kamikaze lunchbreak

2006-11-01T16:22:00.000-05:00

. . . 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.

2006-03-13T12:48:00.000-05:00

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.

2006-03-10T13:07:00.000-05:00

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.

2006-03-06T17:03:00.000-05:00

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.

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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.

2006-03-01T17:07:00.000-05:00

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.

2006-02-27T12:13:00.000-05:00

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.

2006-02-24T16:52:00.000-05:00

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.

2006-02-21T16:49:00.000-05:00

What’s Happening in the World? Because if Current Events Don’t Involve a 42-Pound Rock Sliding Across the Ice, I Have No Idea.
I stopped by Michelle’s office yesterday before lunch to drop off the checkbook (for her dentist appointment).

Me: "Well, I’m off to watch some curling."
Her: "You really should take something for that."

I guess the good news is that we have a break (today) before the semifinals (tomorrow). And then there are the medal matches. This weekend, everything will return to "normal." Until the World Cup in June*.

It’s sad, though, because the U.S. women’s team has been eliminated from medal contention (they even had to concede their final qualifying match against Great Britain). Which brings up something I’ve been pondering: The U.S. team is mostly attractive and the British team is made up of Scottish woman (decidedly unattractive/not-hot). What if there was a Scottish curling team made up entirely of really hot women. Or a curling team of really hot women with Scottish accents. They’re hot, they have sexy Scottish accents, and they’re good at curling. I’m gonna go on record and say that such a team would be invincible!

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This sentence replaces a three-paragraph section wherein I expressed and defended my decision to discontinue watching "Grey's Anatomy." And this sentence is to let you know that, while my one-sentence summary won’t make me more of a man, it will make me appear as less of a sausage-riding gaybo.

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So, has Cheney shot anyone else lately? Are we still fighting the War on Terror? Have scientists finally discovered the Anti-Bush?

* Actually, honey, there's March Madness next month. And I'm running the bracket here at work because the guy who's done it in the past got fired last month. So it looks like the sports-related dementia will continue.

2006-02-16T16:56:00.000-05:00

How the Christ Does One Pronounce “Meme” Anyway? Because I Call My Grandmother “Meme,” and I Pronounce That Like “Me-Me.”
Here’s the deal: I think this is gonna be less like a meme and more like a question. Or challenge. Because, as Styro says, “Memes are dumb.”

I used to strive to do things I’d never done before as often as possible. Which was easier when I was young because I hadn’t done anything. But now, due to a lack of trying, my days are basically the same. Week to week, month to month, my life is as predictable as clockwork. I’m not complaining about my life. I’m just saying that the predictability of my life is keeping me from writing anything interesting. (I think. Maybe this is the result of me falling into the flood-swollen river while white water rafting.)

I postulated to pea that, as bloggers, we should challenge ourselves to do something different, outside the routine, as much as possible. Like taking a pastry-making class. Joining a dodgeball team. Or putting jawbreakers in your vagina. What should I do? Alternatively, what should you do?

2006-02-15T16:43:00.000-05:00

". . . I’m Wait-ing for my Val-en-tiiiiiine."
So, the Fourth Annual Glory Hole Valentine’s Dinner went off pretty well. This year, we went to a French restaurant. The food was great. Secrets were revealed. Alcohol was consumed (snobbishly). Waiters were tormented (partially deserved). Furniture was knocked over. Imitations were performed. And generous gestures of goodwill abounded.

In other news, I’m gonna post a meme tomorrow. Actually initiating one myself. Because I never get invited to do one (well, except for that one from K a long time ago but, to be fair, it was fucking long). And after an exchange with pea, I realized that I do very little of note and should really provoke myself (and others) more. So stay tuned for that.

2006-02-11T22:56:00.000-05:00

Going for the Gold
Michelle’s home, and I’m glad. Even though the week of being a single father was strangely serene. It’s not-too-late on Saturday night and she’s asleep . . . haggard from touring.

And so, now, it’s Olympic season, eh? I like a good story, which is the only thing that keeps me watching. I mean, first, it’s an edited-together summary of some freestyle skiing/jumping thing (mildly more exciting than tomorrow’s Daytona 500, so, not very). But then you Costas-ize it and, PRESTO!. Instant interest. (Of course, in this case, that backfired as the girl from Vermont failed to qualify for the medal round.) Although, I did get to see history being made as an American figure-skating pair landed the first throw triple-axel in Olympic competition. (Either exciting or I’m just as gay as you suspect.)

What I’m really looking forward to, though, is the curling, which starts Monday and goes for a week and a half straight. I think USA is gonna televise a lot of it live (starting at 3 a.m.).

That, and Irina Slutskaya. Hey, you think the U.S. Olympic Committee feel like douches for giving Michelle Kwan that medical exemption?

2006-02-07T12:53:00.000-05:00

Stats That Shape a Weekend: The Holy-Shit-My-Favorite-Team-Just-Won-the-Super-Bowl Edition (And No, Styro, This Won’t All be About Football)

Hours Since Michelle Left to go on Tour: about 100
Number of Friends Who Stopped by to Watch the Game: five
Friends Left Watching the Game with Me After Halftime: one

I think I’m settling into temporary single-parenthood the way I’d expected. Mia makes it all too easy. And Michelle’s parents keeping Mia on Saturday night helped, too.

The focus of the weekend, obviously, was the Super Bowl. I had been talking and thinking about getting some Iron City (beer) for the occasion (not available in town), but had done nothing to further that cause. On the way to watch UFC at a friend’s house on Saturday night, I stopped off to pick up a six-pack of cider and a can of Scotch ale to make Scotch Apples, and I asked the checkout guy at the liquor store what the possibility was of any store in town selling Iron City. He said they special order beer all the time, but you have to buy at least a case. And it takes two weeks. Dammit.

But, as Fate would have it, I was recounting this story while watching two guys pummel the Holy Hell out of the each other, and Wench (our band’s singer) tells me that her boyfriend (who runs the ultimate hipster bar here in Tallahassee) could probably spare some as he’s recently started selling it.

The Super Bowl gathering devolved at halftime. Wench showed up and sat back in the bedroom with Mia watching Cartoon Network (which was inexplicably playing “Spirited Away” [I think]) while the first half drew to a close. And then everyone had someplace else to go (except Mr. ADD, who never stays for a complete game).

2006-02-01T12:59:00.000-05:00

State of the Union? Would Be “Strong,” But I’m Not Drunk Enough
I really should be writing about the State of the Union someplace else, but I’m not really going to write about it at all. Other than to let you know that when Michelle got home from band practice and found me watching the address, she said, “I’m surprised you’re not taking notes.” To which I replied, “It’s easier for me to drink when I’m not taking notes.”

You know what was reaffirmed during the speech? That I do have a little crush on Louisiana Senator Mary Landrieu.

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Bush touched on the need to steer the economy away from our “addiction to oil.” Which, y’know, is great. Did you hear that shit about Exxon-Mobil a few days ago? How they netted over $36 billion in profit last year, the most ever in U.S. history? Beating the old record, which was set by . . . Exxon-Mobil in 2004?

This got me thinking about those backward-ass chain emails, where we’re urged to not buy gasoline for a day to stick it to the oil companies. Oh, okay. Well . . . what about tomorrow?

I say fuck that. How about boycotting just one oil company? Every day. Let’s say . . . Exxon-Mobil. Do not buy gas from Exxon and/or Mobil stations (unless you live in a town with one traffic light and one gas station, which begs the question: How are you reading this?). Dump your stock in their company. Dump 401(k) funds that carry Exxon-Mobil stock. I’m serious. I already don’t buy gas from one chain in town (because they suck for other reasons, not really political). I have other options, and I’m going to exercise those.

Spread the word: We know we have to buy gas, but we don’t have to buy it from Exxon-Mobil. (That’s actually several words. Spread ‘em anyway, fuckers.)

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On the non-consumer-driven-Totalitarianism front, Michelle and her band leave for their tour tomorrow. You should check out the parade route and go see them if they’re coming to (or near) your town. I’ll be playing the part of “single father” for a week. But should the Steelers win the Super Bowl, that’ll carry me until Michelle gets back. Plus, I get paid Friday, so I should be able to stock up on alcohol to ~~keep me afloat~~ float in. I’m getting a little nervous that the rescued Crown might disappear. Bring it to me, Mr. GH!

2006-01-27T20:53:00.000-05:00

Instant
I'm not quite sure how I feel about my decision to provide my mother with AOL instant-messenger capability. Once she upgraded to high-speed internet, I figured it be easier to have her IM'ing me at work (when I could ignore her [briefly] if I had to) rather than having her calling me two or three times a day with questions about some arcane thing she'd seen on T.V., or about our plans for the weekend, or whether I want any of the belongings she's set aside to give to the woman who cleans her house and plans to sell at the flea market. Questions which, invariably, seemed to come to her and inspire her to immediately call me at the most inopertune time(s).

And all this agonizing over my mother's seeming campaign against my sanity has me thinking of Mark's mother. Please keep Mark and his family in your thoughts.

2006-01-24T17:05:00.000-05:00

Stats That Shape a Weekend (Glory Hole Party Edition)
Number of Shots I Made: I don’t have an exact count, but well over 100*
Number of Shots I Drank: maybe three . . . four most
Number of Kamikazes I Drank: maybe three or . . . five?

So, as I mentioned earlier, I’d volunteered to bartend the party this past weekend for Mr. Glory Hole. And by “bartend,” of course I mean mix shots. Because I’m not a bartender, although I was mistaken for one. Mr. Glory Hole had already taken care of the core of the recipe needs with the-shadow-of-GOP-corruption-sized bottles of vodka, rum, Jagermeister, and Jack Daniels. We split a list of mixers and liqueurs. And then came the expectations that I might be overdoing it (his), followed by self-doubt (mine). The party proved to be an expectation-shattering event.

