Sigh. As long as I'm not getting any sleep, figured I'd blog-in right quick.
There's a maintenance man in my bathroom fixing the AC. It's midnight. I can't go to bed yet.
My AC has decided to start leaking all over the bathroom at odd intervals. It happened Tuesday, called maintenance, no one showed up, happened Friday, called maintenance, no one showed up. Happened again tonight. It picked the wrong time to happen, let me tell you. I had a headache, PLUS I was in a grumpy mood because I failed yet again to strike up some small talk with the waitress I see at Sonic three times a week (see more for below on that... it's not nearly as creepy as it sounds). So anyway, I come inside figuring on finishing my cherry limeade and hitting the hay around 10:15, and I hear the familiar drip-drip-drip coming from the bathroom again. Luckily, I hadn't bothered to put my rugs back down since the first incident on Tuesday, but still, 'twas flooded all over again.
So, yeah, I got a little testy with maintenance this time. They told me that since I hadn't filed it as an EMERGENCY, that it didn't get high-priority status. I said, "I've called twice this week. You mean to tell me five days is about the average for a maintenance call?" Um, yes. More like a week, apparently. "Oh. Okay. This is an emergency, then." Well, the guy shows up 20 minutes later, and now he's in there clanking around (the AC access panel is in my bathroom). Which means I can't go to bed 'til he leaves, and I'm ragingly tired. That, and I have to be at the kennel at 4:45 in the morning.
About this waitress at Sonic... actually, I guess the correct term would be "carhop", but whatever... I invariably stop by Sonic after I get done Thursday and Sunday nights, the nights I just do turn-out. Also, I'll occasionally pop in there on my nights off. I rarely get food, and if so just an order of tots... I get three or four big sodas and stash them in the fridge. Anyway, I ALWAYS get served by the same carhop. (Now, *maybe* I'm parking in the same spot each time... maybe.) SO she's always really nice, though I guess that's part of the job description, but... still... and she's seen me at least 50 times. No exaggeration there. But I COMPLETELY freeze up whenever I try to ask her, say, "So, how ya doin tonight?" or anything along those lines. I'm even nervous about asking her for a drink carrier. And every time, it just makes me want to bash my head into the steering wheel a half-dozen times or so. I don't understand it. Well, I mean, I do... it's a form of social phobia, but still... you think I'd be able to handle it by now. Blegrah. I'm not trying to ask her out to dinner... I'd just like to avoid sounding like English is my second language when I talk to her.
"C-c-c-could I, uh, possibly, uh, g-get a d-d-dr-drink carrier?"
Geez.
So, anyway, Thursday night I'll be over there again probably.
Maintenance guy just left. He said I was right -- the drainpipe from the AC was plugged up. (Well, I had THAT much figured out -- I just didn't want to go disassembling plumbing on my own.) He asked if I changed my AC filter, and I said I pick up a new filter from the office each time I pay the rent every month. (...which is another bone of contention... apparently most apartment complexes provide AC filters. Wow! I've been buying my own for three years in Tucson. Sunzabitches.) So he said it was probably the people before me, since I hadn't been here long enough for it to get that dirty that fast. So, hopefully, I won't come home to an Aqua-Bathroom again for a while.
In other, somewhat more perky news, I'm helping out at Coronado with the band this year. They've finally hired a director, and I've got to say I like her style already. Whoa, did I say "her"? Yes, 'tis true, Ms. Rich is the first female band director in CHS history. Anyhow, I spent much of last night making name tags, as nobody'd done it yet and camp starts, well, today (Monday). I got a couple of extra mornings off over the neext two weeks so I can put in a little more time with the band.
I put people's sections on their tags, but mine reads "NICKEL-PACKAGE CORNERBACK." Anyone care to take a stab at the meaning?
Anyway, I sure feel a lot better than I did an hour ago. I mean, things are still relatively crappy, but it's nice to be able to air it out and get it in print. But hopegully, volunteering at Coronado will be the outlet I need. The walls are starting to close in again, just a little bit.
Monday, July 28
Monday, July 21
Boo-yah!
Well, then, now that I have your attention... I'll pull the DeadJournal and say, "current mood - peachy". A confluence of good things have come together to create this peachiness. Actually, truth be told, it was mainly just the dinner going over so well. I could have dropped a spiked bowling ball on my foot today and still have been in a good mood. There's three main parts to tonight's blog effort, so read away. (Yeah, it'll be under Monday... *grumbles about inability to set the timestamp on his own*) Oh, and Lindsay, I owe you an email. It's forthcoming.
1. ¡Está lloviendo!
Tonight certainly looked like it was going to be our best chance for the first rain of the summer. It has literally not rained since I moved into my apartment in mid-April, mind you. It was damn hot today -- not necessarily as high a temperature as we've seen in the past weeks, but just the right combination of heat and wind to make it really hot. And, of course, since it's officially monsoon season, a really hot day breeds volatile thrunderstorm conditions later. The wind really picked up around 7:00 and blew all night, and it was a HOT wind, no cool breeze. As I was leaving the track at 11:00, I saw the first roils of dust moving across the parking lot. Of course, the really big storms get started around 6:30, so this wasn't going too be anything huge since it was already so late. We had a dust storm Tuesday night, too, and that led to nothing, so I was cautiously optimistic. As I was doing my chart work at the kennel around 11:15, I heard a noise which sounded like the wind had really picked up. It continued for a minute or so as I wrote on the whiteboard, until suddenly -- PLOP! I distinctly heard a drop of water fall. PLOP! PLOP! It took a second, but then I went to the door and threw it open, and... TA-DA! It was RAINING!! A LOT!! I was so happy, if all the dogs hadn't been asleep already I would've busted a move. See, when it rains really hard in the summer, water drips in through the swamp cooler vent in the roof (since the AC is on, the swamp cooler is off). So I put a bucket up on top of the crates to catch it, and since I was done with my work, happily dashed to my truck through the rain.
As I drove home, I started thinking about all the wondrous stuff I was going to post in my blog about it all. Then, as I pulled to the light at 44th and Washington, I noticed it was letting up. Well, crap. Like I said, it wasn't a big storm since it was so late already. Here's the fun part, though -- heading north on 44th, as I crossed Van Buren, it went DRY. Not a DROP of rain had fallen north of the Chinese Cultural Center or the 202, let alone when I got to my apartments. Gak! Less than a mile south of 44th and Van Buren, water was seeping in under the kennel's front door. A mile north? A nice rain-scented breeze. (Rain-scented, you ask? Actually, it's the smell of creosote oil from the bushes of the same name. The bushes, which are all over the desert, excrete the powerfully-scented oil, which gets mixed with rainwater and then blown ahead of an advancing storm.)
You gotta love this Arizona weather.
2. Dinner& A Movie
Well, the dinner went over GREAT. The ziti was a little crisp (okay, it was blackened on the bottom), but that was the only major mishap. Everybody seemed to like the Tequila-Citrus Carne Asada, and the Shrimp Sausage Creole Linguini was popular as always. BIG props to Tara, Ann, and Kristy for helping out with clean-up. That was a daunting task which they made significantly less daunting.
Zachary and I had been talking about going to see T3 afterwards, but after having been up since 6:00 AM slicing, chopping, mixing, marinating, sautéeing, baking, deep-frying, boiling, and simmering, we kinda decided we were a little spent. Besides, Z's allergies were acting up, especially after I chopped four different varieties of onion. His eyes swelled up and his nose clogged. Bleh. I had to call Mom and ask her to bring by some medications for him before he went to his card show in the afternoon.
Anyway, even if we'd decided to go, we probably would have called it off, because Jung brought Taboo. Woo-hoo! Word games! Count me in! Zach wanted to play, too, but since he's 13 and everyone else in the room was pretty much around my age, he got left out somewhat. Eh, well... he had fun playing with the buzzer. There was lots of shouting, fist-pumping, and rapid-fire insults... okay, most of it was from me. What?! I LIKE word games! (While Zach was still playing, he was on the opposite team from myself. When he took the card dispenser, I shouted, "Okay, guys, infield in!" ... Took a second, but it was my best zinger of the night.) (We have a loving, caring, older brother/younger brother relationship... I swear.)
So that was grand fun... our team 0WNED theirs. (No "3" in there... not quite as cool as a midget ninja jumping out of a trash can and scaring the crap out of you, I guess.) Oh, I almost forgot to mention... Zachary was finally defeated in Smash Brothers Melee! Rick was the man to do the job. Big ups.
As far as cooking goes... See, I love my job. I may gripe occasionally, but I love my dogs. However, as is the case with many an endeavor, occasionally you just need to get away and refocus. For 36 hours over the course of Friday night and all day Saturday, I didn't think AT ALL about the kennel. I was so focused on cooking, trying to keep on the schedule I had in my head, that I managed to completely disconnect from work. I can get like that during karaoke night, too, but it was SO much more fun doing the cooking because I actually had a concrete result (in the case of the ziti, literally concrete) afterwards. I just enjoy it. I don't even LIKE my own food that much. I'm a Rice-A-Roni and Velveeta Shells 'n Cheese kind of guy. I have 40 packages of ramen in my cabinet. See, I'm extremely easy to please, so if I'm satisfied with Maruchan ramen, why bother making chicken cordon bleu every night for myself? I COULD, but why bother? So, therefore, I'm hosting these dinners to satisfy my gourmet-cooking jones. I had maybe half a bowl of the clam chowder and a serving of the linguini, and one carne burrito, and that was IT last night.
So as long as people still want to come, I'll be doing these feasts fairly often.
3. Iron Chef USA
Yeah, you read that right. Iron Chef USA. Now, I'm sure most of you have picked up that I'm a big fan of Iron Chef. (I have the T-shirt.) I was hooked on the King of Iron Chefs tournament like most people were hooked on American Idol.
I was watching Good Eats or Unwrapped or something I'd Tivoed off of Food Network when I saw a commercial... "Iron Chef USA, this Saturday at 10:00!"... and I saw... William Shatner as the chairman! Zach and I were chopping vegetables at the time, and I must have said "WHAT?!" like 7 times in succession. I was floored. In the words of Jon Stewart, "I started to look around for Ashton Kutcher, for I was certain I was being Punk'd." Happy DAY! NEW Iron Chef, and in English of all languages? You could probably broadcast it in Hungarian dubbing with Portuguese subtitles and I'd still like it. Crazy go nuts!
