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Wednesday, December 31, 2003
Kamikaze Lunchbreak Productions Presents: The Best / Worst of . . . ah, Fuck It. I Feel Like Shit. I had such grand plans. Apparently, I didn't plan too well. I'm only at work because I had a number of projects that HAD to be done by today. And now they're done. And now I'm done. No, not for good. I'll be back Friday, if I'm still drawing breath by then. Hope you all *sniff* have a great New Years'. Drink one or five for me, eh? Tuesday, December 30, 2003
Celebrity Deathmatch: Influenza vs. The Common Cold I've had this goddamn cold for over a week now, which is fine . . . until I start getting a sore throat. I mean, I'm okay with not breathing, really, because I can always snort some nasal spray before I go to bed. But a sore throat? It sucks. Michelle's had a sore throat for almost as long as I've been congested / sniffly. And she stayed home yesterday with what appeared to be the flu. Well, last night, my throat started hurting a lot. And I was tired. And achy. I had a rare headache (albeit a mild one). So, I'm thinking flu, right? I took some Tylenol Flu Nighttime gel-caps and awoke feeling somewhat refreshed this morning. And now I know that the sore throat is related to my cold (i.e., drainage . . . a word you could surely do without, right?). Anyway, I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired. I just want whatever the fuck it is I have now to be over with already. Or something. Monday, December 29, 2003
Sweet, Gentle Christmas! It's interesting to reflect on the past several days in terms of where I began and where I ended up. Like waking up Christmas Eve to realize I still had gifts to buy and how Michelle and I would juggle Mia, do some last-minute shopping, and get ready for the Christmas Day marathon of social engagements. And how I was watching the Steelers and Ravens last night on ESPN, eating Runts and drinking St. Pauli Girl, secretly hoping that Jerome Bettis would run one up the middle and hit Ray Lewis, resulting in a career-ending injury for Mr. Lewis, and then follow that up with a jog up to the booth to punch Joe Theismann in the mouth for . . . well, basically, no reason. So, you see, not much changed for me over Christmas. And I still have a cold. And Michelle still has a sore throat . . . may be coming down with something worse. But, at least, Mia's gotten over her viral fever (for the time being), even if she also has a cold. I'm not gonna recount the laundry list of gifts that were received. Because I don't have the time. My boss is out and it's gonna be busy here for the next two and a half days. I'll try and keep up. You, too. Tuesday, December 23, 2003
The Aftermath First of all, thanks for all the well-wishes for our daughter. I took her to the doctor after she woke up from her nap at daycare on Friday. Ears, chest, and throat all checked out fine; she just had a slight sniffle and a hotter-than-teething temperature. Overnight, she got more uncomfortable and was more feverish and cranky on Saturday. Even with her cold symptoms getting worse, the fever seemed to be abating on Sunday, and she seemed to be coming out of it . . . but apparently not quick enough for her to go back to daycare yesterday. So I had to be with her, which is why I wasn't with all of you. Now, back to Friday night (i.e., the train-wreck). It's funny that it should turn out so much worse than I could have possibly imagined. Michelle's bonus and raise thing turned out pretty well, as it was. We drove separately and met at the restaurant where her work Christmas party was. I think I've gone into great detail about the history of my stomach and foods I try to avoid. Well, we're ushered into the banquet room . . . and procure our white wine choice (acidic). Then it's time for the hors d'ouvres: stuffed mushrooms (which I hate) and fried grouper fingers (with a wasabi-based dipping sauce . . . yum!). So, on an empty stomach, I'm pounding in the highly greasy grouper strips . . . several of them. This goes on for a while, creating a soup of grease and acidic wine. My entrée is a seafood tuttamare, with cheese tortellini and a heavy cream sauce. And some of Michelle's steak. I'd had a bit to drink, but not enough to force me to jog to the restroom, fall to my knees, and projectile spew (luckily, and cleanly, into the toilet). I never recovered. I spent the rest of the time at the dinner in a fog, listening to attorney speeches about the past year and muttering in my head (and outloud), "I blame the grouper fingers." (Incidentally, that would've been on my fuckin' tombstone had I died for some reason that night.) Long story short, Michelle drives me home after I get pitying looks from her co-workers. I get to bed and pass out. I don't really recover very quickly, though, and I spend much of the next 12 hours sleeping, trying to stave off nausea, throwing up, and trying to stave off some more nausea. A full day after the whole cycle began, I was still feeling somewhat queasy and run-down. I've never been one of those people who smartly throws up before they pass out at night to keep their bodies from soaking up all the poison in their stomachs. No, because I hate to throw up, I keep it all in and hope (and pray) that everything will work out. Sometimes it does, but not this time. I don't want to hear / taste / think about these things for a while: Riesling, tortellini, cream sauce, and (of course) grouper fingers. ---------------- In other news, the Holidays begin in earnest tomorrow. Starting Christmas Eve-ning, there are over 24 hours worth of planned activities and social gatherings. Oh, yeah, and sleep. I'll try and stop by again sometime over the weekend. Next week, I'm thinking of doing some sort of trendy, year-end Top 10 / "Best of" lists. And after that . . . Resolutions. Oh, yeah. Get ready, kiddies. So, Happy Holidays™ and I'll see you soon. Friday, December 19, 2003
This Can Only End Badly My wife has been the center of some salary and bonus negotiations this week. There's been a steady decline of morale in her law firm's secretarial staff. Tonight is the firm's Christmas dinner. With an open bar. After that, my wife's band is playing a show. Headlining. Add to this a possibly sick baby that will likely be going to the doctor as soon as the daycare calls to tell me she's awake and still feverish, and the grandparents that will be watching said baby tonight while we're on-board the doomed-to-wreck train. We'll let you know how things turned out this weekend after the rescuers recover our bodies. Thursday, December 18, 2003
The Tree You probably aren't surprised that there are rules of decorum when it comes to the Kamikaze Christmas tree. And the fact that we have an artificial tree doesn't really change anything . . . except that no-one can forget to water the tree and transform that symbol of Holiday spirit into a potential fire hazard. Here are the rules: 1. The tree shall only have white / clear lights, and none of the lights shall blink in any way. (This is Michelle's rule.) 2. After the lights are on the tree, then we put on the shiny balls. Most of ours are silver. These should be spaced out as evenly as possible, and should be positioned so as to reflect as much light as possible. 3. No tinsel can go on the tree because the cats will eat it, and it could kill them. 4. Next come the individual / unique ornaments. Several of these have been collected over the years, and some date back to very early in our respective childhoods.* (The unwritten rule is that you hang those most special to you.) 5. It's traditional for me to drink egg nog while decorating the tree. And usually we listen to Christmas music, but this year we had on a football game. There may have been Christmas music playing, too. --------------- After my parents divorced and I started getting my own Christmas trees, my mother gave me several of "my" ornaments. Some of these were from the "mouse" series that she purchased from a co-worker when she worked for the state. For several years, she purchased three ornaments that had a mouse character: one for me, her, and dad. She’d have our names put on them with the year. The three that I have are from 1982, 1985, and a Seminole mouse (year unknown). The 1982 "mouse" is in a stocking, and it's a pretty sacred ornament. The Seminole mouse is placed on the tree according to how our team is doing; this year, we were 10-2, so the mouse is in the front and pretty high up. (Last year, it was about halfway up the tree, down the branch a little ways, and kind-of tucked to one of the sides of the tree.) --------------- There's a little geek in me that got all hot and bothered when my (non-sci fi / non-fantasy / non-action movie watching) wife IM'd me this message: "i want to go see the lord of the rings this weekend." I'm sure some of you understand. (Now, she did watch the other two, which we now own on DVD. Personally, I wanted to re-watch the first two before seeing the third, but you can't pass these moments up, right?) Wednesday, December 17, 2003
Welcome to the North Pole (Courtesy of Governer's Square Mall) I don’t remember whether my parents ever took me to see Santa Claus at the mall, but I’m sure they did. Maybe I’ve blocked it out. Or I’ve forgotten the pictures they had taken. Or something. Michelle wanted to take Mia to see Santa and have her picture taken with him. Now, I wasn’t against it, but a small part of me was dreading it. Would she slap Santa? Cry uncontrollably? I really hate embarrassing and/or uncomfortable situations. And, like the it’s-gonna-happen-someday trip to Disney World, I didn’t think she’d get anything out of it just yet. So, we ventured to the mall last night. Weeknights are the best times for this type of activity, as one might guess. As it turned out, we only had one kid in front of us. While we waited, we talked to the “photographer” (let’s go ahead and use that term loosely, shall we?). Did we want to purchase a photo package? Why, yes . . . sure. We went with a "Family Value Package" . . . Package B, in fact, which included a 5x7, two 3x5s, and four wallets . . . for about $25. When it was our turn to approach Santa, I let Michelle take Mia while I stayed back. Mia wasn’t too interested in the ol’ guy. I went over to “help,” but I guess that just further complicated things. So, Santa suggested that we could all be in the picture. I sat on one side with Mia in my lap, and Michelle sat on the other. When we got our instant, computer-generated “prints,” I mistakenly thought we got the picture on a disk. (That was after I thought, “What the fuck did we pay $25 for?”) So, we shelled out the additional $5 to get a disk so that we could share the picture with the world. And here it is.* --------------- * It should be noted that Michelle and I were not anticipating being in the picture, and we’re coming off a day of work, although that might not explain the strange, somewhat-smarmy look on my face. Michelle is her usual perky, photogenic self. And early evening isn’t exactly Mia’s most lively time, which goes a long way in explaining the bewildered look she has. But Santa . . . man, that fuckin’ guy looks great! Tuesday, December 16, 2003