Expectation: This party won’t be any bigger than the last Glory Hole party.
Reality: While the previous party was quite the popular event (for about 30 minutes), this one was quite popular for several hours. I left sometime between 12:30 and 1 and didn’t see the party “winding down” at all.

Expectation: No-one’s gonna be that into doing shots. C’mon, these aren’t kids just out of college.
Reality: The shot concept may have been a little awkward at first, but people warmed up to the idea pretty quickly. Having shots called “Red-Headed Slut” and “Cock Teaser” help break down a few barriers, too. (Oh, and some of the people there were still in college, albeit creative-writing graduate students, but that counts.)

Expectation: I’ll be the bar guy and everyone will be happy to give me my space.
Reality: Very early on, I got nudged out of the bar “area” by some guy making a round of margaritas. I didn’t have a purpose (at that point), other than making an Amaretto Sour for Mr. Glory Hole’s ex-girlfriend. So, I started making shots almost continuously. And nudging people out of the way who insisted on sharing their life stories in front of the sink. Hey, people, it’s nice outside and you’re not waiting for a drink. Out!

Expectation: I’m gonna stay sober for as long as I can, but will inevitably slip into an alcohol-induced coma around midnight.
Reality: I didn’t even really have a drink until the party had been going on for an hour. By then, Michelle had had four. When I abandoned my bar “duties” sometime before midnight, I started making myself a series of kamikazes. Not sure exactly how many I had, but it’s safe to say I was hammered . . . about two hours after I fell asleep at home. (Seriously, I woke up pretty hungover for someone who wasn’t that drunk when I went to bed.)

Expectation: Michelle will not have fun and she’ll sneak out after an hour or so.
Reality: After the four Crown and gingers, Michelle was primed . . . to be my barmaid. She was given a batter’s helmet and sent around with trays of shots. Unfortunately for her, many of the “takers” insisted that she do a shot with them. So, while she was having a great time, it was taking its toll. The girl-on-girl-on-girl-on-girl, open-air tongue-touching was something I couldn’t have predicted Michelle would be mixed up in.

* Mr. Glory Hole has my tally sheet.

2006-01-20T13:35:00.000-05:00

Contemporary Music*
I love music, but I find myself getting more detached from it . . . specifically what’s “current” and “hip.” Even though I write music and derive a lot of enjoyment (and exorcise a lot of demons) playing music. I must be turning into an adult. At 34.

When I was a fair, gentle teenager, I was pretty obsessive about my music-listening. Like getting Duran Duran’s Seven and the Ragged Tiger in middle school and listening to that cassette repeatedly. Before I had a “jam box” with the auto-reverse function. I actually had to take the cassette out, flip it over, rewind as necessary, and press Play. Over and over. I’d get the new LP / cassette / CD by a favorite band and listen to it constantly. And never got sick of it.

Flash forward a couple decades, when I have more resources to purchase and experience new music, and I’m lost in it. Behind the times. For instance, I have a CD-rotation system in place, so that I’m currently “listening to” about 30 CDs. So it’ll take me a few months to fully evaluate the dozen CDs I got for Christmas. Continuing with the “instance,” I got the newest Death Cab for Cutie CD for/around my birthday in September and was pretty let down (initially). Only now, almost four months later, have I listened to it enough to have it “grow on me.” We’re talking six or eight times through. Over four months.

See, I like variety more now than I did. Not types of music, but bands. This is probably why I do so many mix CDs; I get sick of hearing the same songs and bands over and over and over again. So I’ll listen to a CD once (including mixes) and then rotate it out of my car. CDs in “high” rotation get listened to once, maybe twice, a month. If it’s weekly, we’re talking “very, extremely high” rotation.

What slows things down even further is driving Mia around, which I do a lot. I got pretty spoiled when Michelle was taking her to preschool and I was picking her up. Lots of time to listen to what I wanted as loud as I wanted. This temporary reverting back to daycare (which is, literally, across the highway from my office) has me squeezing in very little prime-listening time. I’ll put on the local adult-contemporary station because it’s not too offensive to Mia. (Although, it can be really offensive to me. Seriously, I’m sick and fucking tired of “Torn” by Natalie Imbruglia; didn’t that song hit in, like, 1997? And what’s this bullshit with Carlos Santana dubbing guitar wankery over every other song on the radio? That and anything by Blues Traveler makes me wanna turn off the entire fucking airwaves. All of them. Dear God.)

Sigh. Hey, y’know what band Mia really likes? The Bravery.

UPDATE: One of the things that inspired this post was hearing Alanis Morrissette's uninspired version of Seal's "Crazy." I mean, really, why bother? When I first heard it, I thought, "Man who is this sad Alanis wannabe doing the rote walk-through of this not-even-classic song?" Anyway, I heard it again this morning. I'll probably hear it again on the way home. Right after "Torn."

* This is gaybo to the power of 10, but there’s that episode of Friends where Ross is going to China and Joey tells him, “Make sure you eat some Chinese food while you’re there.” And Chandler enlightens him with (something like), “I think in China, they just call it food.” Anyway, likewise, “adult-contemporary music” becomes just “contemporary” when you’re an adult. Among other things.

2006-01-16T12:48:00.000-05:00

Boiling Down the Weekend (With No Stats to Shape It)
Here's an excerpt from an e-mail I sent to a friend about this weekend:

"Dude, I didn't say ANYTHING when Bettis fumbled. I was COMPLETELY stunned into silence. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. The drama-writers in the NFL front office (or the replay booth in Indy) couldn't have written a more nausea-inducing series of twists. Jesus. When I saw Ben back there on that fumble return, I thought, "What the fuck is he doing all the way back there?" And THEN I was, like, "Tackle him. TACKLE HIM!" In my head. Because, y'know, remember the stunned silence. But somehow . . . SOMEhow . . . I knew Vanderjagt was gonna miss that kick. If he'd made it, and the Colts had gone on to win in overtime, I'd fully expect the Hand of Almighty God to descend from Heaven with a Golden Crown for Mr. Manning. Seriously."

Please let the Steelers be the Team of Destiny this year. Do it for Jerome, guys. And do it for Us All.

In other news, yeah, I've been busy at work. And we're preparing to move our computer at home. Several deadlines from the end of '05 are spilling over into early '06, and now I'm really behind. This doesn't include some things that I've completely neglected and are now becoming somewhat more important. Also, Mia's daycare was closed for MLK Day, but the office isn't, so I’m at work while Mia's "papa" is watching her and her cousin. I think I'm gonna do another couple things after my "lunch break," and then blow on outta here.

Looking ahead, there are two huge-ass social events on the Kamikaze calendar. The first is this Saturday's blowout at Mr. Glory Hole's place. This isn't another post-divorce introspective booze-fest; that's been done to death, I think. (This weekend was the continuation of wedding gift / memento destruction, which culminated in the burning of the wedding-cake topper after drinking a bottle of $150 champagne. I've never wanted to have a digital camera more than I did at that moment. Goddammit.) No, it's a combo-birthday thing. I volunteered to be a bartender, so I'll be mixing up pitchers of drinks, serving up shots (including some that I've invented), and making other specialty drinks. This will necessitate me being relatively sober. But I'll be fucked in the browneye if I don't have the Elph handy for THIS one.

The next event is a month away . . . a Girls on Film vs. Thunderpony show at Tallahassee’s penultimate college frat/sorority bar. We are splitting the whole night (from 9 p.m. to "last call"). Our repertoire doesn't equal three 40-minute sets, so we're gonna do some covers and songs from our previous band. This, too, will receive a lot of play on my Flickr page and here, I'm sure. Stay tuned.

2006-01-10T13:27:00.000-05:00

What if You Threw a Party and No-One Came? Except Creed.
We played our debut gig as Thunderpony this past weekend. At what passes for a “professional” venue in Tallahassee. Meaning we were sharing the bill with three New Rock / Neü-Metal bands. Luckily we were first, which almost meant we didn’t get to eat dinner after "soundcheck." But because New Rock Band v.854.6 told all their friends that they were playing later when, in actuality, they were playing at 10, things got pushed back 30 minutes. Gyros for everyone!

The venue we played often does this ticket pre-sale thing. It’s really kind-of a scam. See, each band ponies up $150 for 150 tickets with face values of $6 each. Bands can sell these tickets for whatever they want (up to $6) and pocket the money; what they earn after the $150 investment is profit. So, the venue made $450 right off the top from the bands. And then they get all the bar revenues plus money from anyone who pays at the door.

The manager who booked us (correctly) figured we wouldn’t sell 150 tickets, so he offered us a choice: 50 tickets to sell or a $50 buyout. We gambled and took the tickets. There was a lot of unease, but we managed to sell / give away almost all of them . . . and made $75. Commerce for everyone!

What’s funny is that there were 500 tickets between the four bands. When we went on, there were between 30 and 40 people there. (I’m estimating, because I sure as fuck don’t care enough to count how many people are coming out.) We knew a lot of those people, who promptly left after we finished or shortly after the next band started. Which was about the time I left, so I can’t tell you how many more people showed up.

A few of us ventured over to the backside of the über-hip Waterworks, which is where you’d find the Spaceport. The Organ Lady was playing once more in town before venturing back to Germany. I bellied up to the bar. The doe-eyed bartender asked for my order. I felt like a kamikaze, so I ordered one. With Grey Goose. The bartender quietly said something about it being her first night. She was looking at a bar guide for the recipe to make a kamikaze. Uh-oh.

Luckily, the drink wasn’t that bad. But my next drink came in a bottle.

2006-01-05T08:26:00.000-05:00

"Do You Believe That Shit?"
HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA-HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA-HA-HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA!

If there's one thing worse in sports that bandwagonning and dynasties, it's hype. You think ESPN's pre-game comparisons of the 2005 USC team to the 10 greatest teams in college football history had anything to do with the Longhorns' collective determination? I love it when a plan doesn't come together.