So I checked my events guide on Tivo. Funny, searching the program list I see no Iron Chef USA. So I go to my Iron Chef season pass and look up what's coming on at 10:00 that night (Saturday), and according to Tivo it's... a regular Iron Chef. The Battle Onion, where Kunio Santo challenges Iron Chef Sakai. (Seen it.) Bleh! However, see, the Tivo updates its program list nightly, but it's beeen incorrect before, where the network has made a change in the programming, say, within a week. Since I hadn't ever seen a commercial for Iron Chef USA before, I decided to bet on Tivo being wrong, and I let it tape the show at 10:00.
So today, I call up the Iron Chef from last night, aaaaaaand...
Yay!
I've honestly only watched 5 minutes of it. It looks like it's going to be so good, I want to wait until I have a full hour to devote to it. (Today I had to watch Last Comic Standing from Tuesday night, since it's almost Tuesday again. That, by the way, is another show you should have been watching. Despite Jay Mohr.)
In closing...
So I guess that about covers it. I've literally been typing for an hour. Why? I don't know. It feels good to stick this stuff somewhere where people could theoretically see it. Steve and Nick got into a fiery debate over on Mark's blog about site usage and people visiting sites and stuff, and it got heated in a hurry. Since, frankly, I didn't understand most of what they were arguing about, I didn't want to take a side. But it got me thinking on a different tangent, about the importance of my site. I see people (like Annika) whose blogs get all kinds of random traffic, and for a while back when I started this thing up, I wanted mine to be like that. But, I've come to the realization that it's more fun to make an inside reference about midget ninjas and know that my loyal group of friends will know of what I speak. I don't have a lot of interesting political, sociological, or religious topics to air out. I just sat here for an hour and blabbered (clobbered?) on and on about [1] rain, [2] my party, and [3] Iron Chef USA (kick-ass!). And even if no one were to read it, I feel in some way like I've accomplished something. Because it's there. I have successfully placed what's in my head on the Internet. Interesting? Not really. Thought-provoking? Shit, no. But it's THERE.
And now, since my head is empty, I'm going to go fill it with Rice-A-Roni. Why? Because Rice-A-Roni is tasty.
Well, then, now that I have your attention... I'll pull the DeadJournal and say, "current mood - peachy". A confluence of good things have come together to create this peachiness. Actually, truth be told, it was mainly just the dinner going over so well. I could have dropped a spiked bowling ball on my foot today and still have been in a good mood. There's three main parts to tonight's blog effort, so read away. (Yeah, it'll be under Monday... *grumbles about inability to set the timestamp on his own*) Oh, and Lindsay, I owe you an email. It's forthcoming.
1. ¡Está lloviendo!
Tonight certainly looked like it was going to be our best chance for the first rain of the summer. It has literally not rained since I moved into my apartment in mid-April, mind you. It was damn hot today -- not necessarily as high a temperature as we've seen in the past weeks, but just the right combination of heat and wind to make it really hot. And, of course, since it's officially monsoon season, a really hot day breeds volatile thrunderstorm conditions later. The wind really picked up around 7:00 and blew all night, and it was a HOT wind, no cool breeze. As I was leaving the track at 11:00, I saw the first roils of dust moving across the parking lot. Of course, the really big storms get started around 6:30, so this wasn't going too be anything huge since it was already so late. We had a dust storm Tuesday night, too, and that led to nothing, so I was cautiously optimistic. As I was doing my chart work at the kennel around 11:15, I heard a noise which sounded like the wind had really picked up. It continued for a minute or so as I wrote on the whiteboard, until suddenly -- PLOP! I distinctly heard a drop of water fall. PLOP! PLOP! It took a second, but then I went to the door and threw it open, and... TA-DA! It was RAINING!! A LOT!! I was so happy, if all the dogs hadn't been asleep already I would've busted a move. See, when it rains really hard in the summer, water drips in through the swamp cooler vent in the roof (since the AC is on, the swamp cooler is off). So I put a bucket up on top of the crates to catch it, and since I was done with my work, happily dashed to my truck through the rain.
As I drove home, I started thinking about all the wondrous stuff I was going to post in my blog about it all. Then, as I pulled to the light at 44th and Washington, I noticed it was letting up. Well, crap. Like I said, it wasn't a big storm since it was so late already. Here's the fun part, though -- heading north on 44th, as I crossed Van Buren, it went DRY. Not a DROP of rain had fallen north of the Chinese Cultural Center or the 202, let alone when I got to my apartments. Gak! Less than a mile south of 44th and Van Buren, water was seeping in under the kennel's front door. A mile north? A nice rain-scented breeze. (Rain-scented, you ask? Actually, it's the smell of creosote oil from the bushes of the same name. The bushes, which are all over the desert, excrete the powerfully-scented oil, which gets mixed with rainwater and then blown ahead of an advancing storm.)
You gotta love this Arizona weather.
2. Dinner
Well, the dinner went over GREAT. The ziti was a little crisp (okay, it was blackened on the bottom), but that was the only major mishap. Everybody seemed to like the Tequila-Citrus Carne Asada, and the Shrimp Sausage Creole Linguini was popular as always. BIG props to Tara, Ann, and Kristy for helping out with clean-up. That was a daunting task which they made significantly less daunting.
Zachary and I had been talking about going to see T3 afterwards, but after having been up since 6:00 AM slicing, chopping, mixing, marinating, sautéeing, baking, deep-frying, boiling, and simmering, we kinda decided we were a little spent. Besides, Z's allergies were acting up, especially after I chopped four different varieties of onion. His eyes swelled up and his nose clogged. Bleh. I had to call Mom and ask her to bring by some medications for him before he went to his card show in the afternoon.
Anyway, even if we'd decided to go, we probably would have called it off, because Jung brought Taboo. Woo-hoo! Word games! Count me in! Zach wanted to play, too, but since he's 13 and everyone else in the room was pretty much around my age, he got left out somewhat. Eh, well... he had fun playing with the buzzer. There was lots of shouting, fist-pumping, and rapid-fire insults... okay, most of it was from me. What?! I LIKE word games! (While Zach was still playing, he was on the opposite team from myself. When he took the card dispenser, I shouted, "Okay, guys, infield in!" ... Took a second, but it was my best zinger of the night.) (We have a loving, caring, older brother/younger brother relationship... I swear.)
So that was grand fun... our team 0WNED theirs. (No "3" in there... not quite as cool as a midget ninja jumping out of a trash can and scaring the crap out of you, I guess.) Oh, I almost forgot to mention... Zachary was finally defeated in Smash Brothers Melee! Rick was the man to do the job. Big ups.
As far as cooking goes... See, I love my job. I may gripe occasionally, but I love my dogs. However, as is the case with many an endeavor, occasionally you just need to get away and refocus. For 36 hours over the course of Friday night and all day Saturday, I didn't think AT ALL about the kennel. I was so focused on cooking, trying to keep on the schedule I had in my head, that I managed to completely disconnect from work. I can get like that during karaoke night, too, but it was SO much more fun doing the cooking because I actually had a concrete result (in the case of the ziti, literally concrete) afterwards. I just enjoy it. I don't even LIKE my own food that much. I'm a Rice-A-Roni and Velveeta Shells 'n Cheese kind of guy. I have 40 packages of ramen in my cabinet. See, I'm extremely easy to please, so if I'm satisfied with Maruchan ramen, why bother making chicken cordon bleu every night for myself? I COULD, but why bother? So, therefore, I'm hosting these dinners to satisfy my gourmet-cooking jones. I had maybe half a bowl of the clam chowder and a serving of the linguini, and one carne burrito, and that was IT last night.
So as long as people still want to come, I'll be doing these feasts fairly often.
3. Iron Chef USA
Yeah, you read that right. Iron Chef USA. Now, I'm sure most of you have picked up that I'm a big fan of Iron Chef. (I have the T-shirt.) I was hooked on the King of Iron Chefs tournament like most people were hooked on American Idol.
I was watching Good Eats or Unwrapped or something I'd Tivoed off of Food Network when I saw a commercial... "Iron Chef USA, this Saturday at 10:00!"... and I saw... William Shatner as the chairman! Zach and I were chopping vegetables at the time, and I must have said "WHAT?!" like 7 times in succession. I was floored. In the words of Jon Stewart, "I started to look around for Ashton Kutcher, for I was certain I was being Punk'd." Happy DAY! NEW Iron Chef, and in English of all languages? You could probably broadcast it in Hungarian dubbing with Portuguese subtitles and I'd still like it. Crazy go nuts!
So I checked my events guide on Tivo. Funny, searching the program list I see no Iron Chef USA. So I go to my Iron Chef season pass and look up what's coming on at 10:00 that night (Saturday), and according to Tivo it's... a regular Iron Chef. The Battle Onion, where Kunio Santo challenges Iron Chef Sakai. (Seen it.) Bleh! However, see, the Tivo updates its program list nightly, but it's beeen incorrect before, where the network has made a change in the programming, say, within a week. Since I hadn't ever seen a commercial for Iron Chef USA before, I decided to bet on Tivo being wrong, and I let it tape the show at 10:00.
So today, I call up the Iron Chef from last night, aaaaaaand...
Yay!
I've honestly only watched 5 minutes of it. It looks like it's going to be so good, I want to wait until I have a full hour to devote to it. (Today I had to watch Last Comic Standing from Tuesday night, since it's almost Tuesday again. That, by the way, is another show you should have been watching. Despite Jay Mohr.)
In closing...
So I guess that about covers it. I've literally been typing for an hour. Why? I don't know. It feels good to stick this stuff somewhere where people could theoretically see it. Steve and Nick got into a fiery debate over on Mark's blog about site usage and people visiting sites and stuff, and it got heated in a hurry. Since, frankly, I didn't understand most of what they were arguing about, I didn't want to take a side. But it got me thinking on a different tangent, about the importance of my site. I see people (like Annika) whose blogs get all kinds of random traffic, and for a while back when I started this thing up, I wanted mine to be like that. But, I've come to the realization that it's more fun to make an inside reference about midget ninjas and know that my loyal group of friends will know of what I speak. I don't have a lot of interesting political, sociological, or religious topics to air out. I just sat here for an hour and blabbered (clobbered?) on and on about [1] rain, [2] my party, and [3] Iron Chef USA (kick-ass!). And even if no one were to read it, I feel in some way like I've accomplished something. Because it's there. I have successfully placed what's in my head on the Internet. Interesting? Not really. Thought-provoking? Shit, no. But it's THERE.
And now, since my head is empty, I'm going to go fill it with Rice-A-Roni. Why? Because Rice-A-Roni is tasty.
Thursday, July 17
It's all coming together now. I have everything except for the vegetables, and I'll take care of those tomorrow. So, understandably, I've been busy, hence the lack of blogging. If you're reading this and you still don't know about my dinner, read the below entry. Anyway, hopefully I'll see you all Saturday...
Sunday, July 13
CLIFTON'S 2ND DINNER
Okay, so I'm lacking for a really cool name...