One of Those Weekends (And Then Some) Yes, it was. Y’know, when you’re feeling tired and defeated, the Holiday Season™ is whipping around the turns at 80 and trying to find another gear, and you’re stuck knowing that if you want to drink (and live to tell about it) then you have to actually mix something? You kind-of feel like you’re about to start a 100-yard dash while hung over and after someone named Jeff whacks you on the knee with a steel pipe. And you have no more beer to hair-of-the-dog (it’s a verb now . . . don’t you keep up?). Actually, it wasn’t all that bad. And rather than giving you the blow-by-blow as a proper prose exposition (which is how this began), I’ll revert to the tried-and-true list system: -- We did a little bit of our Christmas shopping. Michelle’s obsessed with getting her family and friends out of the way so she can say, “I’m done,” while I’m left to panic and flail about. I did, however, make a trip to Target to do some gift shopping . . . mainly because I knew I was going to be going to a Super Wal-Mart later for groceries and more gifts, and I wanted to maintain the discount-megastore balance. (Sidenote: Here in Tallahassee, we have two Super Wal-Marts, a regular Wal-Mart, and a Sam’s Club. But we only have one Target, which we frequent as much as we can because it’s cool. There’s a rumor that they’re gonna make the Target a superstore. *crosses fingers*) -- I did the taking-mom-grocery-shopping thing on Saturday (because she’s not supposed to be driving, and I’ve had her minivan anyway). I had the requisite / ill-advised Taco Bell for lunch afterwards. Later, I went to Sam’s Club and bought exactly two things (a big ol’ box of diapers and a 24-pack of Diet Coke . . . nothing for me). This brings me to my discussion of grocery shopping. To fulfil our grocery-shopping needs, Michelle and I frequent four stores: Publix (convenient for general grocery-item purchases), the Wal-Mart Superstore (general grocery store items that, for whatever reason, we can’t get at Publix, and at cheaper prices), New Leaf Market (a co-op where we get our Thai Kitchen noodles [ethnic, high-class Ramen], soy jerky [which most people think tastes like dog food, but we love], and overpriced faux-meat frozen dinners . . . actually the whole store is overpriced, which is why we call it “New Thief”), and Sam’s Club (for bulk grocery items and lower wine prices . . . this mostly [lazily] amounts to cat litter, soda, diapers, bottles of Martini & Rossi, and Frosted Mini Wheats [for snacks].) And let’s not even discuss how I drive by two perfectly good grocery stores to get to our favorite Publix, or how the closest Super Wal-Mart is just a couple miles from our house, but we drive to the one on the “good side of town,” which is significantly further. And don’t even get me started on “Club” Publix near campus, where the median age of the shoppers is 20. -- Deep breath. It’s like that Dennis Miller line . . . “Stop me before I sub-reference again!” -- We were two weeks behind on getting our Christmas tree, so that was the Prime Objective™ for the weekend. First we went to Lowe’s, and they were mostly out of 7-to-8-foot trees. Home Depot had more of them, but they looked pretty ghetto and/or dried out. It was then that we decided to go artificial. (Gasp!) So, we ambled down the road to the Overpriced Gardening Store™ just to see what they had. To start with, they had real trees for 50% more than the ones we looked at. Wandering through the store, we stumbled on a 7.5-foot artificial tree regularly priced at about $120 and on sale for $70 . . . but the sale had ended a few days earlier. Still, $120 is pretty good for a halfway real-looking fake tree, so we arranged to have it meet us at the register (we didn’t have to offer to by it drinks, either). Long story short, we got it for the sale price. I made sure not to say anything during the entire transaction for fear that they’d be, like, “Oooooo, sorry Mr. Lunchbreak. That tree went off sale three days ago.” Michelle and I exchanged cautious glances instead. -- We went to dinner to celebrate (with the money we’d “saved”) at the infamous Lucy Ho’s for their Saturday night dinner buffet, which includes sushi. And kids eat free, so Mia got to slop lots of noodles and eat some partly congealed egg-drop soup. -- Apparently, I was supposed to start working on the tree while Michelle was at band practice but, instead, I watched this movie. All in all . . . yeah, you're asleep. Wake up, fucker! Geez. Monday, December 15, 2003
Law for Kids Ms. Styro says, "Let's all be safe out there." Go here to find out how. My favorite is the one about the "chronic." Friday, December 12, 2003
The Results are In! Sorry this is later than the promised noon o'clock posting, but I was busily toiling away for The Man. Here are the winners of the Choppa quiz: 1. Kyle (all five correct) 2. Ryan (all five correct) 3. Mrs. Dayment (four correct) 4. Queen Styro (two correct, but she gets a CD anyway) I feel a little bad as I've unintentionally disparaged the top two winners. Ryan got "chief-ed" in my congratulatory e-mail, and it turns out that Kyle is a Kansas State fan (or student?). Real shame on the latter, because we here at Kamikaze Lunchbreak refuse to support teams that begin playing Division-1A football teams in mid-October. --------------- Y'know how the Friday after Thanksgiving is supposedly the biggest shopping day of the year? Well, in the Kamikaze household, it's the two weekends before Christmas. We usually have our tree by now, so add that to the heap. It's gonna be a "Get some!" Thursday, December 11, 2003
Fragments First of all, today is Michelle’s 30th birthday. Drop her a line. Let’s see if we can max out her Hotmail account with good wishes. --------------- We went to lunch yesterday at Michelle: “Maybe we should start loudly saying obscene things.” Scott: “So, basically, just start talking.” --------------- My favorite exchange from the New Orleans trip was on the way back. Mr. ADD was half-joking about reasons for breaking up with his girlfriend (who was sitting right next to him). Mr. ADD: “There’s just too much ‘tang out there. And not the orange kind, either.” Scott: “Well, some of them could be orange.” Mr. ADD: “Oh, there would be lots of colors.” Scott: “So, a rainbow of ‘tang.” --------------- It’s neat how you can check your referrer’s log to see what sites people are visiting from. (Yeah, this is new to me, people . . . bear with me.) So, I clicked on a couple links that I wasn’t familiar with. I’m adding Charlie to my blogroll, as well as Leo’s recommended indie web-comic at Questionable Content. And Kevynn. Wednesday, December 10, 2003
I Know How to Pick ‘Em In school, we were taught that, when writing, you should always keep in mind who your audience is. And now that I’m out of school and still working in / practicing the joys of the English language, “Know Your Audience” has become the Golden Rule™. Of course, I don’t always adhere to that rule, as will be demonstrated by the following post. Yes, kids, it’s more sports talk. If you remember, just before the college-football season started, I made ten predictions about the upcoming season. Five of them centered on FSU (my alma mater) and the other five were more general. Here are the predictions, with commentary on how they played out: -- “FSU will lose at least two games this season, but no more than four.” Well, FSU is currently 10-2, so even if they lose their bowl game, that’s only three losses. Score one for me. -- “Most / all of FSU's losses will be indirectly (and accurately) blamed on Jeff Bowden.” This is a tough one. As awful as Jeff Bowden is as an offensive coordinator, we somehow managed to eke out quite a successful season. He has us firmly back in the we’re-the-Seminoles-and-we-can-be-unimaginative-and-still-beat-you realm for sure, but at least we executed better this season. Anyway, the loss to Miami could be blamed on Chris Rix . . . and/or the rain. The loss to Clemson? Could it be some intra-Bowden conspiracy? I guess, to be fair, I missed this one. A little bit. The jury’s still out on ol’ Jeffy. -- “FSU will beat either Miami or Notre Dame, but not both.” We lost to Miami and beat (the Christ out of) Notre Dame. Technically, we could beat Miami in the Orange Bowl, and I guess then I’d be wrong. But let’s say that I had no idea that the BCS would end up putting us and Miami in a bowl game opposite each other. I should’ve known, I suppose. -- “FSU will not win the ACC and, thus, will not go to a New Year's Day bowl.” Guess I was wrong here, huh? Geez. -- “FSU will finish the season ranked just inside the Top 20 (maybe in the 17-to-19 range).” I think we’re around #10 right now. If we lost to Miami (#9), we’d likely only drop a few spots. So, in the worst-case scenario, I guess I’d be correct with this prediction, but I’d venture that we’ll end up better off than that, even with a loss. -- “Neither Miami nor Ohio State will be in the National Championship game.” Yes. -- “Oklahoma and/or Notre Dame will be in there (the latter most likely due to some stupid BCS loophole).” Couldn’t have been more wrong about those silly Catholic kids, but Oklahoma saved me on this one . . . but only technically. -- “Notre Dame will only lose one game this season; if they lose to FSU, it’ll be two games. (And I will continue to hate them, although I will respect them. Unless they play for the National Championship, and then I’ll just hate them.)” Wow. Dead fuckin’ wrong. -- “Kansas State players will be at home on New Year's Day, fucking their large, corn-fed girlfriends.” So, they’ll be in Arizona instead, fucking God-knows-what. I spent the whole season making fun of them, chastising them as pretenders for playing, essentially, nobody. And then they go and beat Oklahoma to win the Big 12. A small part of me is elated that we didn’t have to go to Tempe and get our asses whipped by the very team that I’ve been disrespecting all season long. -- “People will continue to whine that there isn’t a playoff system.” This season has become Exhibit A for why the BCS doesn’t work. And, until now, I’ve been defending it to all my playoff-hungry friends. In summary, I was correct on six out of ten. Not too bad for a casual fan shooting his mouth off, especially considering some of those picks were pretty specific. Probably not gonna get me on ESPN Sportscenter, though. --------------- In other news, I’ve begun using the site-traffic tracking system recommended by Leo. Now I can be like the other cool kids and share web stats and the funny searches I pop up on. So far, it’s been pretty boring. I’ll keep you posted. And, if you know Amy Choppa and/or you want a CD, check out the quiz from yesterday (below). Tuesday, December 09, 2003
