galactica on her Wii. I have posted our two favorites that just happen to be Admiral Adama (mustache version) and President Laura Roselyn (God rest her fictitious soul). Chief Tyrol and Lee turned out great, and even though I thought Doc Cottle would be no problem, he ended up looking horrible. Baltar, Caprica 6, Athena/Boomer and Col. Tigh were Ok, and Lib and I, even though we have attractive mii's have turned out to be complete geeks who make mii versions of the BSG cast for fun--that's right, I refer to it in abbreviation, so frak off, toaster!

It's Raining Gravel

2009-08-21T07:23:00.001-07:00

At the quarry, there is a mountain of asphalt hundreds of feet high where you drive to the top and dump old torn-out asphalt. At the peak of this mountain, I heard a loud horn that sounded like a semi horn in two long blasts. Then, I drove down the mountain to pick up some new asphalt at the plant, and as I was pulling up, a pick up came flying around the corner honking repeatedly, so I stopped, and a guy, whose voice was even gravely, said, "You can't go back here, I'm getting ready to blast that wall." And sure enough, when I looked up, there was a row of saw horses, and a relatively small sign that read "Blast Area," so I drove back to the front only about a hundred yards, and five minutes later there was an earth-rumbling blast, which sounded more like it was under water, followed by the sound of gravel raining down upon the earth. It was awesome.

Mextrosexual

2009-08-19T17:46:00.000-07:00

Jorge smelled like the beach, and our sweat dripped onto the flagstone with the sun beating down on us, cooled only by the smell of the chlorine of the waterfall cascading into the pool. Max said he wanted to be a woman for a day... If I were gay, this would be a much more interesting story, but the truth is, we were hot as hell, covered in sunscreen and baking in a flagstone oven because some rich woman wanted us to tear out all the grass between the stones on her patio and replace it with new sod, which is a total pain in the ass, especially when it is in the nineties and there is no shade. Even Max said, "Maybe I want to be a woman today. Just one day...today. Work inside. Do dishes. Clean. All inside. But just maybe today. When my husband comes home, no more woman. "

Barbaric Yawp

2009-08-13T04:52:00.000-07:00

If you've never ripped a giant stump out of the ground with a backhoe, then you don't know what you are missing. I think one of the most impressive things about the human brain is its ability to transfer nerve input taken from the body to make a person one with a tool. You feel the ax and can swing it with great precision, you feel the rake and can feel if the grade of the dirt is level, and you can actually feel how tons of steel rip through the ground and you can create a mental map of roots and clay beneath the surface. I know it's strange, but...no its not...it is very satisfying to fill the bucket of the excavator completely, swing it, extend it, and dump it onto a giant pile of earth that you have ripped from mother earth. I'm sorry if this is not very poetic, but my barbaric yawp is much more gutteral than Walt Whitman's, and I am glad I get to leave teaching literature behind for two months every year to play in the dirt.

Hot and Bothered....for real this time (but not in a sexy way)

2009-08-10T16:42:00.001-07:00

Today was so hot and humid that I was completely soaked after an hour of work, and by late afternoon, I was so disgusting that I was surrounded by a cloud of gnats that kept going in my mouth, ears and eyes. I kept imagining I was Pigpen from Charlie Brown and that in the next frame I would just start waving my arms and yelling, "WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!" with my head tilted back completely and my mouth just a big gaping black hole the shape of a lima bean. But you can't do that at work.

Growing Old

2009-08-08T14:16:00.000-07:00

I will try to recreate as best I can the sad ramblings of an elderly man who sat on his porch and watched us tearing out a driveway yesterday:

"I did you a favor. When you were gone I told some ladies not to park here or they would be in for a heck of a surprise with all your equipment driving around. You guys eating lunch? You can come in my house and sit down."

That's Ok.

"No, you can come in if you want; I'm all alone. My wife is dead."

That's terrible. I'm sorry.

"I've lived here fifty-nine years, since nineteen fifty, now I'm all alone."

That's a long time.

"Thirty years ago, I would have thought I would have been dead by now. We had five kids--four boys and one girl, and ten grandchildren eight boys, two girls. All of them good kids. Why don't you guys just come on in and have your lunch, it's no problem and I'm all alone."

There was more, but I don't remember it, but it was all just as sad and creepy.

Slow Children at Play

2009-08-04T15:02:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, as I was winding my way through a quaint little neighborhood in Westfield, I approached a bend when I saw one of those yellow plastic children who are posed in the "I am running in front of your car" position that people put on the edge of the street (of which there is only one image on the internet) to slow down traffic, and it pissed me off. When I was a kid, you just stayed out of the street, and if you didn't, you got flattened by a Mac truck or you got beat by your parents for playing in the street; nobody thought to put the onus on the driver, it was on the children where it should be. Maybe if your kids are too dumb to stay out of the street, they are a bit slow. So as I was about to plow the fake child over with the dump truck, I realized that the owner had attached a Miller Lite can to the fake child's fin-like hand--there were no fingers--and it made me happy to know that whoever lived in that neighborhood just wanted to keep all of the drunk little children safe, so I did slow down...in hopes of seeing one stumbling down the sidewalk or hitting on the ugly girl in the neighborhood.