So I've been rumoring about the exact date of my next dinner. It is to be on Saturday, this coming Saturday the 19th, at 7:00 pm (-ish). Anyone's invited. Simply RSVP to me by email (tfg46@cox.net) and let me know if you're coming and how many friends you're planning to bring (if you have any), and I'll send you the Directions Email. All you need to supply is your own drinks. I'll only have tea, and maybe Diet Dew. Oh, and club soda. (Whomever brought a six-pack of club soda last time... uh, it's still here.)
THE MENU
An eclectic selection (an eclection?) of dishes from a wide-ranging variety of cuisines. * denotes a dish that was served at Dinner I.
TFG's Bread*
Clam Chowder
Fried Okra
Carne Asada w/ Danny's aunt's homemade tortillas
Baked Ziti* (2x batch)
Creole Shrimp/Sausage Linguini*
Orange Salad*
I thought about making some sort of nifty dessert, but I decided against it. I never make it to dessert whenever *I* eat out, so it's never been a strong point of mine. The orange salad will suffice as a dessert, and for Pete's sake, TRY IT THIS TIME! I'm not lying when I say you'l like it.
But, anyway, I'm getting ahead of myself. After the dinner, well, the pool's not far away from my front door. Perhaps there'll be some swimming. Also, the GameCube will make its triumphant return to my apartment, along with my brother. And he's only gotten better at Smash. Maybe if anyone else has a Cube battle game he could be defeated at, they could bring it, because you're not going to be able to beat him at Smash. (Them's fightin' words!) And if we get tired of Cube, I'll probably have rented a movie to watch. Whatever the crowd wants to do.
So if your curiosity is piqued, email me (tfg46@cox.net) and let me know if you'll be there. Like I mentioned, if you're reading this, well, then you're invited. There'll be food a-plenty.
Okay, so I'm lacking for a really cool name...
So I've been rumoring about the exact date of my next dinner. It is to be on Saturday, this coming Saturday the 19th, at 7:00 pm (-ish). Anyone's invited. Simply RSVP to me by email (tfg46@cox.net) and let me know if you're coming and how many friends you're planning to bring (if you have any), and I'll send you the Directions Email. All you need to supply is your own drinks. I'll only have tea, and maybe Diet Dew. Oh, and club soda. (Whomever brought a six-pack of club soda last time... uh, it's still here.)
THE MENU
An eclectic selection (an eclection?) of dishes from a wide-ranging variety of cuisines. * denotes a dish that was served at Dinner I.
TFG's Bread*
Clam Chowder
Fried Okra
Carne Asada w/ Danny's aunt's homemade tortillas
Baked Ziti* (2x batch)
Creole Shrimp/Sausage Linguini*
Orange Salad*
I thought about making some sort of nifty dessert, but I decided against it. I never make it to dessert whenever *I* eat out, so it's never been a strong point of mine. The orange salad will suffice as a dessert, and for Pete's sake, TRY IT THIS TIME! I'm not lying when I say you'l like it.
But, anyway, I'm getting ahead of myself. After the dinner, well, the pool's not far away from my front door. Perhaps there'll be some swimming. Also, the GameCube will make its triumphant return to my apartment, along with my brother. And he's only gotten better at Smash. Maybe if anyone else has a Cube battle game he could be defeated at, they could bring it, because you're not going to be able to beat him at Smash. (Them's fightin' words!) And if we get tired of Cube, I'll probably have rented a movie to watch. Whatever the crowd wants to do.
So if your curiosity is piqued, email me (tfg46@cox.net) and let me know if you'll be there. Like I mentioned, if you're reading this, well, then you're invited. There'll be food a-plenty.
Thursday, July 10
Garhhhh... Well, obviously I missed a couple of days. So much for back to everyday posting. (It's really Wednesday night right now... we've had this discussion before.) I'll probably rarely post on Mondays or Tuesdays, unless something really interesting happens at the kennel. Those are my two work-intensive days, where I need to get as much rest as possible when I'm home. Monday starts at 4:45 AM, until we get done around 10:30 AM. Then I have to be back at 3:15 PM, and I'm there and at the track until 11:30 PM. Tuesday starts at 5:45 AM, until 10:30 or so, then back at 4:00 PM until 11:30 again. Then Wednesday morning is 5:45 til 10:30, but I spend another hour to 1½ hours over at the office (aka my parents' house) doing paperwork on Wednesdays. But after that... I can breathe a big sigh of relief, because the hard part of the week is over. And besides, Wednesday night is karaoke night.
Karaoke is SUPPOSED to start at 9:00. We got there at 9:20, but the pool players hadn't left yet, and apparently they don't take kindly to singers. Well, that's cool... judging by the amount of empty bottles sitting around, it looks like they pay the bills pretty much, as our group rarely spends more than $10 TOTAL on sodas and whatnot.
One of the three pool tables was open, though, and we asked a gentleman standing near it if it was taken. He said no, the game everyone was concerned with was on the middle table. So we went ahead and got a game going while we waited for the place to clear out. An older guy sitting at the bar started giving Kristy pointers during our game, then offered to help me, too. I figured, well, what the heck... I don't know what I'm doing anyway. So we played out our game, and I beat her (for the first time, I might add).
There's a display case on the wall by the stick rack, and in it are six handmade cues. Their prices range from $250 to $600. Well, you know who makes them? The guy who was giving us tips. He had let Kristy use his cue. I didn't hear him, but when she asked how much it was worth, he told her, and her eyes widened in shock. She mentioned later that it was solid oak.
So, anyway, we've established the guy's pretty much a pro. Then, while Jenn and I are playing a couple of games later, he calls winner. Well, she ends up knocking in the 8-ball a few balls early, so I win. Great. I figure I'm roadkill.
After 15 minutes of some of the most stressful pool I've played in my life, though, we were down to just the 8-ball. I make no claims as to being good at this game, mind you; luck had a lot to do with it. I drained five straight at one point. Anyway, after I sunk the 2-ball, it was my shot on the 8, and I had a tricky lie to hit. I figured that with the position it was in, I had to make it or break it as I was going to leave a wide-open shot for him if I didn't make it somehow.
If there were a compass on the pool table, the 8-ball was sitting about 4 inches from the north edge of the table and 6 inches from the northeast hole. The cue ball was about 5 inches from the south edge of the table, sitting south of the 8-ball and about one ball's-width to the west. At the angle it was at, I thought I might have a shot at sideswiping the 8-ball into the northeast pocket, but the more I looked at it, the more it looked like I would probably knock it into the edge first. The cue ball was too far south of the 8 to get the right angle on it. So I decided to bank the cue ball off the north edge of the table and knock the 8-ball into the southeast pocket, the one I was standing over. I pointed at the pocket (as loud as the jukebox was blaring, it would have done no good to try and yell it out); the gentleman raised his eyebrows but nodded. I lined it up, figured "Here goes," and let it fly.
It was perfect. The cue ball ricocheted off the north edge and drilled the 8-ball dead center. It flew to the pocket and did that thing where it hits the hole, hops up in the air, and drops straight down. As I started to exhale, I saw the cue ball spinning wildly towards the west end of the table. It was heading... straight for the northwest pocket!
PLUNK!
"Sonofabitch!"
Well... oh well. I shook his hand. Them's the breaks. Karaoke fired up not long after, but the three of us were pretty worn out anyway; we'd originally planned to leave at 11:00. However, there was literally no one else besides the two DJ's singing, so I got five songs done in about 40 minutes and we lit a shuck at 11:20.
Sometime tomorrow, I'm going to spam everyone else's blogs with invitations to my dinner. I'll email anyone I can think of, too. It's going to be a "Borderless Cuisine" meal, inspired by Rokusaburo Michiba's approach to cooking on Iron Chef. All your favorites will return from last time, along with a few new ideas. Yes, okra -- oddly enough, my Tivo taped an episode of Sara's Secrets today where she was working with okra as a side dish, so now I have some insight on how to work with it. All I need now is a good recipe.
In the next few days, I'll tell you all about my Tivo, too. THIS THING IS FRICKIN' AWESOME. You know how they say "It'll change the way you watch TV... forever!™"? They're right.
Karaoke is SUPPOSED to start at 9:00. We got there at 9:20, but the pool players hadn't left yet, and apparently they don't take kindly to singers. Well, that's cool... judging by the amount of empty bottles sitting around, it looks like they pay the bills pretty much, as our group rarely spends more than $10 TOTAL on sodas and whatnot.
One of the three pool tables was open, though, and we asked a gentleman standing near it if it was taken. He said no, the game everyone was concerned with was on the middle table. So we went ahead and got a game going while we waited for the place to clear out. An older guy sitting at the bar started giving Kristy pointers during our game, then offered to help me, too. I figured, well, what the heck... I don't know what I'm doing anyway. So we played out our game, and I beat her (for the first time, I might add).
There's a display case on the wall by the stick rack, and in it are six handmade cues. Their prices range from $250 to $600. Well, you know who makes them? The guy who was giving us tips. He had let Kristy use his cue. I didn't hear him, but when she asked how much it was worth, he told her, and her eyes widened in shock. She mentioned later that it was solid oak.
So, anyway, we've established the guy's pretty much a pro. Then, while Jenn and I are playing a couple of games later, he calls winner. Well, she ends up knocking in the 8-ball a few balls early, so I win. Great. I figure I'm roadkill.
After 15 minutes of some of the most stressful pool I've played in my life, though, we were down to just the 8-ball. I make no claims as to being good at this game, mind you; luck had a lot to do with it. I drained five straight at one point. Anyway, after I sunk the 2-ball, it was my shot on the 8, and I had a tricky lie to hit. I figured that with the position it was in, I had to make it or break it as I was going to leave a wide-open shot for him if I didn't make it somehow.
If there were a compass on the pool table, the 8-ball was sitting about 4 inches from the north edge of the table and 6 inches from the northeast hole. The cue ball was about 5 inches from the south edge of the table, sitting south of the 8-ball and about one ball's-width to the west. At the angle it was at, I thought I might have a shot at sideswiping the 8-ball into the northeast pocket, but the more I looked at it, the more it looked like I would probably knock it into the edge first. The cue ball was too far south of the 8 to get the right angle on it. So I decided to bank the cue ball off the north edge of the table and knock the 8-ball into the southeast pocket, the one I was standing over. I pointed at the pocket (as loud as the jukebox was blaring, it would have done no good to try and yell it out); the gentleman raised his eyebrows but nodded. I lined it up, figured "Here goes," and let it fly.