2006-01-03T12:41:00.000-05:00

Resolution-less
I didn’t really come out with an “official” list of resolutions this year, although I sort of made the promise to myself that I’d spend less time on “shit that doesn’t matter.”* Despite this, I will continue updating my weblog.

Seriously (more seriously), I’ve been thinking a lot about why I spend so much time doing silly things, and so little time doing things that, y’know, mean something. I don’t think I waste a lot of time, but I feel like I do. Just sitting around sometimes. First, I think I need to outlaw the channel-surfing. Our DVR / digital cable combo is a huge time-sucker anyway, but I need to train myself to only sit in front of the T.V. when I’m watching something specific. Or really, truly have nothing better to do (which, really, is NEVER). The “Let’s see what’s on” strategy is killing me.

The big news of the New Year’s weekend was that Michelle and her sister conspired to join forces in getting our house clean. Really clean. Like the-garbage-bin-outside-is-overflowing-why-does-our-trash-pickup-have-to-fall-on-a-holiday clean. To coincide with this purging and sanitizing event, I was half-planning a get-together with friends for New Year’s Eve. And doing semi-helpful things outside the house. Like mowing grass that hasn’t grown any taller since October.

So, now cleaning chores will be added to the list of things I should be doing. All the time. In addition, I plan to spend more time on the poetry thing and perhaps start the “novel” that I’ve been thinking about. (I say “start,” but I’m half finished with it . . . in my head. I’m at the point now where I need to do a formal outline and then actual research . . . like, in a library. It’ll be like college, only without the dressing in all black, slamming vodka, and passing out in goth clubs.)

Welcome to 2006, losers!

* I’m in America, where soccer, pretty much, DOES NOT MATTER. But this morning, I went to the FIFA World Cup website and printed out the schedule for the first-round matches so I’d know what days and times the U.S.A. would be playing and could extrapolate what time the games would be on T.V. here in the States if they’re shown live (the World Cup is in Germany this year). So now I’ll be ready when things get started. In JUNE.

2005-12-28T23:23:00.000-05:00

Doldrums
Well, it’s less than a week away—that post-Holiday period that my wife refers to as “having nothing to look forward to.” Sure, immediately after your New Year’s celebration hangover wears off, so does that spirit of rebirth and rejuvenation. And then what? The doldrums.

I’m really trying to fill up my reservoir of optimism, but I’m getting a shitty break. Christmas was great and all . . . as great as it could be having to drive all over our non-winteresque Southern craphole visiting family on Christmas Day. The cheer was real my friends, but so was the fatigue.

Anyway, over a dozen CDs, a few DVDs, tons of candy, and a personalized Columbus Crew soccer jersey later, and I’m squirreling away those good feelings. Spending gift certificates and Christmas money on some new Mossimo gear at Chez Target. Having a wonderful eighth anniversary dinner with my wife and some blackened mahi mahi (actually, one of those was the dinner). And then I went to lunch today.

First it was a stop at the bank, going to the drive-thru to deposit some checks. It was one of those one-teller / multiple-lane situations. I pulled up just as a car was pulling out and pulled into the vacated lane. There was a car in the next lane, so I figured I was next. Which was correct. Although I didn’t realize that the guy in the next lane was opening a new bank account. In a foreign country. From his car. Seriously, I had to start reading the latest issue of The Big Takeover, getting well into that cover story about Death Cab for Cutie, all the while thinking, Man, Jack Rabid loves to go off on his little tangents but, y’know, he really knows his shit, and for the LOVE OF GOD, WHAT IS THIS GUY DOING? The window teller must have called for backup because, eventually, as Nick Harmer and Chris Walla were waxing philosophical about recording in the-middle-of-nowhere Massachusetts, there was a “Thank you,” and the cash / receipt vessel came back with my stub. And I was off to leftover crab dip.

Or my stop at Best Buy, standing in a shorter line. Why is this line shorter? I thought to myself. Ah, the sign that read, "Debit and Credit Cards Only." The lost-looking older woman in front of me was clutching a $20 bill and some interactive Bible thing. As the girl at the register was finishing up with guy-of-unclear-ethnicity-buying-rap-CDs-with-a-gift-card, she made an announcement, perhaps having seen the $20 bill in the hopeful woman’s hand, that “This line is for credit and debit card purchases only.” The woman heard this, but still put her technologically advanced religious item on the counter.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’m not accepting cash at this register.”

“Where can I go?”

“To any of these other registers,” the girl indicated, waving her arm towards the half-dozen lines, each a half-dozen people long.

I felt a little bad. Poor woman. Could’ve saved herself a lot of heartache by, y’know, READING THE FUCKING SIGN!*

I hate people. A lot of the time. Because if they aren’t pissing you off, they’re making you feel sorry for them. Which, if they’re not pear-shaped with their muffin-tops hanging over their waistlines, or squeezing their ass-cheeks out of their cut-offs, it’s just not fun.

I'm working extra-hard on that optimism. Can't you tell?**

* I get the distinct feeling that the woman had no idea what a debit card is. Maybe not even a credit card. She was confused.

** I handled this a lot better than Michelle would have. Seriously. That teller at the bank would've been counting exit wounds for the guy in the next car, not tens and twenties. Or whatever-the-fuck she was doing for him. Christ.

2005-12-24T22:48:00.000-05:00

Merry Christmas!
A conversation Mia and I had in the car earlier today:

Daddy: "So you're gonna have a long day tomorrow."

Mia: "Why, Daddy?"

Daddy: "Well, it's Christmas, and you're gonna open presents at four places. First we're gonna open presents at our house, and then we're gonna go to Momma and Papa's house to open presents, and then we're going to Nana's house to open presents, and then down to Woodville to open presents with Nana and Papa."

Mia: "A birthday? With presents?"

Daddy: "No . . . well, yes. Christmas is Jesus's birthday. I want to go on the record by telling you that on Christmas Day, we are celebrating the birth of Baby Jesus."

I was thinking about all this last year, before John Gibson "uncovered" the "War on Christmas." Look, there are more holidays than Christmas, even if some of them are silly and/or made-up. (Actually, all of them are, but whatever.) The point is we celebrate Christmas in the Kamikaze house, even if Daddy is half-pagan and Mommy is a Southern Christian in hibernation. If I wished anyone well over the Holidays, though, I'd say "Happy Holidays" rather than "Merry Christmas." Because I like to be inclusive, not because I'm rejecting the Reason for the Season. Which we all know is the Winter Solstice.

Happy Holidays!

2005-12-19T16:52:00.000-05:00

Down-Shifting Our Child’s Education. Or Improving. Depends on How You Look at It, Really.
Mia is back in “daycare” as of this morning. The same one she “graduated” from in August when we moved her to “preschool.” Yes, the “situation in progress” from late last week blossomed into full-on drama / nuclear chaos. When we last left you, gentle reader, we’d been offered a chance to get out of our contract (along with Mia’s cousin) at the end of the month. I happened by the preschool at lunch on Friday to drop off some stuff for the “Christmas feast” (after-nap snack, really) and had an impromptu meeting with the owner / resident wacko. She ran the gamut of insults to everyone associated or affiliated with, or sympathetic to, our cause and the prospective preschool we’re moving Mia to . . . including my wife and sister-in-law (in-law)*. Very harsh stuff, really. I bit my tongue and pussily** decided to write a strongly worded letter to her once our child was safe from her clutches.

I called my sister-in-law (in-law) to let her know about my talk and warn her that the woman had basically labeled her as the worst kind of bitch. I later went to pick Mia up and the owner / resident wacko asked, “Will we see you on Monday, dad?” And I was, like, “Uh, yeah.”

What I didn’t know at the time was that she and my sister-in-law (in-law) had had an explosive phone conversation where the f-bomb was dropped and lawsuits were threatened (and invited). Soon after, our previous daycare provider (another target of the crazy lady’s hostility) offered to keep Mia and her cousin for the rest of this month and all of next month for a very reasonable flat rate. So we kissed the rest of our December tuition (and prepaid lunches) goodbye, and said hello to SANITY.

Anyway, they’re gonna be playing all day*** (mostly) for the next six weeks and then starting a new preschool at the end of January.

In other news: House? Cleaner. Office? Rearranged. CD burner? Working steadily. “Holiday” surprises and Christmas cards? Mostly going out late, or on time (as applicable).

* She’s married to my wife’s brother. If he’s my brother-in-law, then his wife . . . how are we related? I ask you.

** I like this. Not as a characterization of myself (as accurate as it may be), but as a word.

*** Not that different from what they've been doing for the past few weeks (for which we've been paying 33% more than the "daycare" rate).

2005-12-16T14:37:00.000-05:00

Our Child’s Preschool is One Woman’s Asylum
We’re getting the distinct impression that the woman who bought a share of our daughter’s preschool (along with her husband) may be a little crazy. And self-aggrandizing.

There’s a little more to the story and we’ll perhaps post about it in the future; it’s a developing situation (a “situation in progress,” if you will). Anyway, the bottom line is that Mia will be leaving that school (for good) at the end of the month.

Looking forward, there’s a weekend of house-cleaning and present-wrapping ahead.* But to kick things off, we’re going to see this movie tonight. Because Jesus IS Magic! In addition to being the Reason for the Season!

* There are a few packages in the mail already (mostly for our international readers). If you receive a package after Christmas, it’s because it’s a “Holiday” gift. Ungrateful asshole(s). Jesus.

2005-12-12T16:09:00.000-05:00

How Roller Skating was Different “Back Then”
-- Back then, the adults who went roller skating (and didn’t have kids with them) were either sad and/or creepy. And very rarely did we see anyone at the rink with white, poofy afros.*

-- Back then, we had our own skates. Well, most of us did.

-- Back then, there were no roller blades.