Lessons in Emo Okay, here it is. This is your chance to win a Kamikaze-crafted, Choppa-centric mix CD. It’s all about the emo, kids. That’s right, this CD dishes out some bad-ass melodic rock in the first two “movements,” and then mixes it up during the last two. It’s 17 songs. You want this. Remember: These questions were written by Amy Choppa. Here we go: 1. Who will never ‘blog you? 2. What is the best week on television? 3. Which animal in the Choppa barnyard represented Spigot Steve? 4. What skill does Amy Choppa wish she had that most boys are born with? 5. Who uttered the quote that first prompted the word “penis” to appear on The Choppa? You can e-mail (link on the left) your answers to me, or you can lazily put them in my comments. The first three people to get them all correct (as if) are guaranteed to get a CD. If no-one gets all five correct by, oh, this Friday at noon, we’ll go with the first three people that get the most correct. And, incidentally, Queen Styro gets a CD no matter how well she does. And if she earns it on the quiz, then that’s one less for the rest of you. Yes, I’m a mean bastard . . . sometimes. Go cry to CW and see how much sympathy you get. Monday, December 08, 2003
The Comedown I have a confession: I’ve never really liked New Orleans. I mean, I’ve been there a handful of times, and I feel like I’ve seen enough to have an informed opinion. My friend lived there for a while and I visited a few times, getting to see the real New Orleans . . . which I didn’t like. So, when Michelle mentioned she’d rather go there for her birthday than to the beach (which I also don’t care for) . . . well, it was six of one, half dozen the other. This past weekend didn’t really change my view of New Orleans. I expanded my horizons a little . . . y’know, stepping outside the French Quarter more. We visited Harrah’s casino (more than once), had brunch at Elizabeth’s, and ate dinner at a non-chain (I think) hotel fern bar in the Garden District. Of course, we also did the standard stuff (i.e., shopping in the French Quarter, drinking on Bourbon Street, having beignets at Café du Monde, riding on the St. Charles streetcar). We also took in a Placebo show. All in all, it was pretty eventful. Of course, “eventful” comes at a price. Observe (yeah, you knew this was going to devolve into some sort of list): -- Driving over with our best friend-couple was pretty standard . . . lots of squabbling about music and gossiping about our common friends, enemies . . . and frenemies. -- My mom’s van started acting up once we got to their hotel, prompting the oh-God-I’m-going-to-spend-half-the-trip-at-a-mechanic-getting-fucked-in-the-ass quandary. Luckily, we decided it wasn’t such a big problem. (Incidentally, driving without the air conditioner will hide the fact that your mom’s van really needs a tune-up.) -- It’s pretty common for French Quarter restaurants to be overpriced compared to the quantity / quality of food you’d receive at similar restaurants outside the Quarter. However, this isn’t true across the board. For instance, we had reasonably priced meals at GumbOlaya and Coop’s that were quite excellent and filling. -- I’m not sure exactly what the correct response to this situation is but, when your friend taps you on the shoulder and directs your attention to the barmaid right in front of you with two test-tube shots in her mouth, the correct response is not to panic, look at your wife wide-eyed, panic some more, stutter confused mutterings, ask the how much the shots are, or finally take the open ends of the shots with your mouth, then drop down so that you are drinking the shots while the barmaid still has them in her mouth. No, that’s just not right. -- If you give the aforementioned barmaid a $20 bill and hope to get change, she’s just gonna smile at you and tuck the $20 bill into her cleavage. And if it’s the only cash you have on you, and you ask for it back and give her $5 in ones that your friend hands you, well . . . you look like a big fuckin’ pansy. -- After walking into a real-life casino for the first time in your life, it might take you a little while to get the courage to actually gamble. -- Starting out by playing $20 at the $5-minimum roulette table might give you a false sense of security, especially if you play for 20 or 30 minutes and cash out only down $2. Because when you come back the next day and there is no $5-minimum table, you might add $20 to the $18 you have left from the previous adventure and lose it all in 15 minutes or less. And then y’know what? Yeah, you’re gonna be too chicken shit to gamble any more. Pussy-ass. -- Having a “hand-grenade” your first night on Bourbon Street will probably prevent you from doing the same on subsequent nights. My first night was a pint of Abita Amber followed by a hand-grenade, and then the test-tube shots (see above). The next night (The Big Drinking Night™) went something like Sweettart “daiquiri,” draft beer in a plastic cup, kamikaze shooter, and another beer; I feel like I left out a drink or three, but that’s how I remember it. -- The drive home, we chose to not use the stereo in addition to the air conditioner, so we had lots of debates. The subject of gay marriage turned to polygamy turned to abortion turned to moving to Canada turned to displaying the Ten Commandments in Alabama court houses turned to Kansas State beating Oklahoma turned back to gay marriage . . . ad infinitum, rinse and repeat. All in all, it was a good trip . . . y’know, New Orleans apathy aside. --------------- You know how some attorneys can bill their secretaries' time for their work? Well, I billed the copier’s time this morning while I was writing this post and reading other sites. I’d send nine copies of a 99-page appendix to print and then ‘blog for a bit while it was printing. Then I’d collate, print the next appendix, and ‘blog some more. I’m gonna be sad when this project is done. --------------- Tomorrow . . . noon o’clock: Choppa quiz. You know what this means. Wednesday, December 03, 2003
The Big (Not So) Easy It’s finally that time. My wife, Michelle, is about to turn 30. We’re going to New Orleans for the weekend to celebrate her birthday. For those of you with a calendar, her birthday celebration will start tomorrow and end a week from this Sunday. (Her actual birthday is a week from tomorrow . . . long story.) Anyway, I’m hoping for two things: 1) that there will be lots of interesting stories to tell, and 2) that I have time to tell the stories. Whether more than five or six of you are here to read it is irrelevant, I guess. Let’s just say our trip will be This will be the last trip we take without our little Mia. We were originally going to take her but Speaking of Miss Mia, here’s a picture of her wearing a hat made my our dear friend, Amy Choppa: 
Now, I’ve received a five-question quiz from Amy that will be used to weed out the unworthy for another CD giveaway. (Yes, this one’s been a long time coming.) The quiz will most likely be posted around noon (EST) next Tuesday (December 9). I know, I know . . . Amy said it would be tomorrow. But that was before I realized how much crap I’d have to get done before going out of town. I’ll have something more definite next Monday, but go ahead and pencil me in. In the meantime, I still have a handful of CDs to send out for the previous distribution. I’m sure you’re all mighty thankful. Or something. I’ll see you all very soon. Tuesday, December 02, 2003
Salmonella, Here I Come! Someone left some sort of pumpkin-cream pie out on the counter in the kitchenette outside my office. By the time I went to lunch, it had been there for a good little while, but I took a piece anyway. The first bite tasted a little off, so I shit-canned the rest of it. I proofed / edited too many health brochures at my last job, and I’m big on the 2-40-140 Rule* (much to everyone’s annoyance). --------------- I had my semiannual dental cleaning this morning. I know she really likes these, but I hate them. No matter how pleasant the staff is, it basically amounts to someone coming at me with a sharp, stainless-steel hook. No, really. Still, the last couple / few visits have been cavity-free, so maybe my view will shift. (Although, my gums are “recessing” in a couple places, and I have a mysterious “shadow” between a couple of my teeth that could be decay. I chose the “wait-six-months-and-see” option for that one.) --------------- I got an 83.5 on this quiz. And, apparently, I was born between Woodstock and “Just Say No.” --------------- She’s back . . . again. It just goes to show you can’t keep a good ‘Poo down. Or something like that. In other blogroll news, I’m gonna trim it back some, I think. Some people have stopped writing, or I’ve stopped going to see if they’re still writing. Really, time is limited, so I can’t keep up with everyone. Sorry, Jason Royal. (Perhaps I should add Kevynn Malone to offset the loss, eh?) --------------- * It’s something like this: Don’t eat anything that’s been out (and uncovered) for more than two hours between the temperatures of 40 and 140 (Fahrenheit, for our Canadian / international readers.) Monday, December 01, 2003
A Thanksgiving to (Not) Remember This wasn’t one of the more memorable Thanksgivings in my 32 years . . . or one of the better ones. But here are some of the things I do remember from the past five or six days: -- Driving from Tallahassee to Atlanta to Huntsville to Atlanta to Tallahassee is roughly 1,000 miles. The way we went, anyway. -- I cooked Wednesday night . . . sort-of. Tri-color pasta rotini with parma rosa sauce (from a packet). And lots of beer. -- When you’re driving in Huntsville, you get very little notice when there is a junction / exit for the highway you need to turn onto. -- As a game for myself, I was going to count the number of times various family members uttered their signature catchphrases in the 24 hours we were in Huntsville, but I forgot to keep track. I do remember at least two instances of “I love it!” from my mother in law. (You really need to hear it to get the full effect.) -- I know I have a foul mouth and periodically offend people with the “fucks” and “goddammits.” Why aren’t people around me equally offended by the n-word? -- Thanksgiving night, after all the pro football was over, we were searching for things to watch. We settled on re-runs of Friends. (I couldn’t convince anyone that we needed to watch the Knicks-Pacers game.) -- None of us woke up and went shopping Friday morning. That whole scene is really getting out of hand. Soon, the “door-buster” sales are going to start at midnight, fer Christ’s sake! -- I hate those arguments where, at the outset, you’re so sure you’re right or you have a point worth arguing, but when things get to the “cold war” stage, you’re not quite sure it was worth fighting about . . . ever. That sucks. -- During our embarrassing and hastily planned and executed departure Saturday (there’s an apology in there somewhere), I ripped my knuckle open in the cold, dry air while pushing a feeding chair into the trunk of the car. My skin literally peeled back like paper. -- Yesterday, Michelle’s parents’ cat leapt off my lap and pushed off on my hand, scratching two of my fingers. Now my right hand is gnarled. How am I going to play guitar tonight? -- The Seminoles beat the Gators Saturday in the best game of that rivalry’s past five games. -- We’re gonna clean our house, dammit (oh, goddammit). We’re tired of going to other people’s clean and tastefully decorated houses. To that end, we did some cleaning yesterday. It’s gonna be a process. I can’t remember any more. And I’m tired of trying. Lunchbreak over. Back to work. Tuesday, November 25, 2003