It was perfect. The cue ball ricocheted off the north edge and drilled the 8-ball dead center. It flew to the pocket and did that thing where it hits the hole, hops up in the air, and drops straight down. As I started to exhale, I saw the cue ball spinning wildly towards the west end of the table. It was heading... straight for the northwest pocket!
PLUNK!
"Sonofabitch!"
Well... oh well. I shook his hand. Them's the breaks. Karaoke fired up not long after, but the three of us were pretty worn out anyway; we'd originally planned to leave at 11:00. However, there was literally no one else besides the two DJ's singing, so I got five songs done in about 40 minutes and we lit a shuck at 11:20.
Sometime tomorrow, I'm going to spam everyone else's blogs with invitations to my dinner. I'll email anyone I can think of, too. It's going to be a "Borderless Cuisine" meal, inspired by Rokusaburo Michiba's approach to cooking on Iron Chef. All your favorites will return from last time, along with a few new ideas. Yes, okra -- oddly enough, my Tivo taped an episode of Sara's Secrets today where she was working with okra as a side dish, so now I have some insight on how to work with it. All I need now is a good recipe.
In the next few days, I'll tell you all about my Tivo, too. THIS THING IS FRICKIN' AWESOME. You know how they say "It'll change the way you watch TV... forever!™"? They're right.
Sunday, July 6
I remember back when I took Bowling during my year at ASU... I had no idea I'd be spending 80% of my day in the MU anyway, but there it was. I had to get up from our table we claimed every day on the other side of the wall from the Burger King and walk, oh, about forty steps around the corner, and I was at Bowling 101, at the world-famous Memorial Union Lanes. Always kept at a brisk 55º or so in there. There was a cat who occasionally would pop up out of nowhere and start running around in the lanes, knocking over pins. The lanes had uneven boards from years of abuse from idiots, so every so often your ball would just hop and change direction like a Plinko chip. Yeah, it was crappy, but it was home.
The instructor had shown us the instructional videos made back in the 60's, but then on two of the three days we were supposed to use to set handicaps, class was cancelled.
Our team was me, Samantha, Nathan, and Yusri. We didn't know each other, which is why we formed our team; pretty much everyone else who had signed up did so in groups of 4 friends. One team was four athletes (baseball players I think), one was four drama majors, et cetera. Samantha was in drama, while Nathan was studying art; I had no major picked out, and Yusri didn't speak English.
As we started class on that third day of handicap setting week, of which as I mentioned Monday and Wednesday had been cancelled, I sidled up to the instructor and asked how he planned to set handicaps. "Oh, I guess we'll just go off of today's games," he said offhandedly.
*grin* So, me being the scheming f'er I am, I told Sam and Nathan this news. There was a second or two of silence, anf then Nathan said, "So, if we bowl REALLY crappy today..." and then smiled, as did Sam. We all had the same idea. We didn't need to tell Yusri; he sucked anyway.
So, we bowled some of the worst games of our lives that day. We didn't just chuck it in the gutter, so as to not be obvious, but we certainly had our fair share of Oopses and Oh, Goshes. These aren't verbatim, but I think Sam went 45-52, Nathan went 61-54, I went 55-59, and Yusri went 58-59 (I think his high score all year was 78). It was a thing of beauty. Sam averaged somewehre around 105, I averaged something like 115, and Nathan was up in the 130's. AND NO ONE EVER CAUGHT ON TO US! Of course, that's also in part to the fact that after one week of no one doing the score book, I just did it myself for the rest of the season.
Anyhow, we took the weighted-score title. (We finished second in unweighted, too.) And for all our scheming, plotting, and dastardly deeds, what did we win? 5 free passes to the Memorial Union Lanes. Whoop de doo!!
The instructor had shown us the instructional videos made back in the 60's, but then on two of the three days we were supposed to use to set handicaps, class was cancelled.
Our team was me, Samantha, Nathan, and Yusri. We didn't know each other, which is why we formed our team; pretty much everyone else who had signed up did so in groups of 4 friends. One team was four athletes (baseball players I think), one was four drama majors, et cetera. Samantha was in drama, while Nathan was studying art; I had no major picked out, and Yusri didn't speak English.
As we started class on that third day of handicap setting week, of which as I mentioned Monday and Wednesday had been cancelled, I sidled up to the instructor and asked how he planned to set handicaps. "Oh, I guess we'll just go off of today's games," he said offhandedly.
*grin* So, me being the scheming f'er I am, I told Sam and Nathan this news. There was a second or two of silence, anf then Nathan said, "So, if we bowl REALLY crappy today..." and then smiled, as did Sam. We all had the same idea. We didn't need to tell Yusri; he sucked anyway.
So, we bowled some of the worst games of our lives that day. We didn't just chuck it in the gutter, so as to not be obvious, but we certainly had our fair share of Oopses and Oh, Goshes. These aren't verbatim, but I think Sam went 45-52, Nathan went 61-54, I went 55-59, and Yusri went 58-59 (I think his high score all year was 78). It was a thing of beauty. Sam averaged somewehre around 105, I averaged something like 115, and Nathan was up in the 130's. AND NO ONE EVER CAUGHT ON TO US! Of course, that's also in part to the fact that after one week of no one doing the score book, I just did it myself for the rest of the season.
Anyhow, we took the weighted-score title. (We finished second in unweighted, too.) And for all our scheming, plotting, and dastardly deeds, what did we win? 5 free passes to the Memorial Union Lanes. Whoop de doo!!
AURAGGH!! Insignificant-things-buggin'-me time.
(Before I start: Again, I seem to be back in the habit of a post or two a day. If you haven't been in a while, scroll on down. You might have missed something. Like, say, for example, my next dinner. You coming? Bringing friends? Let me know via email or phone at 602-222-4275.)
ANyway, so after I made a round of phone calls sending invites for my dinner, I figured I'd spin by Rally's down there by the airport and grab some tasty burgers on my way home. I pull up to the drivethru speaker, and I get the standard, "*CKSHHH!* welcometorally'swouldyouliketotryacombomealtoday."
Now, I always wait a couple of seconds, because I KNOW that, hard as they may try, only the very best drive-thru attendants can memorze my order as they walk across to the register. Now, granted, not everyone is like that, but the majority of them will be standing twenty feet away from the register, and more often than not engaged in conversation. This is particularly bad at Taco Bell, where it plays an automatic greeting when you pull up.
So I wait, then I carefully begin, "Hi, I'd like to get three Rallyburgers (their little 99¢ jobs) with no lettuce and no onions. I'd" --
"That it?" (WHAT? "That it?" Whatever happened to "Anything else?" I thought you were supposed to suggest me ordering more, which I fully intended to do anyway.)
"Um, no, I wasn't done. I'd--"
"That'll be $4.38 at the window."
"I wasn't done yet." Note: getting mildly perturbed.
"Oh. Sorry. What else?"
"Okay, I also want a Honey-Grilled Chicken sandwich with no lettuce, and an order of onion rings, and a large Diet Coke." (Yeah, hah hah hah, Diet Coke at a burger joint. Trust me, I've heard it before. I don't like sweet soda in any way, shape or form. And besides, I'm somewhat diabetic anyway.)
"We don't have no onion rings. Sorry."
Uggh. So I squint at the menu, and sure enough, it says, Beer Battered Onions. "Um... the Beer Battered Onions?"
"Oh, those. Those are actually, like, onion petals."
Well, frickin' DUH. All right, to split hairs, she had me. "Okay, I'll take an order of those."
"Okay, so I got... three Rallyburgers, one Honey-Grilled Chicken sandwich without no lettuce (sic), a large Coke and an order of onion petals. That it?"
As I cringed at That it? again, I said, "Uh, the Rallyburgers are no lettuce and no onion. And it's a Diet Coke." So, yeah, we weren't exactly listening to my order when we first started. That never fails to irk me. Note: irked. Somewhat past "mildly perturbed."
"*beep beep beep beep* Okay, I got it. No lettuce and no onion on the burgers and a Diet Coke. That'll be $9.21 at the window."
As I pull my already-sunburning face back in the truck and zip around, I realize I have... two $1 bills in my wallet. Huh. Now I'd been to this particular Rally's before, and I could swear they took credit. Guess what...?
"Hi. $9.21. ... Oooh, sorry, we don't take nothing but cash here."
I tried not to roll my eyes too hard; this one was apparently my fault. "Oh, seriously? I could have sworn I used it here a couple of months ago...?"
"Nope. I been working here like 3 years and we ain't never took cards." (sic... again)
I note the Exxon right next door. "All right... That's my fault. Tell you what. I'll be right back. Let me go hit the ATM." So I buzzed around the corner, pulled out a Jackson, and swung back into Rally's. Noted that no one had walked up or driven in during the 5 minutes I spent next door. So I pay, and she hands me my drink. Um, no straw. Okay, it'll be in the bag, like they sometimes do. I won't ask.
Now, I SEE the assistant behind her wrapping up what I'm assuming is my food, since there hasn't been ANYONE else there in 10 minutes. It appears all my burgers are lettuce-free (lettuce, of course, being the flora of the Underworld), at least which of them I can see. Plus one for them, I figure.
Note here that the order taker is taking no part in helping the assistant prepare these burgers. Health reasons? I don't know. She just stands there in the window watching her partner work. She wraps, folds, stuffs into bag, and then when the Fryolator starts screaming, the assistant goes over and takes care of my onion not-rings, too. The de facto head chef simply takes the full bag from her lackey and hands it to me, with enough napkins to make a treehugger weep. "Have a nice day," she sort of squeezes out, though I know she's tired of me. *SHUNK!* goes the window.
Now, I don't want to be the grouchy old guy who opens everything in the bag and checks it right there in the lane, even though there was STILL no one behind me. So I do a quick head count: four burger-like things and a box that reeks of onion. And my drink, and my -- "DAMMIT!"
So I politely tap on the window. Once. Wait. Again. Wait. Again. Finally, *SHUNK!* "Yeah?"
"Straw?"
"Oh." She grabs THREE. "Here you go." *SHUNK!*
All right. Note: halfway pissed. What, like it was MY g'd' fault she forgot it in the first place? This was one of the few times I contemplated calling the "Questions?" 800 number on the receipt. I in fact had my phone out as I rounded the corner, but I decided against it. Ehh. Nothing would probably come of it anyway.
So I get home, drop the bag, take care of business in the lavatory, and then sit on the couch to eat. Unwrap the chicken. Clean. Unwrap the burgers. Clean. Clean. -- "What the f---?!"
The third one is SLATHERED with shredded lettuce and diced onions!! I mean, SERIOUSLY!! At least at Wendy's, it's a leaf and a ring or two if they screw it up.. Now, it could only be one of two things. (1) Assistant chef was so stupid and/or absentminded that she FORGOT what she was making halfway through it. The receipt clearly says "3 NO LETTUCE 3 NO ONION." This is somewhat possible. I mean, get to the third burger, totally forget what you just put on the last one 10 seconds ago? I'll buy that. But the conspiracy theorist in me wants to think that (2) they did it to spite me. Nah, maybe not.