-- Back then, we knew every song that was played over the P.A. (Oh, wait. We didn't know all the songs, but the kids there probably did. So maybe this is the same as "back then.")

-- Back then, we could couple-skate without killing ourselves. (And now, all the kids just skate side-by-side, holding hands. Often in same-sex pairs.)

-- Back then, we didn’t spike our drinks with vodka. Or rum.

-- Back then, we didn’t leave the rink to go for (more) drinks at a bar.

-- Shit, back then, we didn’t leave the rink until our mommies and daddies picked us up.

* That was me in the white afro. It was a 70s theme. There are likely pictures someplace, and you can probably find them easily enough. As fate would have it, Michelle and I forgot to bring the camera. Not that I would be in a big rush to post pictures of myself with a big, white afro. However, the birthday girl looked rather fetching in her long wig.

2005-12-08T17:05:00.000-05:00

Drip, Drip
I guess it’s the rainy season here. It’s been raining for almost 24 hours straight, and I think it’s forecast to linger into tomorrow. On one hand, it’s depressing. And annoying. And inconvenient. But, on the other . . . wait, how many hands do I have left? Oh, well. I like the rain, anyway.

Moving on, it’s Michelle’s birthday this weekend. In case you didn’t know. There’s gonna be a 70s-themed Rollerskating Party, a daytrip to Apalachicola for New Age goods shopping and seafood, and some mish-mash of a family gathering . . . the kind that used to include poker and alcohol but will likely feature silence and resentment . . . and presents. And probably alcohol, too.

Still moving on, I’m working in parallel and keeping my fingers crossed for Big Things ahead. This whole ~~Non-Religion-Specific~~ ~~Christmas~~ Holiday thing has got me beaten down, but we’re gonna psyche ourselves up for some glee and corporate greed and rampant consumerism, aren’t we?

Yes, we are.

2005-12-01T13:26:00.000-05:00

Five Things You ~~Probably Don’t~~ Need to Know*

-- I think “son of a WHORE” has officially replaced “Jesus fucking GOD” as my favorite reflexive/involuntary swear-exclamation. Maybe I’m not going to Hell after all. Or, at least, not as quickly.

-- The name of my band may have been changed last night . . . to Thunderpony!**

-- I just spent an inordinate amount of my lunch break looking for information on Misha Barton’s nipple exposure on The O.C. Not because I care about her or the show. Or that I needed to see it for myself. I’m just interested in the further eroding of decency standards on network television.

-- Saddam had nothing to do with attacking our country on 9/11. And invading Iraq to remove him from power was a really, really bad idea. In retrospect.

-- This weekend, while Thunderpony is rocking the Humane Society benefit here in Tallahassee, my wife and her girl-pals will be glam-waving the Gator-tards in Gainesville.

* I think I really want this to be a regular feature because, you know, lists are great.

** Our bass player (Maria) related the conversation with her new husband went something like this:
“Sit down, honey.”
“Oh, no. What happened?”
“The new name . . . just sit down.”
“Yeah?”
Dropping my head, “Thunderpony.”
“Thunder-fucking-pony?!? Are you kidding me?”
“No.”
“That's awesome.”
“No it's not. It sounds like a cartoon character.”
“It's better than Tomorrow We Will Be Victorious.”
“Yeah, I'll give it that.”

2005-11-30T12:38:00.000-05:00

Oh, Turkey and Stuffing Sandwich . . . I Miss You.
Thanksgiving without the leftovers vs. Thanksgiving without the hassle of, y’know, actually having to cook.

So, as alluded to earlier, we were in Atlanta for the long weekend. We made the executive decision to go out to eat rather than having three people who marginally know how to cook (and one toddler) scrambling to put together a meal that would be palatable (at best). And at worst . . . well, I’ve seen enough emergency rooms for the past year. Not in Atlanta, of course, but I can wait.

Besides the eating, we (Mia and I) drove up to Melman’s house to visit with him and his horses. Later, his wife stopped by and gave Mia a quick ride on one of the horses. He even took some pictures.

I went four days without taking any pictures. But I also went four days without giving a shit about stuff happening here in Tallahassee. Seems like a fair tradeoff to me.

2005-11-22T14:49:00.000-05:00

You See?
You knew I wouldn’t be able to stay away. I didn’t realize how hard it would be to pull up my page and look at the same bullshit send-off day after day. And then all this crap went on and I was, like, “Ooooo, that’d be something cool to, uh . . . nevermind. Dammit.”

I seem to reach this point every year or so, where I keep “writing” and posting and then feeling like I’m not trying. Y’know, that this isn’t real writing, and I can’t even do this well. But it is, and I can. If I apply myself. Maybe. Anyway, I was originally thinking about taking a break for a bit (which, you see, is damn-near-impossible) and then I thought some reinvention might be in order. Again. So we’re working on that. In the meantime, I just wanted everyone to know that we’re okay here at Kamikaze Lunchbreak. And how I feel about my alma mater’s season going in the crapper and then having the crapper positioned at the 50-yard line of the Superdome just before Hurricane Katrina (I really hope they lose out so St. Bobby Junior will be demoted or shipped off to a second-tier football program). Or how I feel about my quick love affair/obsession with Sudoku (strangely lost). Or how Michelle and I actually went out to a show that neither of our bands were playing and ended up leaving early, which we felt bad about but now I’m pretty relieved because it sounds like I was spared a whole chunk of disappointment. Or how I discovered that one of my coworkers ate my lunch that I’d left in the freezer on Friday. Or how my band was thisclose to changing our name to “sad boat.” Or how the last two episodes of Rome have me excited about Season Two, which is only 18 short months away. (No, really, we have to wait 18 months for some resolution. The whole decapitation-by-shield was great, as was Vorenus making that guy’s mace his second head, but fuck. Thanks a pad-load, HBO!) Or how mom’s usual penchant for repeating herself and telling the same stories over and over has increased exponentially with her recent paranoia, but then she drops a deep-dark-secret bomb on me that I’ve never heard in my life . . . like, when did this become CONFESSION TIME?

Look, we can’t all be great storytellers. We can’t all make the ordinary extraordinary. We can’t all be breeders and post pictures of our gorgeous children. And making money at it, to boot. All we can do is be ourselves. Except more well-written. For the entertainment of others.

We’re going to Atlanta for Thanksgiving weekend. If you live “in Atlanta,” we might drop you a line and/or drive halfway to Tennessee to see you.

2005-11-10T14:18:00.000-05:00

TWEEEEEEET! Timeout Called by Mr. Lunchbreak
Until I can write something this good, or until things get a little more sorted out in my life*, I'm stopping. This.

Stopping isn't quitting. Unless you don't start again. Which you know I will, because I'm as much of an attention-whore as the rest of you. I'm just not as good at it.

Smooches,
Scott

* Things may be looking up . . . or at least not as bad as they seem. And don't think for a second that I don't appreciate all of your kind words. Even yours, C-dub. You fucker.

2005-11-08T16:54:00.000-05:00

Shake ‘n Bake
Patients in the TMH Behavioral Health Unit are all too familiar with Florida’s Baker Act, which health professionals and law enforcement can use to send someone for an involuntary psych evaluation for up to 72 hours. Mom was Baker Acted a couple months ago when she was in the E.R. for babbling nonsense and accusing me of having an affair (among other things). Patients in the Behavioral Health Unit would say that she got “Shake ‘n Baked.”

Mom got “Shake ‘n Baked” again yesterday. I don’t want to get into the sordid details*, but let’s just say that she was very confused. And that she likely won’t be living at her house anymore.

* When the “confused” symptoms began to reemerge, she asked me, “How many people have you told I’m crazy?” Um, well, I never said “crazy,” but I have written about it on the blog. So . . . maybe seven or eight people? Ten people max.

2005-11-03T16:58:00.000-05:00

Stats That Shape a Week~~end~~

Money Lost Playing Poker: $25
Number of Beers Consumed Over the Past Week: four
Cupcakes Taken to Preschool for Carnival: 14
Cupcakes (Scott-Made) Consumed During Carnival: at most, two

I was thinking Sunday how I needed to do a stats-related post. And then Monday about the same thing. And then Tuesday about doing a Halloween recap. Wednesday, it turned into, “I just need to post something. Anything.” Then I was really busy. So now it’s today. And I’ve already forgotten most details of the weekend and Halloween.

I do remember Saturday, there was poker over at RLP’s. In his multitasking glory (hole), he set up the game to coincide with the Breeders’s Cup races, which he and other players were betting on. So every 45 minutes or so, we’d stop in the middle of a hand to watch the horses run around the track. And people were sitting out hands to place bets over the Internets. But the poker was great. I got some nifty hands, including an early full house on the flop and turning pocket aces into a “he-didn’t-see-that-coming” full house. However, I didn’t build well on these successes and squandered my money on some (very) bad play. As usual.

Oh, during the poker game I had a few beers. My first alcohol in three weeks (since during the dark days of my stomach problem). There are no incidents to report. If I’d had four or five beers (and a camera), maybe the story would be different.

We didn’t have a lot going on the rest of the weekend. We were house/pet-sitting for the in-laws, so we weren’t at home a lot. Which further delayed our adjusting to the new HVAC system. See, the old system’s thermostat was likely several degrees off from our current (digital) thermostat. We’ve had it set to 70 degrees, which feels like the mid-60s with the old thermostat. Michelle was complaining about being cold the other night. “But it’s at 70.5!” Still, it was cool. Now things are starting to warm up. On the old thermostat, it started getting warm and uncomfortable as the temperature got above 75 degrees, which is because it was really about 80. Christ. Anyway, now that we’ve had our very outside-the-code 1960s electrical system upgraded to this century, we can witness the firepower of our fully armed and operational HVAC. Y’know . . . now that it’s getting up into the 80s during the day and barely dropping below 60 at night. Goddamn Florida weather.