“Sugarballs.” We’re back from the marriage of the now Mr. and Mrs. Glory Hole. (That joke’s kind-of getting old at this point, isn't it?) We had So, anyhow, here are -- There seems to be a debate about which way is faster / better when driving from Tallahassee to Cape Canaveral. Well, I timed the drive and logged the mileage both ways, and I can tell you that going the I-75 / Turnpike / Bee Line way is no faster than the I-10 / 295 around Jacksonville / I-95 way. It is about 11 miles shorter to go the Bee Line, but it’ll cost you a bunch of money in tolls . . . spaced in such a way to break up any momentum you might have and really -- I didn’t have any sunglasses, so I had to purchase some in the gift shop at the hotel after standing in the sun by the pool talking to Mr. Glory Hole’s family. I think you know that the sunglasses are made by Panama Jack. -- The rehearsal dinner (there was no rehearsal) was at The Mango Tree in Cocoa Beach. I had the chicken and Michelle had the salmon. (Most of the rest of our table had the veal.) We both had lots of Riesling (although the server did sneak a glass of Sauvignon Blanc in there for good measure . . . the rat bastard) on empty stomachs. Needless to say, we were buzzing pretty hard. -- The restaurant had a pond with several koi, which were the biggest goddamn Japanese fish I’d seen in my fucking life. (The hotel had a koi pond, too, which was very close to our room. And every time we’d pass it, Michelle would whisper “Koi!” in this cute, little-girl’s voice.) -- After the rehearsal dinner, a bunch of us went to a local dive bar called The Pig & Whistle. We were a little dressed up, so we didn’t “blend in” very well (which apparently provoked the “y’all-ain’t-from-around-here” speech later on . . . the “you’re-showing-your-white-trash-colors” response almost caused some trouble). I ordered a pitcher of Harp when we got there, and tried to slink out later and stick someone else with the $9 tab. But, alas, I am not that slick. I did, however, do fairly well at pool, sinking my first four shots . . . and then I promptly returned to my mediocre pool-playing ways. -- A few hours before the wedding, I had an informative conversation with The Drunk Cousin™ about what skills a man should have. Apparently these include (but are not limited to) knowing how to drive a semi, bet on horses, and run a football pool. Hey, two out of three ain’t bad. -- The wedding ceremony took about 5 minutes total. Not even joking. (On a side note, Michelle helped edit the vows for Mr. Glory Hole.) -- The reception was quite an event. This guy was at our table (that’s Table 16, yo). We were a particularly obnoxious bunch. (For example, to transition away from an intensely graphic account of childbirth, we started on the much friendlier topic of fisting. Yes, ‘tis true.) -- Prior to the reception, there was a “cocktail hour” while the wedding party had their pictures taken. The bartender continued working for the rest of the reception. I’d started drinking Kirin, so I had to keep venturing to the bar to get my fix. The bartender once asked, “What can I get you, sweet pea?” This prompted a discussion at the table at what outrageous nicknames she’d come up with next (e.g., “lumberjack,” “log-jammer”). By far the best name was Tom’s . . . “sugarballs.” -- I eventually switched from Kirin to drinking Sauvignon Blanc straight from the bottle. -- On his way back to his room, the groom stripped to his underwear and tuxedo shirt and jumped in the pool. -- We missed out on the after-wedding party, but there was reportedly a reenactment of the entire ceremony with a couple of the groom’s friends playing the part of the happy couple. --------------- Well, I’ve been watching Mia for the past couple days (daycare closed for the week), so I’ve been behind on my ‘blogging duties (doesn't help that my ISP at home is suckin' the proverbial ass). I’m posting this about an hour or two before we leave for five days in Atlanta and Huntsville. I don’t think I’ll be updating or reading much during that time, so I’ll most likely see you all next week. Have a great Thanksgiving! Thursday, November 20, 2003
Testing It was called a liver-function test. I had one right after my last major reflux attack . . . and right before I started taking Prilosec for a year and a half. The test said that my liver had over-produced a digestion-stimulation enzyme, and my stomach had gone into acid overload. Something like that. Two nights earlier, Michelle and I had gone out for Indian food. I had the chicken tikka masala. I might have eaten a lot, and it may have been a bit later than the usual dinner. Everything was fine until about 3 o’clock in the morning. I woke up feeling nauseous. I’d had these episodes from time to time. I’d get out of bed, take one of Michelle’s prescription-strength Pepcids, and wait for the nausea to subside. Sometimes, it’d be bad enough where I’d linger on the floor in front of the commode taking deep breaths . . . in through my nose and out through my mouth. But this time was different. The nausea was combined with stomach pain (that punched-in-the-stomach feeling), so I figured I was hungry and I ate a piece of bread and drank some water. Then came the gas pressure, so I took a few Tums. Nothing helped. Soon, I was in unbearable pain and my stomach was so swollen with gas, I could hardly breathe. The thought actually crossed my mind to stab myself in the stomach to let the air out. It was that desperate. Michelle called the “urgent care” number and we went to the “urgent care” office in the wee hours of the morning. They sent me home with 800 mg tablets of Tagamet, which helped until I could get in to see my doctor. So, that’s the story of how I ended up on Prilosec. And why I try not to eat greasy foods, or foods with too many onions and/or tomatoes. And why I try not to eat anything substantial within a few hours of bedtime. And why I sleep with my head elevated. Why am I telling you all this? Well, it’s because I’m going in for a different kind of “liver function test” this weekend. The one where there are several different activities involving open bars with free liquor. It’s an endurance test . . . a marathon for which I haven’t prepared. (And God help Michelle.) We’re leaving tomorrow morning for Mr. Glory Hole and the Shiksa’s wedding in Cocoa Beach. And, God willing, our collective livers will work okay when we get back home on Sunday. Say a little prayer for us, and try not to burp anything up when you do. Tuesday, November 18, 2003
Lessons in Emo OMG, kids! I just complemented one of my better CD mixes (not the dark one I'm currently in the process of mailing out, but the new Choppa-mix) with a badass post-minimalist cover! (I will state, for the record, that I draw like a seven-year-old.) You are so gonna want one of these CDs. And you're gonna have to fight for it. It's a quiz, y'all. Coming soon. (This is just the hype.) You'll be given ample warning. So no whining this time! Monday, November 17, 2003
The Wood-Villains If you, like me, were going to Woodville for an afternoon to visit your estranged father, here are some tips for making things go more smoothly: -- Take your baby daughter. Showing up by yourself is really pointless. Because, then, your father will want you to help him do something that will almost certainly involve manual labor. And you don’t want that. -- Now that you have your baby daughter to fend off your father’s “projects” and pangs of disappointment, you don’t have to worry as much about your unconventionally long hair.* Unless you put it in a ponytail. (Yeah, don’t do that.) -- Pray that your baby daughter doesn’t cry when she’s alone with either your father or his wife. Because then your infrequent visits will become an issue. -- Avoid any talk of politics. Talking about your job is fine. Talking about his lack of a job . . . better. -- Don’t bring up your father’s emphysema, his excessive drinking, or that his weight loss could have anything to do with cancer. -- Save discussions about holiday plans for your father’s wife, who is in charge of those things. -- No matter how much you feel like a beer, don’t go with the Busch (in a can, no less) . . . supposedly, it’s a step up from Old Milwaukee, but whatever. It’s dinner time, so drink the last Mic Ultra. Still have a thirst / feeling of inadequacy as a son? How about that last Natural Lite (in a bottle, thank God)? Really, if you’re gonna drink redneck-ghetto beer for free, your estranged father’s house is the place to do it. Besides, I think those two beers pair well with vegetable soup, chicken pot pie, and a hot dog on a slice of white bread with store-brand American cheese, mustard, and ketchup. Your daughter would agree. So, I negotiated the visit pretty well. And, because I followed my own helpful tips, everyone involved had a pleasantly emotions-repressed afternoon. * I got my hair cut today. Yeah, not really. It's still long and floppy . . . just not quite as long. There was a handy flat-iron to keep things from getting too floppy, too. Friday, November 14, 2003