At least they didn't spit on my burgers.
Editor's note: Another post for today follows this one.
(Before I start: Again, I seem to be back in the habit of a post or two a day. If you haven't been in a while, scroll on down. You might have missed something. Like, say, for example, my next dinner. You coming? Bringing friends? Let me know via email or phone at 602-222-4275.)
ANyway, so after I made a round of phone calls sending invites for my dinner, I figured I'd spin by Rally's down there by the airport and grab some tasty burgers on my way home. I pull up to the drivethru speaker, and I get the standard, "*CKSHHH!* welcometorally'swouldyouliketotryacombomealtoday."
Now, I always wait a couple of seconds, because I KNOW that, hard as they may try, only the very best drive-thru attendants can memorze my order as they walk across to the register. Now, granted, not everyone is like that, but the majority of them will be standing twenty feet away from the register, and more often than not engaged in conversation. This is particularly bad at Taco Bell, where it plays an automatic greeting when you pull up.
So I wait, then I carefully begin, "Hi, I'd like to get three Rallyburgers (their little 99¢ jobs) with no lettuce and no onions. I'd" --
"That it?" (WHAT? "That it?" Whatever happened to "Anything else?" I thought you were supposed to suggest me ordering more, which I fully intended to do anyway.)
"Um, no, I wasn't done. I'd--"
"That'll be $4.38 at the window."
"I wasn't done yet." Note: getting mildly perturbed.
"Oh. Sorry. What else?"
"Okay, I also want a Honey-Grilled Chicken sandwich with no lettuce, and an order of onion rings, and a large Diet Coke." (Yeah, hah hah hah, Diet Coke at a burger joint. Trust me, I've heard it before. I don't like sweet soda in any way, shape or form. And besides, I'm somewhat diabetic anyway.)
"We don't have no onion rings. Sorry."
Uggh. So I squint at the menu, and sure enough, it says, Beer Battered Onions. "Um... the Beer Battered Onions?"
"Oh, those. Those are actually, like, onion petals."
Well, frickin' DUH. All right, to split hairs, she had me. "Okay, I'll take an order of those."
"Okay, so I got... three Rallyburgers, one Honey-Grilled Chicken sandwich without no lettuce (sic), a large Coke and an order of onion petals. That it?"
As I cringed at That it? again, I said, "Uh, the Rallyburgers are no lettuce and no onion. And it's a Diet Coke." So, yeah, we weren't exactly listening to my order when we first started. That never fails to irk me. Note: irked. Somewhat past "mildly perturbed."
"*beep beep beep beep* Okay, I got it. No lettuce and no onion on the burgers and a Diet Coke. That'll be $9.21 at the window."
As I pull my already-sunburning face back in the truck and zip around, I realize I have... two $1 bills in my wallet. Huh. Now I'd been to this particular Rally's before, and I could swear they took credit. Guess what...?
"Hi. $9.21. ... Oooh, sorry, we don't take nothing but cash here."
I tried not to roll my eyes too hard; this one was apparently my fault. "Oh, seriously? I could have sworn I used it here a couple of months ago...?"
"Nope. I been working here like 3 years and we ain't never took cards." (sic... again)
I note the Exxon right next door. "All right... That's my fault. Tell you what. I'll be right back. Let me go hit the ATM." So I buzzed around the corner, pulled out a Jackson, and swung back into Rally's. Noted that no one had walked up or driven in during the 5 minutes I spent next door. So I pay, and she hands me my drink. Um, no straw. Okay, it'll be in the bag, like they sometimes do. I won't ask.
Now, I SEE the assistant behind her wrapping up what I'm assuming is my food, since there hasn't been ANYONE else there in 10 minutes. It appears all my burgers are lettuce-free (lettuce, of course, being the flora of the Underworld), at least which of them I can see. Plus one for them, I figure.
Note here that the order taker is taking no part in helping the assistant prepare these burgers. Health reasons? I don't know. She just stands there in the window watching her partner work. She wraps, folds, stuffs into bag, and then when the Fryolator starts screaming, the assistant goes over and takes care of my onion not-rings, too. The de facto head chef simply takes the full bag from her lackey and hands it to me, with enough napkins to make a treehugger weep. "Have a nice day," she sort of squeezes out, though I know she's tired of me. *SHUNK!* goes the window.
Now, I don't want to be the grouchy old guy who opens everything in the bag and checks it right there in the lane, even though there was STILL no one behind me. So I do a quick head count: four burger-like things and a box that reeks of onion. And my drink, and my -- "DAMMIT!"
So I politely tap on the window. Once. Wait. Again. Wait. Again. Finally, *SHUNK!* "Yeah?"
"Straw?"
"Oh." She grabs THREE. "Here you go." *SHUNK!*
All right. Note: halfway pissed. What, like it was MY g'd' fault she forgot it in the first place? This was one of the few times I contemplated calling the "Questions?" 800 number on the receipt. I in fact had my phone out as I rounded the corner, but I decided against it. Ehh. Nothing would probably come of it anyway.
So I get home, drop the bag, take care of business in the lavatory, and then sit on the couch to eat. Unwrap the chicken. Clean. Unwrap the burgers. Clean. Clean. -- "What the f---?!"
The third one is SLATHERED with shredded lettuce and diced onions!! I mean, SERIOUSLY!! At least at Wendy's, it's a leaf and a ring or two if they screw it up.. Now, it could only be one of two things. (1) Assistant chef was so stupid and/or absentminded that she FORGOT what she was making halfway through it. The receipt clearly says "3 NO LETTUCE 3 NO ONION." This is somewhat possible. I mean, get to the third burger, totally forget what you just put on the last one 10 seconds ago? I'll buy that. But the conspiracy theorist in me wants to think that (2) they did it to spite me. Nah, maybe not.
At least they didn't spit on my burgers.
Editor's note: Another post for today follows this one.
Saturday, July 5
The following piece is snipped from "Trinity (part 2)", of which the opening piece is available at the Eject! Eject! Eject! Archives. Warning! Strong Americanism ahead. If you want to comment on the piece, go to the aforementioned website. Actually, go anyway. I'm not even sure if I'm technically allowed to post this here.
So how stands this magnificent experiment, this monument to ambition, hope, freedom and ingenuity on her 227th birthday? How’s the old girl holding up after all these years?
Military, she is unmatched, unrivaled. The men and women who serve and defend her today are not only the most capable, disciplined, and effective soldiers in her storied and glorious history; they are the most motivated, decent, flexible, daring and victory-prone troops deployed by any nation at any time. The all-volunteer, citizen soldiers arrayed in the defense of this experiment in self-government have placed the United States in a position that I cannot find a precedent for in history, for they now comprise a force so powerful and effective that the idea of a direct armed attack upon us has become actually unthinkable. To that extent, we can stand on this Fourth of July and think of a promise we have kept to those young men trapped in the sinking hulls at Pearl Harbor, to those airmen flying through fire and blood to hit their targets at Midway or Frankfurt, to the Marines in the jungles of Tarawa and Guadalcanal, the kids who never came home from beaches at Normandy, and all the others who have fought and died to preserve and strengthen this union and who through whose sacrifice we stand here free and alive and happy today.
The stain of racism, the dagger that nearly pierced our heart, continues to fade, its practitioners in a full-scale rout from a battle that may not yet be over but which has certainly been won. We can look out upon the most ethnically diverse nation on the planet and see not the looming disaster that darkens the horizons of much of Europe, with vast, furious, and growing populations of unassimilated radicals, but rather the serious beginnings of a society where people are indeed judged not by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character. The office floor on which I work is a kaleidoscope of racial, national and sexual identities. They are not only my colleagues, they are my friends. The fact that much remains to be done should not blind us to the really remarkable battles won in the hearts of each of us since Dr. King looked out from the shadow of Lincoln and shared a dream that becomes more real every day. Good for us. That, too, is something to stand proud of; something worth celebrating with fireworks.
Our economy, even when hung over, continues to show a broad and unshakable strength, the envy of the earth. American productivity leads the world, as we do in scientific breakthroughs and world-changing inventions. The fact is, fierce competition does indeed keep us honest. Science and freedom eats superstition and tribalism for breakfast every morning. We don’t have time for that nonsense.
Our water and air are far cleaner than they were a generation ago, and what comes out the back of a modern automobile is practically cleaner than what goes in. The black streaks behind departing jetliners, rivers that catch fire, belching brown smokestacks and the little blue-grey puffs of poison floating up in their millions from sputtering tailpipes are a fading memory. We can do even better, and we will.
Of course, our times are defined by a new enemy: a brutal, ruthless, utterly inhuman scourge that targets little girls’ birthday parties and office workers and commuters on a bus home from work.
I stand in mute amazement at some of the angry voices I have heard from Europe, who claim as a virtue having put up with terrorism for decades, and who emerge through some sick moral wormhole into a position where fighting back is looked upon with scorn and derision. Get used to it, they say.
Well, here’s an Independence Day thought for you cowards and defeatists out there in your millions: to hell with that. Since that horrible morning I have had the consolation of knowing that thousands of those murdering scumbags have had, as their last thought on earth, the realization that maybe 9/11 wasn’t such a good idea after all.
And I have also watched in total admiration as a genuine leader stood up to pressure the likes of which I have never seen, and committed this nation to the removal of two of the most odious regimes on earth. With them have gone all sorts of future mischief, and likely, certainly hopefully, we will continue to trample this snake until our enemies realize that resorting to Terror will bring them nothing but the swift and total end to their regimes and ambitions, not to mention their personal death and ruin. The jury is certainly still out, and will remain so for many years to come. But I, for one, feel like a man who has watched history’s great projector rewound, with Churchill at Munich standing in for Chamberlain, with Fascism crushed in the cradle and a horrible, brutal lesson learned – by a few, at least – at long last.
So Happy 227th Birthday, America. Thank you for all you have done for me and my family. You have asked so little of me, and given me so much, that words seem absolutely inadequate. Thank you.
And where ends this Trinity of capitalism, freedom and ingenuity?
Far be it from me to be one of those mindless ideologues who wish to see the United States triumphant for the next century, or 500 years, or a thousand. No, I’m not that kind of person.