Yawn. So, Halloween was grand. Michelle, true to form, dressed up as the Bride of Frankenstein. (The dressing up part was true to form, because Halloween is her second favorite holiday of the year . . . okay, maybe her favorite, period.) Anyway, Mia was a geisha and her cousin/trick-or-treating partner was a witch. Before trick-or-treating we went to her school for the Halloween Carnival. There are some pictures here, including this one:

2005-10-27T22:42:00.000-04:00

You Would Think that Being Off Work All Day Would Mean Lots of Time with the Internets. And You Would Be Wrong.
I found out Tuesday that I'd be taking off the entire day two days later. To be at home while "the AC guy" installed our new all-electric system. Yeah, eat it, gas prices! Suck it, fuel-oil furnace!

The ACg said he'd be here between 8:15 and 8:30. I dutifully signed the proposal he'd left and then tried to help Michelle get Mia ready for "school." We were just getting out the door when the ACg and his assistant arrived with our new HVAC unit on a trailer.

It was quite a long day. For them. I got to do all sorts of . . . well, nothing productive. I did watch them some, offering inane chit-chat. I even offered a crucial helping hand once or twice. So what else did the day hold for Scott-san?

0. tried to watch a DVR'd installment of the World Series of Poker Main Event, only to see continuing coverage of the World Series (of baseball) finale (Hey, ESPN2 is for poker, assholes.)
1. watched an episode of "Invasion" I'd (successfully) DVR'd last week
2. worked extensively on my super-secret Christmas project
3. washed dishes
4. watched an episode of "Firefly" (the one where something in the engine blows up and we get flashbacks to how the whole crew came together)
5. rinsed out the recycled bottles and cans
6. watched an episode of "Firefly" (where the crew land on Ariel and Jayne tries to sell out Simon and River to the Alliance)
7. paid some bills

Michelle picked Mia up at school while I watched the ACg and his Cuban compatriot finish up and then clean up. And then I wrote a really big check. Later Michelle went to practice. I had some momentum left.

8. watched another episode of "Firefly" (Oooo, the infamous one where Wash and the Captain are tortured by that crazy old German fucker)
9. watched the installment of the World Series of Poker main event that I'd tried to watch earlier . . . DVR'd safely with baseball over and done for another five or six months

All in all, a pretty good day.

Wave bye-bye to the bane of our motherfucking existance, nasty-ass fuel-oil furnace. We never really liked you, furnace. When you stopped working properly, our dislike turned to Hate. With a capital "H."

2005-10-25T16:20:00.000-04:00

Florida: The Sunshine State? If the Motherfucking Hurricanes Don’t Get You, Unseasonably Frigid Weather Will.
Granted, our fair state escaped the worst of this Hurricane Season (*knock on wood* . . . we still have over a month to go, right?). Now that Wilma has blown through and swamped all the kooky diehards down in Key West, those of us in the Panhandle are freezing our proverbial balls off.

I love Winter. Enough to capitalize it, apparently. But we’re still in the midst of our HVAC repair. By which, I mean that no work has been started or even formally scheduled, but we have picked our contractors and we’re getting everything ready.

In talking with the contractors (who I’ve oft referred to as “the AC guy” and “the electrician”), I wasn’t trying to rush anyone. Besides, we’d only had one cool spell that lasted a couple nights. Even at 49 degrees outside, the temperature in the house never dropped below 70. So, of course, the Weather Gods are now laughing their asses off about walloping us with sub-40 degree cold. Last night, the thermostat dropped from 71 to 64. I’ve borrowed a second space heater from the in-laws to combat the cold in Mia’s room. I’m hoping that the bright sunshine of today will warm the house, even if the ambient temperature hasn’t made it to 70.

I really need “the AC guy” to return my call now. I think we’re going to need to get him to our house. Yesterday.

2005-10-24T11:58:00.000-04:00

Marching Bands Across My Abdomen
About 10 minutes ago, I was listening to Death Cab’s new CD, and Ben Gibbard was telling me my love is gonna drown. Right now, I’m underwhelmed. I’m currently continuing the stomach-testing, having some of Uncle Ben’s (not Gibbard) Thai Chicken. I “officially” took my last dose of Flagyl this morning, so now I can have a beer in about 72 hours. The mystery illness that I probably didn’t have was Giardia. But, in an interesting development, three other people in my office came down with stomach ailments after mine began. Limited investigation, however, has not uncovered a connection.

Yeah, this weekend, I started reacquainting myself with caffeine and spicy food. So far, we’re doing okay. “We” being my stomach and I. Let’s see, there were a couple double mochas, a jerk-chicken pizza, a jerk-chicken buffalito, some chicken wings (are you sensing a theme?), and pad thai (. . . chicken).

Also this weekend, I informally began work on my plan for Christmas firebombing. Or shotgunning. Anyway, it’s a plan. If you’re reading this, odds are you may get an e-mail about it at some point.

Alrighty, I’m off to write my suicide note.

2005-10-19T16:30:00.000-04:00

Monthly Newsletter: Month Thirty-Seven. And a Half.

Dear Mia,

What a beautiful little girl you’ve grown up to be. Y’know . . . when I say “grown up,” I mean relatively.

We’re excited that you’re almost 100% potty trained. I mean, you are potty trained except for the occasional early-morning mishap. Actually, just this morning while eating your paternally mandated mix of Cheerios and Cap’n Crunch (with milk and by yourself), you told me that you’d wet your pants. I looked for a puddle under your booster seat, and then something in the seat after I’d picked you up. Nothing. And then you pissed like a racehorse when you got on the toilet.

Maybe you like toying with us. Like when I went to get you up a week or so ago and, in the dark of your room, you kept insisting on handing me something pinched between your little fingers. The first time, I asked you what you were giving me and you didn’t answer. Then you did it again, and I asked again, and you said, “Booger.” Ah, there’s daddy’s girl.

Of course, you’re also your mother’s daughter. Like when we signed you up for pizza on Fridays at your pre-school, and you stopped eating it. Pizza. What kind of American kid turns her nose up at pizza? You’d really better enjoy it, because when you get to middle school, it’ll be the best meal you get. Seriously. I'm talking all meals.

We recently took you to a birthday party where you had the opportunity to ride a horse. Twice! And go on a hay ride. We had to negotiate to get you to stop screaming and asking for another ride, and I think part of the trade off was that you’d eat no real food and have a piece of cake instead. Making sure to stick your fingers in the frosting and lick them. I can’t remember offhand how hard it was to get you to bed that night. But I’d put my money on "very."

Oh, and how about that playground at Tom Brown Park. It’s only a few minutes from our house! Yeah, it was finished earlier this year and cost us City of Tallahassee taxpayers a gadzillion dollars. Or something. Anyway, you really enjoy running around in the area designated for kids over 5. Almost as much as I enjoy chasing you. (Though certainly not as much as Michelle enjoys sitting in the shade and watching me chase you.) Of course, then comes the time when we have to coax you away from the playground and back to our un-fun home. Whether you’ve been at the playground for 30 minutes or 30 hours, I’d imagine your reaction would be the same: “Nooooooo! I wan’ play for minutes!” And then hysterical crying. Heavy on the snot.

All in all, your first three years have gone fairly smoothly. Much better than I would’ve expected when Michelle first said she thought she might be pregnant . . . which was just days after I’d casually mentioned maybe she should go back on the pill. And much better than when you spent more time screaming and involuntarily kicking your legs at Heaven. Because, y’know, that really sucked ass. We’re glad you’re not a little baby anymore. Yes.

XOXOXO,

Daddy (who has no original ideas left, so we're now borrowing from Dooce)

More photos here.

2005-10-17T09:25:00.000-04:00

Taking the Good with the Bad

Annoying:

-- The guy in the office who keeps asking if it’s “No-Tuck Day” just because I don’t have my shirt tucked in.

-- That the upstairs urinal at my office requires at least two flushes to reach “all clear.”

-- Tommy Maddox.

-- Telling my doctor and his nurse all about my adventures in gastronomy, including descriptions of pain and bloating brought on, seemingly, by food. Pain and bloating severe enough to make me induce vomiting. Which I hate, more than Paris Hilton. More than the City of Miami and all of its football teams. And then have the doctor come out of left field with the diagnosis of . . . a parasite. Whose name escapes me but, after reading about it, it seems way less plausible than all of your helpful diagnoses, People of the Internets. Anyway, I’m on antibiotics now. As opposed to the “the sauce.” Which I can’t touch for 10 days.

-- Bad officiating in the FSU / Virginia game. Like Virginia’s backwards pass early in the game that was blocked and on the ground . . . a live ball. And refs called it a “forward pass.” Even when the replay showed it was clearly not. The announcer was, like, “I don’t want to rock the boat or criticize the officiating, but there is no way that was a forward pass.”

-- USC. And Reggie "We Can Only Beat Ourselves" Bush pushing Leinart into the end zone. Granted, Notre Dame put them in the position to win. It was my first and only time rooting for the Irish.

Awesome:

-- I’ve finally seen Serenity. Even after seeing the “spoilers” over at Gen/Syn (yes, I was warned). Anyway, it was wonderful. Different than expected, but great nonetheless. Better than most of the Star Wars series. No, I’m not even fucking kidding.

-- Metric. I’m still warming up to the new CD, but they’re awesome. You should get to know them . . . if you don’t already.

-- Having a nice, relaxing weekend. We had almost no obligations for the entire weekend, and the weather was beautiful. Nice. Just what I needed, I think.

2005-10-11T10:17:00.000-04:00

Saturday Night I-Wish-I-Were-Dead
OR
Styro is REALLY Gonna Love This Post
Boy, was I wrong.

I’ve been treating this “ulcer”* just like my previous GI problems. I figured if I was wham-bamming my stomach with Prilosec OTC and Zantac 150, I could eat whatever the Christ I wanted.