Songs from a Life So I put together a mix CD, which was supposed to be done around the time of my birthday. It was going to be a CD of my favorite songs, and then a CD of songs by my favorite bands (not necessarily the same thing at all). But now it’s a combination of both, and I’m sort-of looking at it as a soundtrack—a soundtrack to my first 32 years. Observe: 1. “Greet Death,” Explosions in the Sky Really, could you have a better opening song than this? Seeing them play this song live really blew my mind. And eardrums. In the soundtrack scheme, this would play over the opening credits. And, fuck, that would have to be a killer credit sequence. 2. “Dead Disco,” Metric This is too new to be really influential and/or sacred, but I can’t get it out of my head. It’s so catchy and engaging. Yeah, I loves me some retro pop; the sexed-up lyrics (“Tits out, pants down, overnight to London . . .”) are just a bonus. For most of you, this song is worth the price of the CD alone. And when that price is free, well, you can’t complain, can you? (The answer is “No.”) 3. “Icicle,” Tori Amos The tawdry theme continues. This time, it’s quasi-sacrilegious masturbation fantasy. I remember when Under the Pink came out, Tori performed this song on MTV’s 120 Minutes. Strangely beautiful and powerful. And erotic. I don’t know how any of that fits into the soundtrack idea, but it’s definitely a favorite. 4. “A Night Like This,” The Cure There are a dozen or more Cure songs I could’ve used. Let’s be honest . . . from the ages of 16 to my early 20s, The Cure was the Biggest Band in the World™. (Just look at the cover of the CD. That picture was taken within the past two months.) Anyway, I chose a “lighter” Cure selection because, really, the playlist was getting pretty dark and heavy. You’d be hard pressed to find a better love song in Mr. Smith’s extensive repertoire. (“Lovesong?” Yeah, nice try. That song is too one-dimensional.) And this song accurately sums up my melodramatic late 80s / early 90s. 5. “High Rising,” (The London) Suede Suede has proven (for me, anyway) to be a fairly consistent band . . . always capable of putting out listenable albums and anthematic swan-songs. This song isn’t my favorite of theirs, but one I particularly enjoy. (In hindsight, I should’ve included “Asphalt World” instead.) 6. “The Ship Song,” Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds There were a few songs that I could’ve included here, but I chose this one because Michelle and I used it during our first dance at our wedding. It’s a really beautiful song but, at around 5 minutes long, not the best pick for a solo first dance. 7. “Medicine Bottle,” Red House Painters The Best Song Ever Written™. Even though I’ve gotten into more bombastic, over-the-top post-rock / shoegaze music, the textured melancholy of this song is top-notch. And not much can touch the lyrics. I latched onto this song as an introverted, introspective 23-year-old . . . and never let go. 8. “The Pink Room,” Angelo Badalamenti This is from the Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me soundtrack. This has historic significance in that I went to see this with two friends on my 21st birthday. We had already been to a few bars for free pitchers and we may have had a smoke in the car on the way to the theater. (That would explain the tray of nachos and additional beer at the movie theater . . . yes, I.C. Flicks was one of those second-run theaters that sold beer and food. That also might explain why I fell out of my chair during “the pink room” scene, although that could have been attributed to the unexpected shot of bare breasts.) 9. “The Chauffeur,” Duran Duran First of all, I probably wouldn’t have started playing music when I did had it not been for Duran Duran. They were the first band to really have any affect on my life. This is far and away my favorite song by them, and one of my favorite, period. 10. “Without You, I’m Nothing,” Placebo Much like its melodramatic title, this song sweeps emotionally from tension to a cascade of feelings, expressed in a torrent of rushed lyrics. One person’s “devastating” is another person’s “Dude, get some prozac.” But I’ll be damned if I haven’t felt like this song several times in my life (so far). 11. “Freestate,” Depeche Mode This is far from a typical song by this band. But with its heaps of emotional outpouring (read: more melodrama) and guitar-work reminiscent of everyone from The Cure to The Chameleons to Pink Floyd, this song has a unique place in the Depeche Mode canon. I mean, Christ, you can’t really even dance to this or sing along in a playful way. Really, I mean, what the fuck? 12. “Virus Meadow,” And Also the Trees When you think of “goth” music, there are generally two types: the gauzy Stevie Nicks / Bela’s-undead type that lingers on bats and vampires and darkness (e.g., Bauhaus, Switchblade Symphony), or the driving mock-industrial type with 4/4 bass-lines and drum machines (e.g., Sisters of Mercy). Well, AATT specialized in a more romantic kind of “goth” music early in their careers (before they became a lounge band), where pre-Romantic poetry met with spindly guitar lines and complex rhythms. This song (the title track from their amazing second album) aptly represents the dark tension under the surface of the younger, broodier Scott. 13. “Leif Erickson,” Interpol I like how the lyrics to this song are obscure enough to hit on multiple levels, but the sound and feel of the song is very direct and tangible. It starts out tightly wound but ends in a climax of mournful hope (does that make sense?). 14. “Helicon 1,” Mogwai I tried to clue CW in to this song’s perfection, but I don’t think he was buying it. What a fuckin’ slamhound that guy is. Anyway, just awesome. --------------- Yeah, I know . . . I left off a boatload of great bands. Joy Division has several great songs, but none that stand out as the greatest or most representative (for me, anyway). The Chameleons were shamefully excluded, but they fall into a similar trap as JD. There are several others who just missed out . . . Death Cab for Cutie, Siouxsie and the Banshees, New Order, Mira, Sunny Day Real Estate, Nine Inch Nails. Now, I’ve mentioned CDs. Well, this is what I’ve been working on for the past week or so (in between my real work). I’ve already sent out a couple, and many (most? all?) of you regulars will be getting one . . . whether you want one or not. Actually, I have another CD completed, and details on that one will be coming soon . . . perhaps next week. (Hint: There will be a Choppa-rific quiz, so put on your thinking knit-caps!) Thursday, November 13, 2003
Big Things . . . are in the works. You just have to trust me on that. I'm hard at work (at work) at something that's not work, per se. (That's in between my real work, you understand.) But it's for you . . . all ten or twelve of you. In other news, my fantasy basketball team (The Knights of Sanchez) is off to a strong start. And my fantasy football team (also The Knights of Sanchez) have clawed their way up to .500 with three straight wins! It makes me so happy that I could just donkey punch someone! Perhaps one of my fantasy teams should've been The Angry Dragons. Tuesday, November 11, 2003
Stats that Shape a Weekend (Revisited) Time Spent Waiting (Outside) for Door to Open for Death Cab for Cutie Show: 1 hour, 25 minutes Birthday Parties Attended: 2 Poker Winnings: about $3 (after giving away $2.50 in nickels) I was going to write about the Death Cab for Cutie show this past Friday night and how we waited with all the ultra-hipster youths/college kids for the doors to open at the club that doesn’t sell advance tickets to shows. Maybe I would’ve told you about all the Red Stripe I had, or how I thought Mates of State songs all sound the same (and perky to boot). I was going to write about the birthday parties we went to (sister-in-law and niece), and how we had pizza and cake at one and how I had to skip out after presents at the other because I was trying to squeeze in a band practice. I could’ve written about the poker game Saturday . . . how I actually won a little bit of money. Perhaps I would’ve written something like, “It really helps when you get decent cards.” Or, “Paying to see the flop, even when you’re holding crap, is sometimes worth it.” It might have been poetic for me to write about our Sunday-morning stroll around Lake Ella with Mia, and how we forgot to bring bread to feed the ducks, and how good my breve mocha was (surprisingly, considering). Really a nice time. Anyway, I would’ve written about all of these things if I hadn’t been so goddamn busy yesterday. And, today, Mia’s daycare is closed and neither of us have it off, so I’m carting her around with me. She’s napping right now. I just finished reading the redlines for an Environmental Site Assessment report that one of our clients wanted last week. It’s going out tomorrow. So, rather than write any of that stuff, I’ll just write this: I’ll write more when I’m less busy. Friday, November 07, 2003
We Looked like Giants I'm going to see Death Cab for Cutie tonight. In all likelihood, you are not. So sorry. For you. Have a great weekend. I'll try and be here next week. Thursday, November 06, 2003
Must . . . Resist . . . ‘Blog Urges . . . GAH! In an effort convert my vast / expansive / voluminous workload into billable time, I’ve been really (really) trying to stay busy. With work. So, that’s where I’ve been . . . in the land ruled by methyl tertiary-butyl ether plumes and co-solvent flushing and remediation systems and quarterly sampling.* I hope to continue marveling you all with my witticisms and gut-wrenching tales but, for now, you’ll have to make due with this guy. Or her. Have a drink. Find a makeout friend. Or do some exercise between writing papers on literary theorists. --------------- I just Fed Ex’d off materials for my band to be included in the SXSW Music Festival. (File that one under “Futility.”) In a few months, we’ll all look back and laugh. --------------- I’m arachnophobic. Just so ya know. But I’ve made peace with the spiders. Most of the time, I won’t kill them . . . unless they’re over 1 inch across and inside the house. Then I throw something heavy at them and hope for the best. There was a little, reddish spider in the bathroom sink this morning. He was just walking back and forth in the bottom of the sink, making no effort to hide amongst the wasteland of toiletry items strewn around the sink and on the counter. I gave him ample time to scurry away, but he just kept walking back and forth. When I went to brush my teeth, I turned on the water and he got splashed and curled up into a ball. And I washed his horrible little red ass down the sink. Eight-legged bastard. * How many environmental (hydro)geologists and engineers will read my site after this post? Wednesday, November 05, 2003
Blue-Eyed and Scary (Like Her Parents) 
In other news, here's an excerpt from an IM conversation Michelle and I had earlier: deathcabgirl: i think it's time to rename your blog "kamikaze mid-to-late afternoon break." divebomber71: lol divebomber71: No-one had even read yesterday's post until this morning. deathcabgirl: because you post so late! divebomber71: I'm a slack-ass. divebomber71: Actually, I guess if that were true, I'd be more timely with my posts. Tuesday, November 04, 2003