I want to see her triumphant forever. I want that shining city on the granite cliffs to keep that beacon of freedom and hope and optimism alive for as long as we are human, to continue her painful, never-ending, beautiful growth towards a more perfect Union, to be the ideal that we all struggle and fight for each in our own way and according to our own inner lights. I want that lamp to light the way down through history, the scourge of tyrants and torturers in ages yet to come. I want her to remain the polar star of those whose hope, optimism, genius and hard work have lifted, and continue to raise, all of us from the darkness of our animal selves.
And someday, somewhere, I hope and believe those Stars and Stripes will snap and flutter in unimaginably distant skies. I hope and believe that proud parents will sit on bleachers and watch their kids playing little league baseball on brave new worlds we can barely dream of. Right now, at this moment in time, it looks like a great, big, magnificent, empty universe. One day, a day closer to us than July 4th, 1776, I think those wagons will roll again, out to new frontiers, carrying painful lessons learned and yet filled with the identical hope and optimism and confidence that alone define us as a people and a nation.
Some species, somewhere, is going to do it. It might as well be us.
Bill Whittle, Eject! Eject! Eject!
Ho-hum, honestly. Day off today, as I have every Saturday. Didn't set my alarm, so I slept in until 3:45 pm. I swear, if I really put my mind to it (and really emptied my bladder beforehand -- that's usually why I end up waking up in the first place), I could probably sleep through an entire period of daylight. 4:00 am til about 8:00 pm. Now THAT would be worth it just for the reaction I'll have when I first wake up and it's dark outside. That will TOTALLY throw me, but I know as soon as I get my bearings, I'll have to smile, because I'll remember I did that to myself on purpose.
So, haven't gone anywhere today. Ordered pizza at 4:30, which was the only time I saw daylight. I think my face got sunburned in the 30 seconds I stood at the door and paid the driver. Is it November yet?
Anyway, laying around by myself has given me time (too much time, probably) to reflect on not making it into Five Degrees Cooler. It's starting to sting a little. Hindsight being 20/20, I wish I hadn't spent most of last Friday/Saturday and a chunk of Thursday morning learning the music. I still went out and stuff, and I guess I didn't have, like, other plans I was neglecting, but by the same token, now it seems like a waste. For it wasn't that I wasn't good enough for the group -- it was because my voice didn't fit. I could have waltzed in there and just sight-read the music and have gotten the same response. I don't know. I'm wavering on whether to call this other group Mckell gave me the number for. I don't want to go through another month's worth of nerves if I'm just going to end up all let-down afterwards.
The music has been stuck in my head all day, mocking me. That's probably the source of my problems. Every time I pause to think, I start hearing "Chili con Carne" playing on a loop.
Even though I want to get out of my apartment and do stuff, I can't think of anything interesting to do. Hence, I don't call anyone, since I don't have any ideas. Going out to new places for karaoke was fun for a while, but it just grew tiresome when it wasn't the "new thing" anymore. The Wednesday-night deal (which everyone's still invited to join) is about the extent of it. Even aside from that, I sit here and try and think of interesting stuff to do, and... nothing. I may talk a big game, but at my core, I'm really a very simple, uninteresting person. I'm never the one to actually come up with an idea, which, I think, is why I have so much trouble dating. One or two dates, and I'm fresh out of ideas. Then I start flailing around and grasping at straws, and everything falls apart.
You know, going back to the sleeping-through-a-day thing, the other factor I face is my dreams. Once I start sleeping past the 9- or 10-hour mark, they just get plain weird, while at the same time becoming more ultra-realistic. I can typically remember those last few dreams from an extra-long sleep period for days afterwards, as if they'd actually happened to me. Last night, or I guess more specifically earlier this afternoon around 1:00ish, I had a dream that myself and some friends had gone to Japan, to a restaurant named Angelo's or Anthony's or something that started with an A. However, all three floors of the restaurant (yeah, it was big) were filled up, so we hopped a subway to find a different location. Except the subway had no seats. We all sat on the floor. Then there's a hole in my recollection, and the next thing I can remember is being in Hong Kong with a girl, who was someone I know but I can't remember who it was. We went sightseeing. THAT lasted for almost an hour, or at least it did in dream-time. I was bored silly. WHY in the WORLD would I have a dream about being bored?! ... *shrug* Anyway, I've noted that most of the dreams I can remember tend to involve stuff I've been worrying about. I remember singing or humming to myslef a lot during the sightseeing trip in Hong Kong, probably a nod to my Five Degrees Cooler rejection.
Boing! (I think I'll adopt that as my blanket sign that I've jumped back to a previous topic.) Back to what I was talking about before that out-of-order paragraph, about getting out, doing stuff, dating, et cetera... I'm at once all conflicted in two directions. On one hand, I've got all this free time to myself now, and I want to be doing something with it instead of spending whole days lounging around in my aparmtent eating lousy pizza and watching backlogged Tivo programs. Especially meeting a girl, somewhere, and somehow managing to date. I know, I can make it sound so difficult... but really, it is. I can't even put my finger on it. Inevitably, I wind up locking up and then everything comes to a screeching halt, no matter how well it seemed to be going. I'm just not very good at it. A friend told me I just have to relax and let love find me, because I'm trying far too hard to find it myself and that makes things come out all screwy. I'm trying, but unfortunately patience is a virtue I'm not blessed with. I'd rather cut a minute off the cooking time of my TV dinner and eat it while it's still cold in the center than wait that extra minute and THEN have to wait for it to cool off, too.
Below this post, you'll find an excerpt from an essay by Bill Whittle at Eject! Eject! Eject!, which, though I've heard of it before, I just went to for the first time today. Not bad. I snipped a portion of his essay Trinity, specifically a portion dealing with Independence Day. As I say after it, you really ought to go and read the whole thing. But set some time aside. It'll take a while.
So, haven't gone anywhere today. Ordered pizza at 4:30, which was the only time I saw daylight. I think my face got sunburned in the 30 seconds I stood at the door and paid the driver. Is it November yet?
Anyway, laying around by myself has given me time (too much time, probably) to reflect on not making it into Five Degrees Cooler. It's starting to sting a little. Hindsight being 20/20, I wish I hadn't spent most of last Friday/Saturday and a chunk of Thursday morning learning the music. I still went out and stuff, and I guess I didn't have, like, other plans I was neglecting, but by the same token, now it seems like a waste. For it wasn't that I wasn't good enough for the group -- it was because my voice didn't fit. I could have waltzed in there and just sight-read the music and have gotten the same response. I don't know. I'm wavering on whether to call this other group Mckell gave me the number for. I don't want to go through another month's worth of nerves if I'm just going to end up all let-down afterwards.
The music has been stuck in my head all day, mocking me. That's probably the source of my problems. Every time I pause to think, I start hearing "Chili con Carne" playing on a loop.
Even though I want to get out of my apartment and do stuff, I can't think of anything interesting to do. Hence, I don't call anyone, since I don't have any ideas. Going out to new places for karaoke was fun for a while, but it just grew tiresome when it wasn't the "new thing" anymore. The Wednesday-night deal (which everyone's still invited to join) is about the extent of it. Even aside from that, I sit here and try and think of interesting stuff to do, and... nothing. I may talk a big game, but at my core, I'm really a very simple, uninteresting person. I'm never the one to actually come up with an idea, which, I think, is why I have so much trouble dating. One or two dates, and I'm fresh out of ideas. Then I start flailing around and grasping at straws, and everything falls apart.
You know, going back to the sleeping-through-a-day thing, the other factor I face is my dreams. Once I start sleeping past the 9- or 10-hour mark, they just get plain weird, while at the same time becoming more ultra-realistic. I can typically remember those last few dreams from an extra-long sleep period for days afterwards, as if they'd actually happened to me. Last night, or I guess more specifically earlier this afternoon around 1:00ish, I had a dream that myself and some friends had gone to Japan, to a restaurant named Angelo's or Anthony's or something that started with an A. However, all three floors of the restaurant (yeah, it was big) were filled up, so we hopped a subway to find a different location. Except the subway had no seats. We all sat on the floor. Then there's a hole in my recollection, and the next thing I can remember is being in Hong Kong with a girl, who was someone I know but I can't remember who it was. We went sightseeing. THAT lasted for almost an hour, or at least it did in dream-time. I was bored silly. WHY in the WORLD would I have a dream about being bored?! ... *shrug* Anyway, I've noted that most of the dreams I can remember tend to involve stuff I've been worrying about. I remember singing or humming to myslef a lot during the sightseeing trip in Hong Kong, probably a nod to my Five Degrees Cooler rejection.
Boing! (I think I'll adopt that as my blanket sign that I've jumped back to a previous topic.) Back to what I was talking about before that out-of-order paragraph, about getting out, doing stuff, dating, et cetera... I'm at once all conflicted in two directions. On one hand, I've got all this free time to myself now, and I want to be doing something with it instead of spending whole days lounging around in my aparmtent eating lousy pizza and watching backlogged Tivo programs. Especially meeting a girl, somewhere, and somehow managing to date. I know, I can make it sound so difficult... but really, it is. I can't even put my finger on it. Inevitably, I wind up locking up and then everything comes to a screeching halt, no matter how well it seemed to be going. I'm just not very good at it. A friend told me I just have to relax and let love find me, because I'm trying far too hard to find it myself and that makes things come out all screwy. I'm trying, but unfortunately patience is a virtue I'm not blessed with. I'd rather cut a minute off the cooking time of my TV dinner and eat it while it's still cold in the center than wait that extra minute and THEN have to wait for it to cool off, too.
Below this post, you'll find an excerpt from an essay by Bill Whittle at Eject! Eject! Eject!, which, though I've heard of it before, I just went to for the first time today. Not bad. I snipped a portion of his essay Trinity, specifically a portion dealing with Independence Day. As I say after it, you really ought to go and read the whole thing. But set some time aside. It'll take a while.
Friday, July 4
Judge ran 4th out of 4 dogs. Ehh. Not the end of the world, for sure. I was surprised she made it into the finals; she wasn't even our top entry for the event. (Candidate Mate got knocked out in the semifinals.)
Gene apparently was having a bad night. Gene, of course, being the old guy who was yammering on about not getting dressed up for the event. Sure enough, he wasn't, just preferring to wear his regular track clothes. As I walked by, dressed to the ears in my suit and reeking of Royall Lyme, he started talking (once my back was safely toward him) again about how he's been there "for 37 years, and I'll be damned if I'm gonna dress up for something like this," blah blah blah. See, in my eyes, it goes beyond whether you think you have a shot at winning it or not. I think it's a matter of respect to the person who has the dominant dog in the race. You can sit there and be a whiney little bitch about it, and complain that this dog wins everything, or you can show a little respect, dress up, and be there to shake their hand when you're defeated.
I was there at the finish line as Konow won the race in a cakewalk. Wasn't even close. His time was again lower than the old record, so effectively he'd broken the track record 3 times in his first 3 attempts EVER at that distance. Not bad, eh?