Yeah, so we went to dinner Saturday night. Sushi. I chose the spicy tuna rolls and the shrimp tempura rolls (with spicy sauce). And dipped everything into the soy/wasabi bath. And chased it all with a generous amount of Sapporo.

Things didn’t really start getting bad until a couple hours after dinner. It started with the familiar cramped feeling. We left our friends’ house and went home so I could take my Zantac (which I hadn’t taken yet). I took it a little after 10 o’clock, and was watching T.V. in the bedroom as I waited for it to kick in. Michelle was trying to go to sleep. After more than an hour, I started lamenting that I didn’t think it was going to work. The pain was still there, and worse. There was no way I was going to sleep, and Michelle was worried about me so she wasn’t sleeping. So, we watched Saturday Night Live.

Holy Sweet Christ! I understand how Ashlee Simpson got to where she is, and that the pre-teen music-buying public will lap up anything that’s TRL’d down their throats. But obviously, none of these kids care about her live performances. She is AWFUL! There are no two-ways about it. She is to “talented” as quadriplegics are to “good at swimming.” Weak voice, no range, lame stage presence. And the song she says she “wrote” after her last appearance was sad . . . and trite and overflowing with pap. Michelle and I were looking at each other and shaking our heads. And now I also understand more about why we have the president we do.

So, roundabout 1 a.m., Michelle’s really wanting to go to sleep. I felt worse laying down than sitting or standing. She suggested that maybe I could try to prop myself up on the chaise couch in the living room and maybe get some sleep. ("You might surprise yourself.") Which I did . . . after (unsuccessfully) trying to make myself vomit. (It turns out that this is possible.) I couldn’t really get comfortable in the living room as I watched the clock go past 2 a.m. towards 3 a.m. Not wanting to disturb Michelle, I got a mixing bowl out of the kitchen and conducted a (successful, this time) vomiting session in the living room. My stomach continued hurting, but I felt less bloated.

I think I dozed off at some point . . . probably a total of two hours. Maybe three. I felt like Hell all day on Sunday. The stomach pain was slowly diminishing, but I was afraid to eat much. Still, I had to keep food in my stomach. By Sunday night, I was a zombie. I could barely stand up to wash dishes, constantly feeling light-headed and queasy. I'm better now. But I'm relegated to eating only non-spicy food and drinking no alcohol. I'm turning into a repressed British person!

So . . . don’t let this happen to you. The End.

* My blood work came back yesterday. I’m negative for the ulcer-causing bacteria, which disturbs me because everything going on is consistent with “ulcer.” I called his morning and now I have an appointment with my doctor. Jesus . . . I hadn’t seen that guy for a couple years and now I’ve seen him several times in the past few months. I’m fucking falling apart!

2005-10-07T15:30:00.000-04:00

This is What My Life Boils Down to, Basically: A Snapshot
It’s been a while since I’ve done a list, so I thought I might as well “phone one in.” It’ll be just like my efforts over at Reverse Survivor.*

-- Speaking of, I’m still “on the island.” Which, if you don’t follow or get the concept of Reverse Survivor, is bad. ‘stella was voted off quickly during the first cut of three contestants. When I was in fourth place by 5 one-hundredth’s of a point.

-- The gastro/abnominal issue marches on. I started the Prilosec/Zantac two-step on Monday night and Tuesday morning. I called about the bloodwork yesterday, saying that I was told the test results should be back by Wednesday. “Who told you that? Us or the lab?” “Um, the lab.” “Oh, well, the doctor has to sign off on the test results, if we even have them. And it could be seven to ten days before we get them.” This morning, I had a mid-level (DEFCON 3?) episode that was alleviated with some generously donated Tums. I was feeling better by lunch, so I had a frozen Boston Market turkey and stuffing dinner and chased that with a Krispy Kreme donut and some Sprite. Fuck you, stomach! I might go buy some malt liquor to kick this “game” into overdrive!

-- Michelle’s band is playing in NYC next Wednesday. I already e-mailed Miss THB the details. If you’re interested, check their website.

-- Mia’s getting settled in to the preschool routine. But today is the last day for one of her “teachers,” who is taking her English degree to an editing job with the State. My mind races at the potential this blog would have if I worked for the State (again).

-- I have all the bids for our new HVAC system. We’re actually gonna deep-six our current fuel-oil furnace and start from scratch. We’ll be having a pow-wow over the weekend to run the numbers and do the pros/cons thing. I’m sure I’ll be posting more about this adventure in the weeks ahead.

-- My band is about to be on a little “break” during our bass player’s honeymoon (see posts below regarding nuptials). We’re in the midst of recording a full-length something, so we could work on that. But, as fate would have it, our recording engineer/producer is the one that our bass player married. So . . . yeah, we won’t be doing a lot to further that project. But we’ll be writing some new music, sure to be inspired by the bands we played with the other night: Mono and Bellini.

-- I’m not gay. Really. I’m not.

-- This weekend, we’ll probably be laying low. Which, if that were true, would mean catching up on all the shows flooding our DVR. But we’re taking Mia to a birthday party this Sunday where she will have her first experience riding a horse. Or pony. Something. Anyway, I’m sure it’ll be a much-photographed event.

-- How long can I go without coffee or alcohol? Coffee? Feh. That’s not really a big hit, although I’m about halfway done with my coffee-shop survey, and I’d miss my brevé mochas. But alcohol? Sheesh. It was really hard to play the show the other night without having a drink. Well, not play the show, per se. But hanging out at the venue for hours and hours without bellying up to the bar for free beer? That just seems wrong.

-- Fuck you, stomach!

* This is what makes my RS failure that much more painful: I've actually been trying. Except for the week of the "cut," which I went into with a solid lock on second place. My entry kind-of blew, and many contestants agreed, dishing out low votes and scathing commentary. I can only blame myself.

2005-10-06T19:54:00.000-04:00

Sunburst and Snowblind
So we went to the wedding for my friend (and our band's bass player) this past weekend. Where I had my "gastro episode." But before all of that, we got to watch the ceremony, unembcumbered. Well, except for having to stare into the motherfucking sun. Oh, and knowing that I'd dated almost every female in the wedding party back in college. (Yes, including the bride.) Otherwise, it was all very romantic and touching.

Here are some other pictures I took. None of them are of me.

2005-10-04T16:33:00.000-04:00

I Don't Have the Stomach for This . . . Again
Looks like I'm going back on prescription antacids again.

Saturday night, during a friend's wedding (entirely another post), I had an "episode." Y'know . . . mild stomach pain to not-so-mild stomach pain to bloating to having trouble breathing to friend-running-to-bride's-parents'-house-to-look-for-antacids to having to leave early to numbness in limbs and bordering on panic attack. And then it started to fade. I nuked the last remnants of pain with a Zantac 150, and then went back to catch the reception. I had to take another Zantac at bed as I felt the pain coming back.

I was great all day Sunday and had almost completely forgotten about it. Until yesterday morning. I was awakened at 2:45 by some pretty hardcore stomach pain. Now, we're not talking reflux. This is lower-stomach, not esophageal. Anyway, I tried a little of everything and then started to panic. Thus started a five-hour battle that ended with me throwing up. I eventually made it to work and called my doctor. A nurse told me to get some Prilosec OTC (for mornings) and Zantac 150 (two hours before bed). And get some blood work done to rule out an ulcer. Funny that, later, Michelle e-mailed me a link to this site, which lists my symptoms. Under the heading "What are the Symptoms of an Ulcer?"

Great. Old, indeed.

2005-09-30T22:46:00.000-04:00

Four Days into That 35th Year
I'd planned some R&R for this birthday week, but it didn't materialize. Not really. I did take off a day and a half . . . but that time was spread across five days. I left work for a few hours here and a couple hours there, in between projects and other distractions. (You, The Internets, were not much of a distraction. Sorry.)

Michelle got back from the "tour" Monday evening. Tuesday, we went to dinner with family. I got a few CDs, including one from Michelle that she bought in Charlotte when they played with this band. (Definitely mix CD material.)

The rest of the week was spent running errands and spending birthday money. Most of the money has been promised to a music store in return for customizing one of my guitars. The one that I haven't been playing, but will play when it's done. Because it will be bad ass.

In other news, we're hip-deep in Project: New Heater. I'd gotten an encouraging first set of quotes, but today's contractor brought up a whole 'nother set of issues which will necessitate more quotes. Perhaps talking to an independent electrician. Goddamn 1960s house! Nasty-ass fuel-oil furnace!

2005-09-27T12:37:00.000-04:00

Fashion Week
After reading about the recent "fashion week" that the shitheel, self-congratulatory, mutual-masturbatory clothiers sprayed all over the pages of In Style et al, I came up with the ~~pointless~~ ~~insipid~~ ~~gaybo~~ brilliant idea to catalogue my looks during the week (last week). Probably would have been a lot easier to do with Michelle here to take the pictures but, y'know, you go to war with the army you have.

To explain the innerworkings of my wardrobe would really amp up the freakishness of my reputation, and probably cause Michelle to Baker Act me. Let's just say that there IS a "system" in place to keep the clothes clean and to prevent me from wearing the same clothes every week.

Our office is very casual to business-casual. Seriously, on my most dressed-down day, I'm approximately 57% more over-dressed than the average guy. But, y'know, it's all geologists and engineers who do manly work. So, anyway, I don't believe in owning clothes and not wearing them someplace. Because, y'know, I might not always be working here.*

The theory is simple: Where most offices have "casual Friday," I make Friday the most casual day and work towards that. It's a process.

Things start off fairly stiff and loosen up from there. Click on the picture for a tour. Noted on the photos are details about what I'm wearing and (generally) where it came from. The Rivers plastic-surgery-nightmare twins would be so proud.

* Let's not get all frothy about me leaving my job, boss. I can't even get it together enough to update my resume.