On Becoming Your Parent(s) You ever have one of those days when you realize you’re getting old? I mean really realize it . . . like you’re turning into your parents? Not when you say something and sound like your mom, or look in the mirror and see your father’s weary eyes. But when you begin thinking like your parents. I was listening to Faith by The Cure in the car (on my way to pick up my mother and take her for an X-ray after she fell in her bathroom this morning). Anyway, I was thinking about how I used to have song lyrics on poster board thumb-tacked to my bedroom walls in high school. I had the words to “Primary” up there, along with a few others. But I remember one of my parents telling me that, some day, none of that stuff would matter to me. And I had that exact thought as I was in my car around lunchtime. How am I going to tell my daughter that when she’s a teenager? When she’s rockin’ out to whatever rap-metal equivalent we have in 2018, how am I going to say, “Y’know, sweetie, this shit you’re listening to . . . you’re just gonna look back and laugh that you cared so much about this band . . . SweatHive is it?” Or, “Who is this? Jenny Skank and the VibroStrumpets? One day, Mia, none of this silly music you listen to will matter so much.” I try and rebel against these thoughts as much as possible. I sing along to “Charlotte Sometimes” and “The Figurehead” whenever I can suppress my grown-up sense of embarrassment. I continue to play in a band (as does my wife), despite the wishes of my in-laws. And I basically have the same haircut I had a decade ago. Yeah, I can see it now . . . I’m gonna lay into Mia about her musical tastes, and she’s gonna look at me with my thinning hair I have pulled back into a ponytail and say, “Grow up, dad.” Monday, November 03, 2003
Let's Not Do Anything Rash Halloween weekend was quite odd and tranquil. For me, anyway, as I spent much of the weekend playing disc golf in the park. Mia was coming off of her fever, and has NOW developed a post-fever rash. Lovely, really. Lots of raised, red bumps on our baby. I actually had to take her to the doctor this morning . . . third visit in the past two weeks. --------------- Halloween night, Girls on Film played a show opening for the Cabrones (a Ramones tribute band). There are lots of pictures here. (If you look closely, you might be able to see a black-clad guy with inappropriately long, floppy hair.) --------------- The tournament was fun. I finished fourth (out of 12 or so) in the amateur division. I was actually tied with one guy at the end of the second, third, and fourth rounds, and we had to have a four-hole playoff to break the tie. Yeah, I lost (of course). Not really a clutch player . . . in any game. --------------- To do list: -- Finish CDs. -- Measure Mia’s head for Amy Choppa. -- Finish plans for Michelle’s birthday trip to New Orleans. Friday, October 31, 2003
One Time, I Dressed Up as a Lion Yeah, welcome to the Halloween edition of Kamikaze Lunchbreak. I'm just killin' time until I can go get my drunk on before the Girls' big show. And then it's off to bed, 'cuz I gotta get up early for my disc-golf tournament. Perhaps I revealed too much. Er . . . Mia's been sick and out of daycare for the past couple days, so when I haven't been taking care of her, I've been working. Or sleeping. Certainly not entertaining you (not that I do much of that anyway). I'll try and catch up on it next week. And finish my CDs. Really, you people are high on my list. Just like I am . . . on your lists . . . with my bad haircut and Land Rover. I suck. Have a great weekend. Thursday, October 30, 2003
Time to Fess Up In the interest of full disclosure and holding up my end of the honesty bargain, The Internet, I feel there are a few things I need to tell you. This won’t be easy. But here it goes: -- In defiance of the Gods of Hallow’s Eve, I will try and be away from the house tomorrow night so that I don’t have to hand out candy to the non-dressed up ghetto kids who come to our door. Also, I likely won’t dress up when I go out to the Girls’ show, which they will be dressed up for. -- When I was in elementary school, digging on the clay mound at the Learn-n-Play after-school care, I knew right away that I had stabbed myself in the eye with the stick and that it had not been (as I told the Learn-n-Play administrator, my mom, and the doctor) my friend who was digging next to me. -- I’ve never surfed. I say this, The Internet, because, in high school, I was often challenged while dressed in surfer-wear. I name-dropped specific beaches where I’d been surfing when, in reality, I once tried to stand up on a surfboard in the chop at Cape San Blas . . . which, until my teen years, I called “Cape Sand Blast.” -- I use a mouse pad with my optical mouse. To make matters worse, I sit too close to my monitor . . . much closer than the recommended arm’s length. -- We have (and drive) one of these. I know, I know . . . I lose lots of liberal cred for this indiscretion. I should be wearing red ties and reading Ann Coulter books. Really, The Internet, I’m sorry. We’re sorry. Wednesday, October 29, 2003
Dark and Mysterious So I mentioned last week that there was going to be a Halloween-themed dinner party at our house over the weekend, and there was. I didn’t want to post about it until I had some pictures; likewise, I didn’t want to promise pictures unless I was going to get pictures. Well, I got the pictures, and they wouldn’t interest you that much, really. Sorry. No cats, no inflatable dates, no nudity, no people lying in their own puke. Just people posing for the camera. The party was a success, though. Michelle’s invitations said to dress “dark and mysterious,” so we did . . . except for Mr. ADD, who wore jeans and a Culligan t-shirt. I thought I looked spiffy, although the picture doesn’t do me justice. We had four bottles of wine on hand as alcoholic appetizers for our witches’ brew (a cauldron and huge punch bowl, both filled with a vodka / rum / pineapple juice / orange juice / Sprite concoction). And then everyone else brought wine. For dinner, we started with salad, and followed that with pumpkin soup. And then was the main course: citrus red snapper with baked sweet potato chunks. The sweet potatoes were al dente. For dessert, Michelle made a chocolate pudding / mousse graveyard which was covered with crumbled Oreos and had Pepperidge Farm Milano cookies as tombstones. (There was a picture for this one, but it didn’t really do it justice.) After drinking, teasing, eating, drinking, gossiping, stepping out to watch the fifth overtime of the Tennessee-Alabama game, and drinking some more, we adjourned to the living room to watch this movie, which, I must say, is one of the worst movies I have ever seen. Really, it’s not bad in a good way, either. We commented several times on how horrible it was, and that it’s sad that someone, somewhere, is proud of it. I mean the girl who was the star probably puts this high on her resume. I don’t think we had enough alcohol on hand to sustain the party after that. Things fell apart as we tried to make the transition from the movie to SNL’s Best of Tracy Morgan. So, if you’re breezing through Tallahassee, we have a cauldron full of fruity liquor in our freezer. And it’s frozen. So, stop by and we’ll chip you off a large piece. Tuesday, October 28, 2003
How to Shake the Blues If you find yourself feeling low, put-upon, downtrodden . . . try these simple steps: 1. Find a good-sized glass, like those strange goblets you found at Goodwill a few months ago. 2. Get out the graduated measuring glass. 3. Get vodka out of the freezer. 4. Pour 2 ounces of vodka into the measuring glass. Follow with 2 ounces of triple sec and 2 ounces of Rose's Lime. 5. Put a few ice cubes in the goblet. 6. Pour the double kamikaze into the goblet with ice. Then pour the mixture back into the measuring glass. And then back into the goblet. 7. Go play some chess online. Try to win this time, dumbass. --------------- Thanks, everyone, for the spirit-lifting comments. You're the greatest . . . right up there with Miss Mia and Michelle. Okay, maybe not right up there, but you're just below them, anyway. Blah! It's raining outside, which usually makes me happy. But I'm very put-upon here at work, and my brain hurts. I've been feeling somewhat drained for the past few days. I don't think the weather has ever affected me this much, so I think it's something else. Anyway, that's all for now. I'll be home tonight, so perhaps I'll check in later. Monday, October 27, 2003
Please Buy Our Trash, Please! I’m one of those people . . . the ones you hate. I’m one of the people that you don’t really want to be, but you feel bad for not being. That’s right, I’m a “morning person.” I don’t advertise it, really. I’m not particularly proud of the fact. I just function better between the hours of 6 and 8 a.m. Without coffee, even. Sometimes, it’s an inconvenience. Like at my job, where I’m doing a lot of reading. I structure my workload so that I do my heavy-duty reading in the mornings. All my mindless word-processing / formatting tables / print production work gets scheduled for the afternoons. Anyway, this skill (mutant ability? superpower?) came in handy this weekend for the garage sale. We got together with Michelle’s parents, her brother’s family, and one of the in-laws’ neighbors for a multi-family sale. At the in-laws’ house. For some odd reason, I woke up at 5:20 a.m. (alarm was set for 6:10) and immediately started thinking of things I had to do, so I got up. I made nifty signs for our larger items, most of which sold: elliptical/ski exerciser ($18), computer (monitor, CPU, speakers, keyboard, and mouse . . . $32), rocking chair ($8), and Sega Genesis / Super NES (two systems, with some games and extra controllers . . . $23). I kind-of feel like I let myself get talked down. Which is fine because we made about $100 selling crap that was just taking up space in our house. The highs and lows: -- Driving past Starbucks around 6 a.m. and seeing that it’s dark (i.e., not open). I continued on to the Circle K to get some machine powder coffee-like thing (Cinnamon Cappuccino) with a third of the caffeine. (Somewhat low) -- I had the computer priced a la carte (in case someone just wanted the pieces) and as a package ($48, with printer). I didn’t figure anyone would really want the CPU by itself, so I priced it at $5. Some guy actually bought that first. Then he came back 30 minutes later and wanted the rest. He talked me down quite a bit. He mentioned something about how they were donations for some youth program. (Luckily, I don’t keep porn on my computers . . . not that one, anyway.) So, I sold the computer for a little more than I wanted for just the monitor. And he paid with two rolls of quarters and seven dollars (after paying $5 for the CPU earlier). (Pretty low) -- Having two people who wanted to buy our rocking chair at the same time. The first one was this guy who asked me how much I’d take for it (priced at $12). I said $10. He started to balk, until this woman showed an interest. She really wanted it, but he was “first.” He talked me down to $9, then $8. The woman said she’d pay me $12 for it. But, for some unknown reason, I sold it to the guy because he was “first.” That won’t happen next time. (Definitely low) -- The guy who bought the rocking chair apologized for aggressively haggling while the nice woman with the slightly British accent wanted to buy it for what I was asking. “I wasn’t tryin’ to Jew ya or nothin'.” (Lowest) -- After pocketing my share of the loot, I only had to load up a printer, pasta maker, and some clothes of Michelle’s and Mia’s that were late additions. (High) And y’know what? We’re doing it again next month at another house. Making extra cash for selling junk is cool. Next time, I’m gonna haggle less. Because the score was: Bargain Shoppers 12, Scott 3. Next time, I’m gonna win. Friday, October 24, 2003