I shook my aunt's hand, and then her trainer Beto's as well. Then Oscar Henderson and Georgia Medis, Konow's owners, after that. Congratulated them all. Even added a wry "...again" for my aunt with a wink and a grin. Walking back to my truck, I passed by Gene (coincidentally? okay, maybe I wanted to see what he'd do) on his way to his truck with his dog, who ran 3rd. (My grandpa/aunt's other dog ran 2nd, making it an effective sweep.)
He looks at me as I pass, and says, loudly, "Great race! Excellent job out there!"
Now, naturally, I could have burst forth with an F-You, which was what I FELT like saying. Instead, I didn't even blink and said back, with a big grin, "Hey, you did pretty good yourself, there." Then I kept right on walking, having never broken stride.
I thought no one else there heard it; Gene's the kind of guy who's only going to talk smack to your face when there's no witnesses. But Angelo was standing at the end of the walkway near a group of people, and he asked, "What was THAT all about?" Obviously, what we'd said wasn't nasty, but it was the tone of voice which gave it away.
"Ehh, I guess he's got a cob up his ass about getting beat tonight or something," I said. Angelo had heard him before the race talking about not getting dressed up and so on, so I think he put 2 and 2 together at that point and figured it out, since the next thing Angelo told me was, "Ehh, f--- him. He's a d---head anyway."
Kinda my thought process exactly. If the only person in life I piss off is Gene, I don't think I'll lose any sleep over it.
That got me going on another tangent, though. Gene's, like, 65 or so, and this is obviously not the first time he's gone off and spewed forth his disdain for something in public, shall we say. I've said it before and I'll say it again: When I get to be that age, I sincerely hope I'm not one of those elderly people who hates everyone and everything. In fact, as soon as I invent time travel (see a future post for my thoughts on that; I've given it some thought), I plan on zipping ahead and finding out if I turned out to be a grouchy old man. If so, I fully intend to bitch-slap future me across the mouth and hopefully try and remind myself of this post I'm posting right now.
Boing! Back to topic: "But, TFG," you ask, "what if Gene reads this post? Won't that piss him off more?" Well, pretty much no one in my work community knows about my blog. I think my sister might, but she doesn't care enough to read it, and even if she did, she hates Gene anyway, whereas I simply harbor a mild distaste for him. Nobody else does, though, least of all Gene, who strikes me as the kind of fellow who would sit at a computer for hours, unable to continue because he can't find the "Any" key. Funny thing about it all, though? His wife Helen is one of the nicest people at the track. Go figure. Anyway, Gene does the track Monday nights, which will be the next time I'll see him. I doubt he'll say anything further, and even if he does, I'm planning on being the bigger man and ignoring it. (Of course... I guess I'll be the bigger man anyway... he's kind of skinny.)
Gene apparently was having a bad night. Gene, of course, being the old guy who was yammering on about not getting dressed up for the event. Sure enough, he wasn't, just preferring to wear his regular track clothes. As I walked by, dressed to the ears in my suit and reeking of Royall Lyme, he started talking (once my back was safely toward him) again about how he's been there "for 37 years, and I'll be damned if I'm gonna dress up for something like this," blah blah blah. See, in my eyes, it goes beyond whether you think you have a shot at winning it or not. I think it's a matter of respect to the person who has the dominant dog in the race. You can sit there and be a whiney little bitch about it, and complain that this dog wins everything, or you can show a little respect, dress up, and be there to shake their hand when you're defeated.
I was there at the finish line as Konow won the race in a cakewalk. Wasn't even close. His time was again lower than the old record, so effectively he'd broken the track record 3 times in his first 3 attempts EVER at that distance. Not bad, eh?
I shook my aunt's hand, and then her trainer Beto's as well. Then Oscar Henderson and Georgia Medis, Konow's owners, after that. Congratulated them all. Even added a wry "...again" for my aunt with a wink and a grin. Walking back to my truck, I passed by Gene (coincidentally? okay, maybe I wanted to see what he'd do) on his way to his truck with his dog, who ran 3rd. (My grandpa/aunt's other dog ran 2nd, making it an effective sweep.)
He looks at me as I pass, and says, loudly, "Great race! Excellent job out there!"
Now, naturally, I could have burst forth with an F-You, which was what I FELT like saying. Instead, I didn't even blink and said back, with a big grin, "Hey, you did pretty good yourself, there." Then I kept right on walking, having never broken stride.
I thought no one else there heard it; Gene's the kind of guy who's only going to talk smack to your face when there's no witnesses. But Angelo was standing at the end of the walkway near a group of people, and he asked, "What was THAT all about?" Obviously, what we'd said wasn't nasty, but it was the tone of voice which gave it away.
"Ehh, I guess he's got a cob up his ass about getting beat tonight or something," I said. Angelo had heard him before the race talking about not getting dressed up and so on, so I think he put 2 and 2 together at that point and figured it out, since the next thing Angelo told me was, "Ehh, f--- him. He's a d---head anyway."
Kinda my thought process exactly. If the only person in life I piss off is Gene, I don't think I'll lose any sleep over it.
That got me going on another tangent, though. Gene's, like, 65 or so, and this is obviously not the first time he's gone off and spewed forth his disdain for something in public, shall we say. I've said it before and I'll say it again: When I get to be that age, I sincerely hope I'm not one of those elderly people who hates everyone and everything. In fact, as soon as I invent time travel (see a future post for my thoughts on that; I've given it some thought), I plan on zipping ahead and finding out if I turned out to be a grouchy old man. If so, I fully intend to bitch-slap future me across the mouth and hopefully try and remind myself of this post I'm posting right now.
Boing! Back to topic: "But, TFG," you ask, "what if Gene reads this post? Won't that piss him off more?" Well, pretty much no one in my work community knows about my blog. I think my sister might, but she doesn't care enough to read it, and even if she did, she hates Gene anyway, whereas I simply harbor a mild distaste for him. Nobody else does, though, least of all Gene, who strikes me as the kind of fellow who would sit at a computer for hours, unable to continue because he can't find the "Any" key. Funny thing about it all, though? His wife Helen is one of the nicest people at the track. Go figure. Anyway, Gene does the track Monday nights, which will be the next time I'll see him. I doubt he'll say anything further, and even if he does, I'm planning on being the bigger man and ignoring it. (Of course... I guess I'll be the bigger man anyway... he's kind of skinny.)
Editor's note: Since Blogger has redone their blogging interface, I can no longer choose to have the most recent post within a day appear at the top. Therefore... there's a newer post below this one, just in case you read this one already.
Well, I didn't make it.
According to Mckell, I have potential, but my voice just wasn't a good blend for the group. She said that if it were any consolation, they've been looking for several months now. They need someone with more bass to their voice than I have, although I was close. It's a fairly narrowly defined role, as it's their fifth part. Half of their repertoire is four parts anyway, so the fifth would just be gravy. They wanted someone to fit right in between Matt (bass) and Scott (high tenor), but I was too close to Scott's sound for their liking. Which is funny, because in all of my truck-based rehearsal sessions (a.k.a. singing along to the radio), I've always thought higher parts didn't sound good when I sang them. 'Course, if I'd had any formal training, I may have known better.
Anyway, she gave me some contact information for a couple of other groups I might try out for. Also, Kate (the soprano), who asked me twice during the rehearsal if I'd actually never had vocal training, offered to coach me for free. I've decided that on Monday, I'll call a couple of these other groups and if I'm offered an audition, I'll take Kate up on her offer.
*shrug* Like I said, I ran the risk that no matter how well I performed, I wouldn't fit in with the group, and apparently that was the case. Oh well. I won't lie and say I'm not upset about it; I'm disappointed somewhat, because I really poured myself into learning their material. Including what practicing I did last night after the rehearsal (just in case), I had six songs memorized, and had started working on two more.
I didn't close the door, though. I ended our conversation this afternoon by letting Mckell know I was still very interested, and if an opportunity were to arise in the future, she could call me anytime.
Wish me luck tonight. It's the finals of the Streak Stake, the 330-yard competition (races take about 17.6 seconds, instead of 31 seconds for a 550). We've got Miss Judgement in it. Judge has a decent enough shot, but she will be far from being the favorite as my grandpa/aunt's kennel has the former 330 track record holder (Coldwater Cleta) and the current 330 track record holder (Coldwater Konow -- remember him?) in the finals. Cleta I'm not sweating so much; Judge beat her fairly easily in the semifinals on Monday. Konow demolished the track record in his first-ever 330 last Thursday, then came back and toasted his semifinal field on Monday in a time which would have broken the old record as well, but wasn't as fast as his first go. SO, yeah, he's pretty good (not like we didn't know that already). It's only a 4-dog race -- the format of the entire stake, to help ensure less trouble in the turn -- and Judge is in the 3-box, with both Cleta (5) and Konow (7) to her outside. (I'm not worried in the slightest about the 1-dog, which means she'll probably win the damn thing, given my luck). Our best hope is that Konow cuts down to the rail too quickly and bumps with Cleta, while hoping Judge gets a sound start and manages to get out in front of them. We'll see. I'll be there in my suit, ready to shake the hand of the winner.
The guy who runs the 1-dog made an ass of himself Monday night, telling everyone, "Well, I ain't gonna bother gettin' all dressed up. I see them fools standin' down there at the finish line every time, then they gotta walk all the way back over here when they get beat. Ain't no point to it." Methinks, well, except to show you're classier than YOU, Gene, and to shake the hand of the winner if I DO get beat. Ass.
Wait! Before you comment, read the post below. It answers some questions left open in this one.
Well, I didn't make it.
According to Mckell, I have potential, but my voice just wasn't a good blend for the group. She said that if it were any consolation, they've been looking for several months now. They need someone with more bass to their voice than I have, although I was close. It's a fairly narrowly defined role, as it's their fifth part. Half of their repertoire is four parts anyway, so the fifth would just be gravy. They wanted someone to fit right in between Matt (bass) and Scott (high tenor), but I was too close to Scott's sound for their liking. Which is funny, because in all of my truck-based rehearsal sessions (a.k.a. singing along to the radio), I've always thought higher parts didn't sound good when I sang them. 'Course, if I'd had any formal training, I may have known better.
Anyway, she gave me some contact information for a couple of other groups I might try out for. Also, Kate (the soprano), who asked me twice during the rehearsal if I'd actually never had vocal training, offered to coach me for free. I've decided that on Monday, I'll call a couple of these other groups and if I'm offered an audition, I'll take Kate up on her offer.