2005-09-23T23:09:00.000-04:00

Percussive Maintenance
When your washer gets unbalanced and starts to bang (very loudly) during its spin cycle, your first thought probably isn't to run towards it, jump in the air, and kick it really hard. In fact this might sound like a very bad idea . . . something only a crazy person would do. A crazy person with lots of towels to dry up the water that comes out of the washer during the rinse cycle because the drain pipe came disconnected somewhere between the banging and the kicking.

Funnier still might be when the crazy person is washing the sopping-wet towels from the morning's flood and the drain pipe comes loose all by itself. So now we're dipping into the clean towels. Well . . . not we. The crazy person.

In other news, I finally understand how single parents feel. Michelle's been on tour for, what . . . all of two days. I'll be getting a break tomorrow, which is the day before my mom's birthday. Which is two days before my own birthday. I guess when you're on the verge of turning 34 and you're still angrily kicking your washing machine, perhaps it's time for some sort of life assessment. Assessment. Reminds me that I brought home several hours of work.

Mothers: Lock up your laundry appliances!

2005-09-21T08:50:00.000-04:00

Speed-Reading
I've discovered during my first-thing-in-the-morning, exercise-bike sessions that it takes me about 20 minutes to "read" an issue of People magazine or ESPN: The Magazine. Granted, the latter was chock-full of lengthy articles on Hurricane Katrina (?), Golf (zzzzz), and NASCAR (!!!); in fact, most of the time I spent reading it was on the one page dedicated to soccer.

2005-09-19T12:40:00.000-04:00

Fall Cleaning
In case you've been living under a rock (or, like Styro, you don't have cable television), the season/series premieres are about to start for many, many shows. There are some interesting (looking) ones . . . and a lot of Grade-A, surefire crap. How will I figure out what's going to be this season's Lost (vs. this season's first show to be cancelled)? The magic of the DVR.

Yeah, it's not TiVo, but we do have a DVR that holds roughly 30 hours of programming. This morning, it was 70% full. You do the math. I decided to purge some stuff I've been holding onto for whatever reason. Here's what went bye-bye:
1 episode of The X-Files ("Home" . . . with the murderous family of mutants)
2 episode of The Kids in the Hall
1 episode of Futurama
1 episode of Entourage
1 episode of Mad TV
1 episode of TV Funhouse
1 episode of Dora the Explorer (the one introducing "backpack")
1 episode of Sesmame Street
1 episode of The Surreal Life
2 installments of The Daily Show
1 episode of Samurai Jack
1 episode of Kathy Griffin: My Life on the D-List
1 episode of The Ultimate Fighter
1 episode of ESPN's coverage of the World Series of Poker

I hadn't seen most of these, and I figured I probably wasn't going to make the time. So, now we're down to 38%. I scanned what we had left. Besides a couple things that are Michelle's, there are three episodes each of Dora and the Powerpuff Girls and four episodes of Aqua Teen Hunger Force.

That Mia . . . can't enough of the wacky animation.

In other news, thanks for all the positive energy for my crazy-ass mom. Okay, so she's not really crazy; in fact, I think I'm picking her up in a few short hours to take her home. We'll see how that works out.

Also, I'm thinking that this week will be Fashion Week here at Kamikaze Lunchbreak.

2005-09-15T14:55:00.000-04:00

I Wanna Be Sedated
“What time is it?”

“It’s 8:31.”

“God.”

“What time is it?”

“It’s 8:35.”

“God.”

“What time is it?”

“Why do you need to know?”

“I’m not wearing my watch, but you have a watch on.”

“It’s 8:45.”

“God.”

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

Tuesday was strange to say the least. We were back at the emergency room again. “We” being my mom and I . . . and her friend, Mr. S.

I’d seen mom at lunch that day and she was acting a little . . . off. By the afternoon, she was calling me repeatedly at work and accusing me of all kinds of stuff and then she’d start babbling people’s names. I had to hang up on her once when our “conversation” devolved into her chanting, “Mom and dad. Mom and dad. Mom and dad. Mom and dad.” She actually called me back and gave me a few more “Mom and dads” before hanging up on me. Soon after, she called Mr. S and did a lot of the same stuff. He went over to her house and she was still acting strangely, so he said he’d try to get her to go to her HMO’s Urgent Care Center and I'd meet them there. Well, that didn’t happen. I was on the way over a little later, so I called him and he said he’d try one more time to get her to go and then he was calling 911.

I showed up at her place the same time as the sheriff’s deputy and ambulance. There was already a fire truck there. For 20 minutes, we negotiated with her to go to the hospital and had to threaten her with a ride in the sheriff-mobile if she refused to go.

I signed her in at 8:00 and we were in the waiting room for just over three hours. The whole time, we were having variations of the same conversation. She was convinced that it was 4:40 (what time she remembered Mr. S coming to her place) and that if she went to sleep, everyone she loved would die. That’s when I realized that she hadn’t slept in about five days.

She ultimately started refusing treatment, so I told the RN to call me when her tests came back and I went home to bed. (That was at 1:15 a.m.) They Baker Acted her shortly after and she’s (back) at the hospital’s behavioral health unit being evaluated.

We’re guessing that she just needed sleep. I saw her for a little bit yesterday evening, and she said she’d slept for half the day. She seemed somewhat better. She didn’t say “God” once.

In other (more sane) news, Reverse Survivor has started anew. Okay, maybe that’s not “more sane.”

Wine Score

2005-09-11T22:37:00.000-04:00

Wine Score

Saturday was party day for us. First, it was a toddler's birthday for Mia and I. Then, that evening, Michelle and I attended a blind wine tasting to determine the wines to served at a friend's wedding. I'd never been to such an event, and I'm a bit of a wine 'tard, so I was quite enthusiastic. The capper for the night was another friend's party which featured a college-throwback atmosphere, complete with a keg of Yuengling. The keg and I were too well acquainted and, thus, I was very hungover this morning.

2005-09-08T21:51:00.000-04:00

Wounded
I'm wearing my wedding ring again.

I had to take it off for a week and a half or so because one night, I was cleaning up in the kitchen and I reached to turn off a light. Well, the light switch location required that I navigate my left hand (never agile) between the bottom of a cupboard and the top of the toaster oven. And I caught the bottom of the cupboard with the ring, which pushed into my finger and shaved off the top layer(s) of skin.

Even then, with my still-to-scab wound, I felt bad about not wearing the ring. I finally put it back on this morning and it's been fine.

In other news, our ISP was fucking with us, telling us that our modem wasn't connecting to their system for some reason. And/or telling us there was a "hold" on our account and we had to clear it up with their billing department. So we've been Internet-less for the past several days (at home, anyway). Work's been work, so I haven't been in touch with you (all of you). I'll try to remedy that now that our Internet service has mysteriously (magically) been restored.

2005-09-06T16:38:00.000-04:00

"I Want Your Skulls. I Need Your Skulls."
On my way back to work, I was stopped at a red light and could hear some odd-sounding music coming from somewhere other than my stereo. It sounded like fragmented cheering and seemed to be coming from my right. There was a Jeep with the top down next to me and I looked that the driver, who was looking back at me with a smug “fuck you” expression. I turned down my stereo and realized the odd-sounding music was The Misfits.

We really went all-out last night for the FSU game. I went to the grocery store to secure over $90 in snacks, including four kinds of cheese, four kinds of crackers, a bottle of cheap champagne and cheaper Riesling, tortilla chips, queso dip (in a jar), key lime pie, a six pack of Red Stripe, and some peanuts. I didn’t know how many people to expect, so I went kind-of insane, I guess. We ordered pizza beforehand, so there was enough food for a couple dozen people, rather than the half-dozen who were there. And half of those people left to go to bed early (even when leaving was just walking the length of the house to the bedroom).

Exciting game, though. Y’know, if "exciting" is watching your alma mater and their most hated rivals fight to see who wants to lose the most. Alas, Miami snatched defeat from the jaws of victory, and I went to bed, bloated and tired. With a refrigerator full of cheese and leftover bread sticks.

2005-09-02T17:05:00.000-04:00

Not the Time to be Pro-Choice
I haven’t been to fill up my car since the gas-bingeing started, but several stations in town have completely run out of gas. A couple on my way to work had reportedly run out, but I noticed the pumps were all in use (again) at lunch today. And the signs indicated just one price (one was $2.99 and the other was $3.09). I’m oddly comforted that there’s only one grade of gas available. That’s, like, just one less decision I have to make.

We’re hoping for a relaxing weekend here at Kamikaze Central. We’re staying at Michelle’s parents’ house tonight because they’re out of town and we’re watching their pets. And eating their food. I might even treat myself to some Jim Beam while I’m there. Y’know, to go with the news coverage from New Orleans.

Don’t know what’s going on tomorrow, but I imagine there will be a lot of sports-watching. As I’m running the college football pool for the office, I have to keep abreast of 20 games (which is a light week . . . usually it’s 25 or 30 games). Also, tomorrow night, there’s another World Cup qualifier for the U.S. men’s soccer team. Against Mexico. So, I’ll probably be all up in some Univision.

And, of course, Monday is Labor Day. Or, more accurately, The Day When the Seminoles Kick Off Another Disappointing Season. No predictions this year. Although I will say that I picked the ‘Canes for the Monday night game . . . 24-10.

If only the president had picked the ‘Canes. Or, y’know, been aware of at least ONE of them.

Which reminds me, CW is back with a great Bush-rant. And Amy Choppa has returned from camp. Stop by and say, “Hi.” To them.

2005-08-31T11:51:00.000-04:00

Feeling Gassy
Okay, I understand the setback in domestic (Gulf of Mexico) oil production is going to reduce the amount of gas we can produce in our refineries (some of which are damaged or inoperable). And there’s a lot of speculation that gas prices are going to rise sharply. My question is this: Won’t some of the lost production be offset by the millions of people who will not be driving and/or using utilities? See, I'm sure when the president asks a seemingly naive question like that, he has someone who will give him an answer without shaming him. I just have you, The Internet.