Drive By If, while driving, I make a gun with my hand, point and you, and make the “PSSSSHHH” sound with my mouth, it means you’re driving like an ass-clown. Really, stop it. Even if you don’t see or hear it, I’m gunning for you. --------------- I think I’ve mentioned this before, but I don’t remember my dreams much. However, yesterday, I woke up with fragments of several disparate dreams . . . or parts of the same dream. Let’s see, there was a parking lot adventure, where four of us (I don’t remember who, exactly) were in a car and we were trying to convince the driver that she was too drunk to drive. (This is after she took the car, which was not an off-road vehicle, out of the parking lot and into the woods.) After much debate, she finally relented. And then a waitress from the bar brought out drinks for us. There was another part where a group of friends were, for some reason, discussing Michael Jackson. “What a fucking freak!” someone said. And I replied, “Yeah, you know he’s gay and he’s gonna get married again just to prove he’s not. Like that guy who married Liza Minnelli.” And that’s when I noticed that Lisa Marie Presley was in the room. I told her I was sorry. --------------- Since Father’s Day (look at your calendar . . . a long, long time ago), I’ve had this $50 gift card to AMC movie theater, given to me by my mother. Michelle and I don’t have (read: make) a lot of time on weekends to see movies, but I want that to change when this movie comes to town. I don’t need to tell you why (do I?). Oh, I want to see Kill Bill, too. --------------- That poem from yesterday, if you must know, has very little basis in reality . . . my reality, anyway. I wrote down some images after a drive up to Atlanta. Around the same time, that first line came into my head . . . from where, I do not know. The poem really wrote itself after that. I'm going to stop promising things here, but I can promise that more poems will be posted. --------------- Halloween is almost as important to Michelle as Christmas. Tomorrow night, we’re hosting a Halloween dinner for her bandmates, for which Michelle created individual invitations and has put together quite an ambitious menu. Neither one of us is really proficient in the kitchen, so it’ll likely be an interesting dinner. After dinner, we’re watching the requisite scary movies. One of them will most likely be 28 Days. Another suggestion was The Others. And, of course, there will be a silly zombie movie . . . y’know, like the cherry on top. Have a safe weekend, everyone. Yeah, even you. Especially you. Thursday, October 23, 2003
Cruise Control I think you want me to hit you again, but I can’t be sure. The dusk-swallowed Georgia backwater is splayed out before us like hesitation, like reluctance. You’re staring out the window as we pass Blackshear Lake—darkened, silent— perhaps reflecting on a hand’s velocity or the last rays of the sun (gone for good), your face in my lap, the lights across the lake reflecting off the glassy black, pointing at us, engine humming—hungry for the fuel that makes things go, come— our bodies crashing together in the back-seat, side-of-the-road, middle-of-nowhere drive we find ourselves— reaching a speed we can’t possibly maintain. Wednesday, October 22, 2003
Ode to a Glory Hole Anyone who read the comments to yesterday’s post will know that I solved the riddle of the “anonymous” poster. I don’t get many of those (I’m too boring for suddenly ambitious lurkers), so I was excited and insulted at the same time. As we’ve noted time and time again, sarcasm is sometimes hard to convey in ‘blog writing, and/or it’s all too easy to mistake something innocent as sarcastic. Such is the case with the comment from my friend, Mr. Glory Hole. For those of you who are curious, Mr. Glory Hole is an attorney who works with Michelle. He’s Jewish and, next month, he’s marrying a nice Catholic girl (the Shiksa). In Cocoa Beach. The Kamikaze’s are going to be there. The goal is to once again catch a glimpse of some of that "wedded bliss" . . . and then drink ourselves into a coma. And, also for those of you who are curious, I’m sure someone knowledgeable can provide a definition of a “glory hole.” C’mon, someone . . . step up to the plate. It's right up there with bukkake, jelly doughnuts, and angry dragons. --------------- Speaking of stepping up to the plate, thanks to everyone who joined together to prop up my failing self-esteem. Tuesday, October 21, 2003
Don't You Want Me? I'm not really encouraged by the lack of commentary on my after-the-fact Atlanta itinerary, so I'm blowin' you fools off today. Okay, not really. I've been busy working on a 1,684-page PDF of a crop study for a prominent agricultural company. And when I wasn't doing that, I was taking a long lunch to go grocery shopping, and to try and spend $75 in gift cards from Border's. (There were too many choices, and I was having commitment issues, so I settled on dropping $25 on the new Death Cab for Cutie CD, plus a couple magazines.) I may be back tomorrow . . . if I think you're gonna make it worth my while. Just kidding. No, really. (Fuckers.) Monday, October 20, 2003
Road Trippin' (And Knowing the Difference Between Yards and Inches) In the interest of minimizing reader irritation, or at least reducing any potential shred of disappointment, I should stop promising things. Like pictures. But I did take good notes over the weekend, so I have this: Kamikazes in Atlanta Friday 6:15 p.m.: Finally leave the house. Michelle had actually been off work for a while. I didn’t leave until late, and then I had to gas up the car and run by the credit union. On the way out of town, we stop for the traditional road-trip kick-off meal at the Chick-Fil-A drive-thru. 7:30 p.m.: (near Pelham, Georgia) Michelle gets in back seat with Miss Mia, who’d been crying intermittently and was fighting sleep. 8:45 p.m.: Miss Mia is finally asleep. We remark that she’s the prettiest baby ever (which she is, fucktard). 9:35 p.m.: Yours truly, eyes heavy, turns the driving over to Michelle. (In his old age, the once-solid Scott is getting fairly useless on these road trips.) 10:03 p.m.: *silence* “Next year will be 10 years since college and 15 years since high school.” *Sympathetic nods, followed by more silence* 11:20 p.m.: Arrive at Michelle’s sister’s (Miss JAB’s) place. Unloaded car, assembled Pack-n-Play, said our “hellos,” put baby (back) to bed . . . not necessarily in that order. 11:45 p.m.: Bed Saturday 6:55 a.m.: Mia’s awake, for some inexplicable reason. You’d think a sleep-deprived baby would sleep longer. 9:15 a.m.: Thrift-shopping. 11:40 a.m. (driving to find lunch and listening to Kinski’s “Semaphore”): Scott: “Yeah, the ending speeds up and doesn’t quite fit, but this song still rocks my fuckin’ balls off.” Michelle: “That’s your daddy, Mia.” 11:50 a.m.: Mythos for lunch . . . Greek food worth the (very) long wait 2:00 p.m.: Michelle and Miss JAB left for Little Five Points while I stayed with Miss Mia, who would not go down for a nap. (We didn’t bring our stroller on the trip for some inexplicable reason.) 3:40 p.m.: Mr. ADD calls from Tallahassee. He lets me know the bad news . . . that the Legion of Doom has set up a fortress in the woods near his house. “But the Super Friends should be able to take care of it,” he says, reassuringly. I have to admit, I’m relieved. 4:10 p.m.: Michelle and Miss JAB come back to the apartment. 4:20 p.m.: The moment when Joe Theismann is on T.V. during halftime of the Notre Dame / USC game. When I realize that one of my most hated sports figures went to school at one of my most hated schools. When I wish Lawrence Taylor would appear, tackle Mr. Theismann, and break his leg . . . again. 4:30 p.m.: More family-themed thrift shopping. 6:58 p.m. (during a commercial break in the Florida / Arkansas game): Michelle: “Okay, he’s not singing that.” Miss JAB: “Whoever’s singing it needs to stop.” Scott: “It’s the Steve Miller Band. Get with the program.” Miss JAB: “Not if that’s the program.” 7:45 p.m.: Miss JAB tags along to Johnny’s Pizza to watch the FSU / Virginia game on ESPN. (Miss JAB doesn’t have cable.) The Greek food was weighing heavy on us, as she couldn’t eat anything and I could only eat half of a 12-inch pizza (green peppers and feta). But we did split a pitcher of Amberbock, and chased that with another pint each. 10:24 p.m. (during the FSU / Virginia game) On T.V., a Virginia fan holds up a sign that reads: “Silly Seminoles, Rix is for kids.” Funny, funny stuff. We ended up leaving before the end of the game. Miss JAB could get Fox, so we watched the end of Game One of the World Series. Sunday 7:35 a.m.: It Came From the Crib 9:45 a.m.: Golden Corral for some food-trough breakfast 10:25 a.m.: Wal-Mart for some last-minute grocery items and food for Miss JAB’s cat, Maddie. 12:20 p.m.: Leave Atlanta. Because Michelle starts out driving, we’re sure to make better time; she tries to maintain 85 mph whenever possible, while I usually try to stay around 8 to 10 mph over the limit (i.e., much slower). 3:30 p.m.: We stop for so I can get some Krystal’s. (I will regret this in approximately 12 hours. Seriously.) 5:00 p.m.: Home at last. That’s the trip in broad strokes. I left out some of the minutia, like listening to the new Death Cab CD, trying to write some poetry, trying to get Mia to walk around the apartment, how Mia tried to sneak out a “thank you” to her aunt after breakfast yesterday, how cool it is that Michelle bought several yards of fabric and was charged for several inches (the total was $0.48 for almost 10 yards of fabric), or the fact that I saw more evidence of multiculturalism in Atlanta this weekend than I have in all my time in New York City. Friday, October 17, 2003
Liberated Well, the Yankees have freed me from caring about baseball for the calendar year 2003. Really, it was a great game last night. Fun while it lasted. --------------- I like the latest trend of violent commentary/threats involving “shivs” I’m reading on everyone’s sites. That’s such a great word. Shiv. Seriously, I can’t get enough of the shiv-talk. On a side note, I knew someone in high school named Shiv. --------------- Okay, folks, here it is . . . the formula (let’s call it the Kamikaze Theorem) that will calculate/predict how many comments you will receive on a given post: C = [T x (2Q + F/2 + L/10)] - Y where: C = the number of comments you will receive T = the relative trauma/interest level of the post (scale of 1 to 5, with 5 being fairly traumatic and/or interesting . . . or if you’re giving CDs away, and 1 being a post about your baseball career) Q = the average quality of your posts in general (scale of 1 to 5, with 5 being Julia and 1 being, um . . .) F = the number of sites you frequently comment on L = the number of sites (links) on your blogroll Y = the number of people you’ve made mad somehow (e.g., harassing them about the Yankees, failing to keep promises, threatening with geometry, using dangling participles) Let me know if the Kamikaze Theorem applies to your site. We may need to revise it, or invoke the Crabby Hypothesis. Or the Law of Choppa. Or the Styro Postulate. Or the Fez Principle. --------------- That’s about all I have. We’re going to Atlanta this weekend. Probably won’t see this guy on this trip. (If you got home from a trip to the big—or bigger—city, would I be the first person you’d want to see? Yeah, I didn’t think so. But thanks, honey.) Maybe I’ll keep a handy-dandy travelogue for your amusement. And take pictures (which may or may not ever be posted). Thursday, October 16, 2003