*shrug* Like I said, I ran the risk that no matter how well I performed, I wouldn't fit in with the group, and apparently that was the case. Oh well. I won't lie and say I'm not upset about it; I'm disappointed somewhat, because I really poured myself into learning their material. Including what practicing I did last night after the rehearsal (just in case), I had six songs memorized, and had started working on two more.
I didn't close the door, though. I ended our conversation this afternoon by letting Mckell know I was still very interested, and if an opportunity were to arise in the future, she could call me anytime.
Wish me luck tonight. It's the finals of the Streak Stake, the 330-yard competition (races take about 17.6 seconds, instead of 31 seconds for a 550). We've got Miss Judgement in it. Judge has a decent enough shot, but she will be far from being the favorite as my grandpa/aunt's kennel has the former 330 track record holder (Coldwater Cleta) and the current 330 track record holder (Coldwater Konow -- remember him?) in the finals. Cleta I'm not sweating so much; Judge beat her fairly easily in the semifinals on Monday. Konow demolished the track record in his first-ever 330 last Thursday, then came back and toasted his semifinal field on Monday in a time which would have broken the old record as well, but wasn't as fast as his first go. SO, yeah, he's pretty good (not like we didn't know that already). It's only a 4-dog race -- the format of the entire stake, to help ensure less trouble in the turn -- and Judge is in the 3-box, with both Cleta (5) and Konow (7) to her outside. (I'm not worried in the slightest about the 1-dog, which means she'll probably win the damn thing, given my luck). Our best hope is that Konow cuts down to the rail too quickly and bumps with Cleta, while hoping Judge gets a sound start and manages to get out in front of them. We'll see. I'll be there in my suit, ready to shake the hand of the winner.
The guy who runs the 1-dog made an ass of himself Monday night, telling everyone, "Well, I ain't gonna bother gettin' all dressed up. I see them fools standin' down there at the finish line every time, then they gotta walk all the way back over here when they get beat. Ain't no point to it." Methinks, well, except to show you're classier than YOU, Gene, and to shake the hand of the winner if I DO get beat. Ass.
Wait! Before you comment, read the post below. It answers some questions left open in this one.
Thursday, July 3
DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAMN IT!!
I just sat here for 45 minutes, typing away, and friggin' Blogger deleted my post when I tried to post it!
DAMN IT!!!
"BIG POST ERROR, POST ID 105730159293563193"
I swear.
Well, note to self... start saving posts before publishing. Son of a bitch!! I put SO much stuff in there.
I guess I'll just gloss over the important points, since I SO don't feel like typing it out again right now. maybe tomorrow. Anyway, my audition was tonight. I think it went very well. I'll explain more about it tomorrow when I re-post. I don't know yet if I've been accepted. Mckell (the director of the group as well as the alto singer) said she'd call "tomorrow, or maybe tonight," but here it is 11:50 already and I haven't heard word yet. That hasn't stopped me from jazz-running across my apartment every time the phone rings (both times my sister).
I just sat here for 45 minutes, typing away, and friggin' Blogger deleted my post when I tried to post it!
DAMN IT!!!
"BIG POST ERROR, POST ID 105730159293563193"
I swear.
Well, note to self... start saving posts before publishing. Son of a bitch!! I put SO much stuff in there.
I guess I'll just gloss over the important points, since I SO don't feel like typing it out again right now. maybe tomorrow. Anyway, my audition was tonight. I think it went very well. I'll explain more about it tomorrow when I re-post. I don't know yet if I've been accepted. Mckell (the director of the group as well as the alto singer) said she'd call "tomorrow, or maybe tonight," but here it is 11:50 already and I haven't heard word yet. That hasn't stopped me from jazz-running across my apartment every time the phone rings (both times my sister).
Wednesday, July 2
Be sure and see yesterday's entry below on my next dinner. Feedback is requested. And yes, though I don't want to reveal the whole menu yet (I may just pull the Iron Chef and whisk off a satin tablecloth, revealing the whole meal in a swirl of dry ice, just before we eat -- or not), there will be fried okra. One way or another. There's okra at the Wild Oats Market up on Scottsdale and Shea, but they're about the size of baby carrots, whereas I thought okra was zucchini-sized. Stupid organic vegetables. I'll call around and find some somewhere, though.
Next time I get a new phone number, for whatever reason, I'm going to ask Qwest if they could possibly give me a number that WASN'T previously used by someone running from his creditors.
I moved in to my apartment in the second week of April, so it's been nearly three months now. It wasn't so bad at first -- I got calls three times a day from The Arizona Republic until I finally convinced them I was insane (see below) -- but not much for the guy who apparently previously possessed my home phone number, Ray Vasquez. Now I get calls two and three times a week from different-acronymmed companies looking for Mr. Vasquez. Case in point: Ran some errands this afternoon. Got home at 4:50, and had two calls on my Caller ID, but just one voicemail. The first Caller ID was "PUBLISHING CE", who have called a few times. I haven't called them back yet. The second ID, and the voicemail, were from "DLSC," along with an 800 number. The message went something like this, which is basically what they all sound like: "Hello, this is a message for Ray Vasquez. This is DLSC at (800) xxx-xxxx. Please return this call between 8:00 AM and 9:00 PM Eastern time Monday through Friday. Thank you." So I call them up, to let them know I'm sorry, but I don't know where Raymond went. Turns out they're "Direct Loan Services Center," or basically a collection agency. I had the same conversation I've had with two or three of these places now... No, I'm sorry, I just got this number three months ago, and you're not the first and probably won't be the last to call. Nobody's gotten really assy with me over it, which is cool.
Speaking of people up and leaving without giving notice, I'd sure like to know where Christine Evans went. She apparently lived in my apartment before me, because I get two or three things a week in the mail for her. I've printed out some "RETURN TO SENDER -- Tenant no longer lives in this apartment" stickers since I got tired of writing it out. But I've gotten a dental-equipment catalog each month, along with the Desert Botanical Garden newsletter a few times, and a smattering of bill-looking things. I got a letter from St. Joseph's Hospital in Los Angeles last week sometime, so I slapped on a sticker and dropped it in the box. Today I open up my mailbox and there is said letter again, re-postmarked, right over my neon yellow sticker. (No stamp or anything. Geniuses.) Back when I first moved in, the cable company told me there was still an active, albeit delinquent, account for my apartment, which was no big deal -- they just had to call the office to verify me -- but again, makes me wonder why Ms. Evans left in such a hurry.
In closing: The below is from Annika's blog. She's spending a week in, and blogging from, New York City.
Impressions of NYC 2.0
In San Francisco, if you try jaywalking, drivers will calmly stop thier car for you. If you try jaywalking in Los Angeles, they will honk, yell obscenities and screech to a halt in front of you. In Manhattan, if you try jaywalking, drivers will honk, yell obscenities at you and continue driving towards you at the same or increased speed. It's up to you to jump out of the way. (In London, they simply run Americans over without honking, since we always look in the wrong direction for traffic.)
Next time I get a new phone number, for whatever reason, I'm going to ask Qwest if they could possibly give me a number that WASN'T previously used by someone running from his creditors.
I moved in to my apartment in the second week of April, so it's been nearly three months now. It wasn't so bad at first -- I got calls three times a day from The Arizona Republic until I finally convinced them I was insane (see below) -- but not much for the guy who apparently previously possessed my home phone number, Ray Vasquez. Now I get calls two and three times a week from different-acronymmed companies looking for Mr. Vasquez. Case in point: Ran some errands this afternoon. Got home at 4:50, and had two calls on my Caller ID, but just one voicemail. The first Caller ID was "PUBLISHING CE", who have called a few times. I haven't called them back yet. The second ID, and the voicemail, were from "DLSC," along with an 800 number. The message went something like this, which is basically what they all sound like: "Hello, this is a message for Ray Vasquez. This is DLSC at (800) xxx-xxxx. Please return this call between 8:00 AM and 9:00 PM Eastern time Monday through Friday. Thank you." So I call them up, to let them know I'm sorry, but I don't know where Raymond went. Turns out they're "Direct Loan Services Center," or basically a collection agency. I had the same conversation I've had with two or three of these places now... No, I'm sorry, I just got this number three months ago, and you're not the first and probably won't be the last to call. Nobody's gotten really assy with me over it, which is cool.
Speaking of people up and leaving without giving notice, I'd sure like to know where Christine Evans went. She apparently lived in my apartment before me, because I get two or three things a week in the mail for her. I've printed out some "RETURN TO SENDER -- Tenant no longer lives in this apartment" stickers since I got tired of writing it out. But I've gotten a dental-equipment catalog each month, along with the Desert Botanical Garden newsletter a few times, and a smattering of bill-looking things. I got a letter from St. Joseph's Hospital in Los Angeles last week sometime, so I slapped on a sticker and dropped it in the box. Today I open up my mailbox and there is said letter again, re-postmarked, right over my neon yellow sticker. (No stamp or anything. Geniuses.) Back when I first moved in, the cable company told me there was still an active, albeit delinquent, account for my apartment, which was no big deal -- they just had to call the office to verify me -- but again, makes me wonder why Ms. Evans left in such a hurry.
In closing: The below is from Annika's blog. She's spending a week in, and blogging from, New York City.
Impressions of NYC 2.0
In San Francisco, if you try jaywalking, drivers will calmly stop thier car for you. If you try jaywalking in Los Angeles, they will honk, yell obscenities and screech to a halt in front of you. In Manhattan, if you try jaywalking, drivers will honk, yell obscenities at you and continue driving towards you at the same or increased speed. It's up to you to jump out of the way. (In London, they simply run Americans over without honking, since we always look in the wrong direction for traffic.)
Tuesday, July 1
I know, I know... I've been a naughty little blogger. I haven't posted in a while. Like Annika said, it's hard to come up with new and fresh stuff every day. I've really thrown myself back into my work these past couple of weeks. Not a whole lot has changed on the "Me" front. The audition for 5º Cooler is this coming Thursday, around 6:45. I'll post afterwards, I promise.
Still looking for more people to join us at karaoke Wednesday nights. Let me know. Trust me -- there's almost no one else there. You WILL enjoy yourselves.
IMPORTANT! I'm tentatively saying my next dinner will be two weeks from this Saturday, on Saturday the 19th of July. Pro? Con? Let me know if that date sounds generally good to everyone. I figure somebody'll be out of town, one way or another -- it IS summer, after all.
Still looking for more people to join us at karaoke Wednesday nights. Let me know. Trust me -- there's almost no one else there. You WILL enjoy yourselves.
IMPORTANT! I'm tentatively saying my next dinner will be two weeks from this Saturday, on Saturday the 19th of July. Pro? Con? Let me know if that date sounds generally good to everyone. I figure somebody'll be out of town, one way or another -- it IS summer, after all.
