diving headlong into assisted-living research

 
. . . is Hard to Do
I’m in a fog. And the Venti Mocha isn’t helping.

I think my band is breaking up. For real, this time. Which, y’know, shouldn’t be that traumatic for a 35-year-old with a wife and child. But how about a 35-year-old who’s spent 14 of the past 18 years playing music in bands?

It’s funny that I’ve been playing guitar for over 20 years, and I think a one-armed Down’s kid could play at my level in a month. Starting from scratch. But I love it. Fine, so I wasn’t the most proficient, or committed to keeping my equipment in tip-top shape (considering my equipment in “tip-top shape” would be patently average says a lot about my adherence to Utilitarianism). I was able to step outside myself a few times a week and do something creative. Really getting lost in it. Seriously, imagine listening to really great, moving music . . . and then taking it a step further, where you’re actually a part of it.

Anyway, months of miscommunication (and non-communication) rumbled Monday evening into a relative explosion of obscenities and accusations. Strangely, I was merely a spectator. Even more strangely, we went on to have a semi-productive practice. The next morning, we got the inevitable email that someone was quitting. Or “finished.”

The last time this happened (a couple years ago with the previous incarnation of our band), the quitter had become an emotional (and functional) drag on our progress and was not really contributing. We used his departure to resvitalize the band. His replacement was the catalyst that helped push our songwriting to a new level. Unfortunately, he’s the one who’s leaving this time. I don’t think we have another “do-over” in us, at this point. Plus, everyone else is involved with side-projects that will undoubtedly become MAIN projects.

Besides being down to NO projects, I don’t know where we (read: I) go from here. Writing is, of course, an option. I keep thinking about it. And thinking about planning to perhaps set up time to maybe write on a semi-regular basis. Not to mention the “novel” that I’ve been harping on for months now. The music thing was so automatic, and everything else just seems like such WORK.

God FUCK.
shaken and poured by scott-san at 4:22 PM

 
Now is the Time. And This isn't the Place. Anymore.
If you want to keep reading Kamikaze Lunchbreak (or, y'know, START), click here.

Take turns. Don't everyone click at once.

And please update your links as appropriate.
shaken and poured by scott-san at 12:48 PM

 
This is the Last Time I Will Ever Post . . . Here.

Okay, the Second-to-Last Time.

I’ve bored you all long enough. Don't deny it.

I apologize for not visiting all of you more often. I have my fingers crossed that Comcast coming to replace our rented modem (which was listed as being at “END OF LIFE”) will make our access to the Internet more like usable and less like endless frustration.

Hey, what was the blog that had the tagline: “Come here every day and you will be told what to do?” Anyway, if you come here on Monday, you will be told what to do. Then. Until that time, I’ll be elsewhere.
shaken and poured by scott-san at 1:07 PM

 
I’m Not Ashamed to Admit That We Watched the Entire Oscar Ceremony Last Night. Except for When I was Washing Dishes. But Still Listening.
I only had a passing interest in watching it, and that was mostly because Patricia’s husband-to-be was gonna be the host. I’d go with a live-blogging-esque blow by blow, but I was distracting myself by trying to get Michelle to play that decisive third Scrabble match. And we don’t have a laptop and/or a WiFi connection to the Internets . . . both of which we (I) hope to remedy soon.

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As you might have read some place else, we were destined fated to go to the circus Saturday. Which we did. And, lemme, tell ya . . . it sucked. Even Mia was, all, “Is it done?” Yeah, some of it was mildly entertaining. But then we have the $9 snow cone in a plastic elephant cup. And the $6 “small” cotton candy. And the $16 star/wand thing Mia had to have. (It’s good thing Mia has her own money.)

Oh, and kudos to the cop who came into men’s room, while I was helping Mia wash her hands, just to tell me that I didn’t need to have a little girl in the men’s room. Thanks, Officer Douchebag! I wish I’d been quick enough to think to tell him that my wife had been tragically killed in an incident involving meddlesome Civic Center rent-a-cops, making me a single father, but I suspect that he probably had seen Mia with Michelle earlier. And he would’ve beat my ass a little bit.

---------------

I gotta tell ya, the new paper towels my office has switched to are really . . . stiff. Like thin, folded-up sheet rock.

How absorbent is gypsum, anyway?

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Our access to the Internets from home has been fairly non-existent, so I haven’t had a chance to do a lot of things I’ve been meaning to do. Like purchasing Internet-related stuff and e-mailing people birthday wishes. Or posting a link to that spiffy writing contest that starts in two days.

How’s my entry coming, you ask? Er, don’t. But you should TOTALLY write something.
shaken and poured by scott-san at 5:03 PM

 
All the Things You Need to Know*. In a Bulleted List.

-- There’s a crack slowly zig-zagging its way across my windshield. It started, a couple weeks ago, as a relatively small crack at the bottom, just under the wiper. At first, I thought there was some silvery wire caught under the wiper blade, but I felt and there was nothing. Anyway, it grew from 6 inches to 8, and then made a sharp left turn. It’s continuing to grow upward and onward to the passenger side. I worry that, eventually, the glass is just going to fall in half (while I’m driving), so I’ll soon be taking advantage of the Florida law requiring insurance companies to replace windshields at no cost to drivers.