Give ‘em the Heater What a great time of year. Summer seems to be gone . . . even here in Florida. The sky is blue, the breeze is kicking up, the leaves are changing color (and I think you know that color is brown, without a stop at red or orange or yellow). ‘Tis the season for cups of hot chocolate, hot coffee, or hot brevé-mochas. For dusting off that copy of The Cure’s Faith CD, or your favorite Sisters of Mercy. For getting out the “winter wardrobe” of sweaters, jackets, and long underwear. For turning on the heat. For calling up the oil company and scheduling a delivery. And calling the HVAC-repair company to come inspect and service the furnace. Okay, so it’s not all great. Using heating oil sucks. Really. It’s a nasty pain in the ass. And—as it’s delivered to our 295-gallon tank that is buried in the ground and sure to have leaks in the fuel lines—not environmentally friendly. Yeah, we’d love to switch over to gas, but I think we’d have to replace at least three appliances for the city’s utility program, and I don’t think it’s worth it. Not now, anyway. So, before we have too many more cool nights, I have to call. I’m not running the heat until they come out because I didn’t change the filter last year, and I’m lazy. I’d rather pay someone else to do it while they check our system to make sure we’re not going to die of carbon monoxide poisoning in our sleep. --------------- In other news, I can’t get Adam Green’s “Bunny Ranch” song out of my head. “Bind me, gag me, take me to the bunny ranch. People dying, kill me in the packing house.” Y’know, it almost brings a tear to your eye. *sniff* Wednesday, October 15, 2003
The History of Baseball (As it Applies to Mr. Lunchbreak) OR You’re Getting Very Sleepy* Unless you’re new here, you know I don’t really like baseball. I find it uniquely boring . . . not much higher on the activity scale than golf. But I didn’t always feel that way. Things started with tee-ball (or Atom League, as they called it here). I can’t remember what our team was called, but my dad was the coach. He continued coaching the next two seasons of Junior League, where there was actual pitching. I remember the early baseball-training years. Learning to hit a baseball hanging on a rope from a tree in our front yard, and the time I hit the girl next door in the face with a bat when she snuck up behind me. (I never saw her; it was the back swing.) And learning to catch and how that lesson of “watching the ball into your glove” would result in a bloody nose. My first season of “pitch” baseball, I only made contact with the ball twice from the plate; I think both times resulted in short ground-outs. The second season, I was a much better hitter. I don’t remember my batting average, but I did hit at least one triple and a couple doubles. For that last Junior-League season, I played third base. I thought I was pretty good, but my defining moment was when the ball came to me and the guy at third decided not to try and make it to home plate and he tried to get back to third base and I dove to tag him out and I got his cleats in my face and the ball rolled out of my glove and he was called safe. And I cried. So, I didn’t have a future in baseball. The next league (Junior Majors) was where teams were sponsored by local businesses and the pitching was faster, kids older, etc. I was destined to be a spectator only. Which works out fine down here . . . if you’re a Braves fan. TBS runs every one of their games, all season long. I know because, when I was growing up, my mother watched a lot of them. (This might have had something to do with me being a Phillies fan, come to think of it.) I’ve been to see the Braves twice. The first time was in eighth grade. We took a group trip to Atlanta for educational purposes and took in a game while we were there. As it turns out, they were playing the Phillies. I wore my Phillies hard hat, and they won 8-2 . . . if memory serves. (The next time I went, I can’t remember much. It was with my mother, about eight or ten years ago. I just remember the guys sitting in front of us were playing mound ball.) When I was in high school, I think I became turned off from baseball because of the redneck pricks at our school that played it. Or maybe it was because, when I watched sports, I liked the ones with full contact (like football) or the ones where there aren’t long periods of the competitors shifting their weight from foot to foot, scratching their balls, and intermittently spitting their chew. Baseball turned into something both grotesque and boring. My friend JG was brought up a Red Sox fan, but he became a Yankees fan later in life. When I lived in Albany, I started following the Red Sox (a little) because one of their relievers had been our pitcher back in Junior League. (Of course, he was later traded away.) So, I spent a lot of time reading box scores to see how he was doing. And talking to JG about the pennant race. But I didn’t really watch much baseball. And, yet, here I am, a few years later, frothing over the post-season. Granted, it’s because I like a good story. I mean, what better story is there than the potential match-up of the Cubs and Red Sox? Should the Red Sox lose tonight, we could have the Cubs vs. Yankees, which would be good, too. Yankees vs. Marlins? Eh . . . what channel is basketball on? * Alternate title idea shamelessly ** Note to Cubs fan(s) on the left-field foul line: If the ball is coming towards you, and the left fielder is coming to catch it, and it looks like it might be close to the railing where the guy might be able to make a play on the ball, let the guy catch the ball. I mean, really, he’d probably even throw it up to you when the play is over. Wouldn’t that be better than leaving the Marlins with men on base and only one out. We’re not talking hindsight here, either, people. We’re talking curses. We’re talking haven’t-been-to-the-World-Series-since-the-last-World-War. We’re talking if-the-Cubs-don’t-win-tonight-it’s-all-your-fault-how-are-you-gonna-live-with-that? Tuesday, October 14, 2003
Debate Who is more deserving of your sympathy? a. Kobe Bryant b. Rush Limbaugh c. the guy who was driving next to us on I-75 when an airborne hunk of tire rubber slammed into his Lexus SUV Monday, October 13, 2003
Losing is Not Fun First of all, thanks to any of you who thought of me if/when you saw the final score of the FSU/Miami game. But if by thinking of me you chuckled to yourself about what a sad, pathetic bastard I am, you can suck my balls. I won’t bore you with details of the game or my analysis of why things happened they way they did, but it suffices to say that my Saturday was most unfun. Actually, it was just that three-hour period that was less-than-amusing. But, like most traumas, beer helped things pass more smoothly. The Interpol show the night before the game was great (as expected). I might have a picture and/or a summary of the show later. In other news, I had to take my mom to the eye doctor at “lunch” (I was gone for almost three hours). That’s why this is so short and substance-less. Friday, October 10, 2003
The Departed The ol’ blogroll is in a continual state of flux, isn’t it? The latest round of changes includes some new addresses for older ‘blogs, a newly added ‘blog, a ‘blogger back from hiatus, and a few cuts. Sadly, the ‘Poo will be leaving us, too, but I haven’t dropped her from the blogroll . . . out of respect. Yo. --------------- Yeah, so I’m really busy at work. I’ve been trying to tie up some loose ends so that I can leave early. Michelle and I are driving to Orlando to see Interpol. It’s likely that I’ll be posting this five minutes before I leave. --------------- In the course of getting some projects out of the way, I took a report home to work on last night. There I was, reading about chlorinated-ethene plumes at a drycleaning site, and having a drink. Really, all work should be like this. If I can’t drink during company time*, then doing work at home necessitates drinking. Sound good? And if you have to ask what I was drinking . . . I mean, really. --------------- Speaking of drinking, tomorrow is the ultra-huge FSU vs. Miami game. ‘Round about 4 o’clock, I’m either gonna be buzzed and elated, or drunk and pissed off. If you’re not rooting for FSU, you’re the fucking Devil. Got that? The fucking. Devil. (* Actually, every now and then – like when we won the big contract from NASA – they’ll come around with beer. Or, sometimes, we’ll have a happy hour on Friday afternoons. There’s really something to be said for kicking back at your desk with a beer.) Wednesday, October 08, 2003
Defective I have a lazy eye. When I was a toddler, my parents had to do eye exercises with me to strengthen it. Of course, I don’t remember any of this. I grew up wholly unaware that I had this problem. But I’ve been strangely aware of it the past couple years, like when my vision doubles late in the day. Or when I first stumble into the master bath early in the morning and look at myself in the mirror . . . my right eye staring straight ahead and my left eye drifting off to the side. Doubling. And now I’m even more aware of it, because I’ve passed the lazy eye on to Mia. We’d noticed for a couple months that she didn’t always look straight with both eyes; her left eye was sometimes slow to respond. At her one-year appointment, we were referred to an ophthalmologist. (Actually, because we’re not in a HMO, we could’ve referred ourselves, but no-one told us that.) I took Mia to the ophthalmologist this morning. I can’t really tell you what’s more terrifying: the thought of her having to possibly undergo surgery to correct the lazy eye (I never had to), or the pregnant trailer-vixen there with her child and her mother . . . wearing flip-flops and a t-shirt that read, “51% nice and 49% bitch . . . Don’t push it!” Seriously, we’re going to try to avoid the surgery at all costs. I really don’t think we’d consider putting her (and ourselves) through it. So, we have to patch Mia's right eye for an hour a day, and then we’re going to have her re-evaluated in two months. Keep your fingers (not your eyes) crossed. |