Hot and Bothered...literally...or figuratively?

2009-08-02T13:10:00.000-07:00

Not to toot my own horn, but I was a little flattered when a woman in her seventies was trying to make time with me last week. I was working on her driveway, and she was working on the free-love freeway. She had moxy, this one, and she knew how to make the hottest day of the summer even hotter. When she brings me some water early in the day, and says that she takes care of young men, I think it's a completely normal, nurturing thing to say, but later in the day when she pours a couple more glasses of water, she stops at the door on the way into the house she says, "If you want any more water, just whistle," and here's the kicker: she continues, "You know how to whistle don't you?" Now, I have never seen To Have and Have Not, but I know what that means...Hot Dog!

Pissed

2009-07-31T18:37:00.000-07:00

In Staples, I had to pee really bad, so I looked around for the restroom, and above a doorway was a sign that said "restrooms" with a large triangle/arrow pointing down to the doorway, but when I went to open the door it was one of those really heavy metal doors and the push bar read, "Emergency Exit Only. Alarm will Sound." So I didn't pee because I knew if I took the gamble and opened the door, a very loud bell would sound and I would probably piss my pants--not worth it.

2009-07-30T18:11:00.000-07:00

As all of you know, yesterday was hot and humid, and if you have ever laid asphalt on a day like yestereday, then you'll understand what I'm saying here. When you lay asphalt, it is hot as hell, and when the heat rises off it on a summer day, you know you've picked the wrong line of work. To make it worse, you spray it with water so the plate compacter doesn't stick, and the roller is wet for the same reason, which equals only one thing: steam. So after we finished the driveway yesterday, I felt disgusting--hot and dirty and sticky. When we got back to the yard, however, it started to rain really hard, so I took off my shirt, stood in my work pants in a puddle with arms outstreached, face to the sky, and let the rain wash over me; I knew immediately what Andy Dufresne felt like when the rain washed the sewage and twenty years of imprisonment off him in The Shawshank Redemption, but that was just a movie, unless it was just a really hot day of filming for Tim Robbins, either way, that's what I felt like.

Cat Noises?

2009-07-28T14:55:00.001-07:00

Last week I was at the gas station with a dump truck full of roadstone--dump trucks have a lever on the bed outside just behind the driver's side that releases the tail gate for dumping--and the man pumping my gas started to fiddle with it, and while I was a little suspicious of it, the safety chain was still attached so I just kept watching in the side mirror. Then it got weird: he started tugging on it and making cat noises every time he tugged at it, and not just little cat noises, but loud cat noises for about thirty seconds, so I started to think he may be retarded or something, but then he came over and asked me in a completely normal voice what would happen if he pulled the lever, and I curtly explained that he would have a gas station with a lot of gravel and he stopped. In New Jersey, you are not allowed to pump your own gas, but how is this guy qualified and I am not; I have eleven years experience pumping gas in Ohio when I pumped my own gas. Don't get me wrong, I like having someone else pump my gas, but it's on principle that I complain here--I would just like the option to pump my own gas if I deem someone else incompetent to do so, or if I have to wait more than ten seconds for them to do so...or if they meow.

The Ticking....

2009-07-27T17:07:00.000-07:00

Since I haven't been camping in three years, I decided it was time to get back out into the great outdoors, and I learned that I have become a colossal pussy. Even though I work outside every day in dirt and bugs, I was annoyed and grossed out by all the bugs that were crawling on me, and every time I was scavenging wood and walked into a spider web, I had a small panic attack. So when I went to get into the shower Sunday at Lib's and found a deer tick embedded in my thigh, I ripped it out of my skin, just to show the bastard who was in charge, and now, I am waiting to see who was really in charge, because I have known two people, Merica and Terry, who have gotten Lyme disease from ticks in the past year. I have looked up the early symptoms, and I will let you know. I also found out that Deer Tick is a band.

Midwest Eloquence

2009-07-24T19:30:00.000-07:00

On the way to Home Depot, for some unknown reason, I started singing the theme song to Mr. Belvedere, and Lib recognized it, but didn't know what show it was until I told her. We both traced it back to when she was about six, but it was still very vague to her, so I said,"Well, I guess it wasn't probably on but only a couple-few years," which I thought was a well-phrased sentence and was briefly proud of my verbiage, but she immediately made fun of me in a creek-rat accent, and when I defended my choice of words as eloquent, she said that I only thought so because I was from Ohio. I stand by my choice of words, and given the same situation, no matter who I might be talking to (the Pope, president, J-lo...whoever), I would use the exact same words.