-- The first site I visit every weekday morning is Questionable Content, which is an indie webcomic about a confused guy named Marten and his harem of hot, coffee-schlepping ladyfriends. Leo got me hooked on it a few hundred pages/issues ago. Anyway, after the longest buildup in the history of boy-meets-girl storytelling, Marten finally crossed over the beyond-platonic threshold with a chick. But it wasn’t Faye, the fucked-up object of his wandering affection, but rather Dora (the fucked-up bisexual, reformed goth chick). Which is who Marten should be with anyway.

-- I stuck to my promise to stop watching “Grey’s Anatomy,” I’ll have you know, The Internets. I saw it on my DVR menu Monday night. “Oh, ‘Grey’s Anatomy!’ Wait, I’m not watching that show anymore. Fuck that.” And I deleted it. Screw you, Meredith Grey. Eat shit, Mercy Grace Hospital.

-- I’m going to stop posting here. Sometime in the next couple weeks.

-- Because my comments are not working, you won’t be able to shower me with (unnecessary) concern. Sorry. I’d contact Leo about the comment issue, but I haven’t been in contact with him since . . . I dunno, when he sent me the link to QC. Anyway, it’s about to be a non-issue, right?


* There’s a little bit more to the story.
shaken and poured by scott-san at 5:07 PM

 
Date Night
Michelle’s parents had graciously offered to keep Mia and her cousin this past Saturday night, so I made plans for a “date night” with Michelle. Complete with a multiple-choice itinerary (breaking the evening/night into two-hour segments).

To kill time before dinner (it was pretty early and I was not at all hungry), we took a walk around Lake Ella. Then we ventured to our favorite (but neglected), out-of-the-way Thai restaurant and found dinner to be more outstanding than usual; we couldn’t figure out whether it was because it had been so long since we’d been there or if there was some change). Afterward, we went to rent a copy of Red Eye and then pick up (multiple each) desserts from Food Glorious Food. And then home.

The movie was pretty good (not great) and the desserts ranged from “Eh” to “This tastes JUST LIKE an Almond Joy!” The highlight of the evening, though, was Scrabble. We don’t play Scrabble as much as we used to, mostly because Michelle beats me pretty regularly and when she doesn’t (and/or doesn’t score well over 300 points), she declares, “I HATE THIS GAME!” and we go on a Scrabble hiatus. She’s really good (not quite Word Freak good), so I don’t feel too bad when I lose . . . which, again, is fairly often. This game was no different, as she scored just over 300 points and beat me by about 40.

We couldn’t find our camera to get pictures of the racks we had. I wanted to get one of my I E U I E U A rack, or the one where I had three U’s (also all vowels). (After that latter one, Michelle played off a U, and I said, “I hope you don’t have the Q,” because I had all the other U’s. She did, in fact, draw the Q . . . right at the end of the game.) We played a rematch last night and, Sweet Baby Jesus, I’ve never wanted a camera more in my entire life! My opening rack? V A G I N A (and a P). Later, my rack contained F I S T E D, but I had no place to play it. The rematch was quite the thriller as the board was mostly closed-off and we were forced to open it up with non-strategic plays. In the end, it came down to who could play off all the letters the fastest. I finished first and managed to pull within one point. But her one-point letter reduced her score and raised mine, thus flipping the scores and giving me the win, 254-253. I guess the rubber match will be this weekend. Or as soon as possible.

Or, y'know, NEVER.
shaken and poured by scott-san at 12:13 PM

 
As Seen on T.V.
A couple times this week, I’ve been splitting my television-viewing between “American Idol” with Michelle . . . and women’s figure-skating.

Never been a huge fan of “American Idol,” although that seems to have softened some, starting last season. I missed some of the women’s (and girls’) auditions, but I did see Becky’s. I’m really surprised she’s gone. Reportedly she was the second-worst, but Simon couldn’t say anything nasty about her because she’s attractive. But she sang like she had a dick in her mouth. Simon’s dick. Anyway, glad she’s gone. Score one for the fat and/or unattractive girls (who can sing).

I feel bad about offhandedly predicting that the Japanese girl was gonna win the gold medal in figure skating. But Sasha Cohen was all groin-injured (“Here comes only hope for gold . . . and she’s gonna fall.”) and did fall. And then saying that I had a feeling Slutskaya wasn’t going to win (and she didn’t). I was feeling pretty good about my predictions. Until a couple hours later, when I couldn’t get back to sleep but, in my half-awake state, thought I was a figure-skating coach.

And the men’s curling team are bringing home the bronze. I’m sure you’re all as excited as I am.


In other NOT-seen-on-T.V. news, a friend sent me a link to this video. It really goes the extra mile for family programming promotion.
shaken and poured by scott-san at 4:52 PM