In other news, I’m hungry. It’s not even noon and I’ve had my lunch already. That SlimFast “shake” I had for breakfast didn’t really hit the spot. Can I make it for six hours until dinner? Survey says “No.”

2005-08-29T16:55:00.000-04:00

Hey, Maybe You'll Remember This the Next Time There's a Category 5 Hurricane Headed in Your Direction
I just don't get it. Why is it that Americans, often portrayed as the World's saviours (by those who don't know better), are so reluctant to accept responsibility for anything? Let's make some excuses for why we don't evacuate. Don't have a car? Find a way or find a motherfucking shelter. You had days to prepare; start walking across town to the Superdome!

People stuck on their roof. Or trapped in their attic. With kids, no less. They want someone to rescue them, putting someone else's life in jeopardy. Look, I've "ridden out" smaller storms and then made fun of them after the fact. But if I lived in a city several feet below sea level, and a Category 5 storm was headed in my direction, I think I'd try a little harder to, y'know, find safety.

Dumbasses.

Presents!

2005-08-27T22:22:00.000-04:00

Presents!

Mia's birthday was a couple days ago and we've, only now, finished the associated parties. We've also recently finished off the bottle of champagne we'd been saving to celebrate . . . something. As it was a $10 bottle of champagne, we celebrated being done with opening presents and entertaining kids. Or listening to the shrieks of kids entertaining themselves and one another. Or, y'know, the shrieks of the woman who squeezed me out of her body all those years ago.

Anyway, most of the pictures I've taken have been of our dear, beloved daughter opening her precious and all-too-generous gifts. And, no, I'm not being snarky or unappreciative.

2005-08-24T11:46:00.000-04:00

One-Sided Conversation (With My Friend and Yours . . . The Internet)
What have we been up to for the past week? Hmmm. Well, let’s see, my band played a show Friday night.

- - -

It sucked. This was our end of a show swap with a band from Gainesville who had hooked us up with a gig at an awesome club there, so we returned the favor up here. Except our version of “awesome club” was more of a den of choads . . .

- - -

Huh? Oh, “choad.” It’s a dick that’s wider than it is long.

- - -

Exactly. Anyway, we’re hopefully gonna stay great friends with the Gainesville band. Can’t say much for the venue, though. I guess we shouldn’t burn our bridges. I mean, we do have another show there in a couple months.

- - -

Funny you should ask. It’s going well . . . I think. The whole preschool thing seems to be a more structured version of daycare. Except that we have to pack her a lunch. And there’s a playground. And we pay $140 more a month. I’m just feeling a little inadequate as a parent. We haven’t spent a lot of time with her drawing or writing. They send home all their classroom projects and work, and there were big letters “A” and “B” to be traced over, and she just scribbled on it. I get the feeling that she should be further along, but maybe she’s right on track. I mean, she's only three, right?

- - -

She’s doing okay, thanks for asking. We had to go to the emergency room again last week, but it was a false alarm . . . a false alarm that cost me five hours of my life. But, y’know, better safe than sorry.

- - -

Michelle’s doing good. Her band had a hugely successful show Saturday night in Gainesville.

- - -

No, I didn’t go. It’s a long story. I stayed in town. Michelle’s parents had Mia, so I went out with a friend to a sports bar to NOT watch the Pittsburgh / Miami pre-season game. But I did get to kick a little ass in trivia, though. And, for the record, when you have Taco Bell for lunch, and you’re not really hungry and/or still bloated six hours later, perhaps you shouldn’t order the buffalitos, six wings, and an order of buffalo chips, because you’ll be popping Maalox Max all night and chasing those with Mylanta. Y’know, just a tip.

- - -

Is that all? Well, yeah. I’m pretty boring when you boil it down.

- - -

I’m sure my Internet friends don’t miss me that much. I’ve really been trying to get by to see everyone, but it’s hard. So much is going on and I feel really disconnected. Like Dayment moving to Vancouver, or Snowy disappearing into some witness-protection program for bloggers. And then there’s the whole Styro-letting-her-blog-die issue.

- - -

Yeah, I’ve thought about taking a break. But it seems like everyone makes such a big spectacle about it when they’re going to stop, even if it's temporary. I guess you want to go out on top and not watch your blog die a slow death (like mine). I don’t want to feel like I have to make time to do it, like it’s a (very public) chore. Maybe I could take a break to start a Queer as Folk fan-blog like CW did. Seems like it’d be infinitely more readable than the political blog I started. Then again, maybe they’d have a lot in common, like all the references to anal sex.

- - -

No, I was just kidding about CW. It was actually a fansite for The L Word.

- - -

Well, I am trying to write more. Maybe it’s an inspiration thing. Which I need to remedy as the next season of Reverse Survivor is going to start very soon over at Mister Crunchy’s. In addition to this schlock, the political schlock, my RS entries, and my poems, I was thinking of starting a webcomic. A really schlocky one. I’m hoping that, if my lunch breaks return to being mine again, I can spend more time on all of these.

- - -

Probably. Anyway . . . so, how’s that thing with your sister going? Did that infection ever get taken care of? And what about your mom finding that box of prison-sex snuff films? Ouch!

2005-08-18T17:06:00.000-04:00

Swiper, No Swiping! Swiper, No Swiping! (Oh, Maaaaaaan!)
So, I tried to teach Mia the merits of non-annoying children’s animation, like Spongebob Squarepants and the Powerpuff Girls. And Aqua Teen Hunger Force. But she’s really latched on to Dora the Explorer. Not that this is entirely horrible (e.g., Barney or Backyardigans).

Now, I don’t mind Dora so much. It’s nice for children to be inexplicably bilingual, adventurous, and interested in soccer. But what is it with all the shouting? That’s my biggest complaint, really. Dora never just says anything. “WHO DO WE ASK WHEN WE DON’T KNOW WHICH WAY TO GO?” “DO YOU SEE SWIPER THE FOX?” “THOSE MOTHERFUCKING PIGS STOLE OUR PIRATE COSTUMES!” Okay, maybe that last one is somewhat enhanced. Nobody steals pirate costumes.

Anyway, I could deal with Dora a little better if she didn’t shout so much. Even with all the bizarre plot holes. I mean, there’s a path from wherever she is to any place on the fucking planet . . . how could she get lost?

Uh oh.

2005-08-14T22:57:00.000-04:00

Uh oh.

There was another party this weekend . . . this time for a friend who just completed her Master's degree. I celebrated as expected (i.e., drinking my allotted "quota," making sure to pace myself, and then leaving for home after yawning several times and thinking about ~~having to get up~~ getting up and playing tennis).

Anyway, there are a few pictures from the party. I must say, I really did make an effort with the camera. Having a digital Elph, which fits semi-neatly in my back pocket, makes this much easier.

2005-08-11T22:59:00.000-04:00

The Ol' Plumbing. Literally.
I'm sure everyone's getting pretty used to these extended periods of "quiet" here at Kamikaze Central. I'd really hoped for more activity this week but, as I told Michelle a little while ago, I haven't had much time for "the Internets" this week.

Y'see, Mia's daycare is closed this week. Actually, Mia's daycare isn't her daycare anymore, as she's starting preschool next Monday. So, I've only been at work as long as necessary (and usually with Mia). Otherwise, it's been a series of errands and appointments. (The appointments generally involved someone handling my balls and pressing fingers into my groin area and telling me to "turn [my] head and cough" or "bear down." And, yes, another finger in my ass, too.) So, yeah, not much time for you guys. Sorry?

For triumphs, I braved the area beneath our kitchen sink and did some (very) basic plumbing on the ol' PVC connections. I'm sure none of you wanna hear about the black, rotting funk I sprayed out of one of the baffle connectors, but you just did. The smell of rotting eggs was heavily featured. Anyway, early tests show no leaking, so maybe it was a success. I'm going to wash dishes in a few minutes, though, so we'll see how that goes. Oh, and then when we run the dishwasher this weekend. Just like your drinking days in college . . . we have a bucket handy.

In other fun news, our debit card was declined somewhere and an ATM withdrawal was rejected for "insufficient funds." We just got paid a week ago, and I haven't paid the big bills for this cycle yet. And the trusty register is showing decidedly sufficient funds for the ass-shitty debits we've been racking up. We're thinking greivous bank error or identity fraud. My login information for our Internet banking is at work, so I won't know anything until I call in the morning. Dammit.

And now I wonder which is worse: Finding out about $1,500 has been stolen from our account (somehow), or that I have to have another "prostate massage." I'll go with the money. For now.

Tiki

2005-08-09T08:30:00.000-04:00

Tiki girls

The party on Saturday was a success. Well, probably a mixed success for us . . . having a child, limited social skills, and friends who are either absent or preoccupied with more important things.

This was the only picture I took worth uploading. Well, that and the "topless" one.

2005-08-05T13:21:00.000-04:00

Loosening the Bible Belt
Apropos of everything, I was driving behind a pickup truck this morning that had “If you lick them, they will cum” and “Girls will do girls” bumper stickers; the driver (strangely, a man) made a left turn into a parking lot . . . for Carpetland.

Sorry I haven’t written more lately. It’s been a blah week, and I haven’t really felt up to the task. Hopefully, I’ll be more inspired this weekend, as we’re going to an art exhibit (of sorts) tonight, being put on by one of Michelle’s bandmates. The exhibit will feature another one of her bandmates (Ms. Jazz Hands), one of my bandmates, and an omnisexual/lesbionic photographer acquaintance of ours. It should be quite a ride.

We’re also going to a tiki party tomorrow afternoon / evening. I foresee a lot of Flickr material. Gonna start a “friends” set. I know you’re all excited.

Maybe I'll bring some 'tang.

2005-08-02T12:03:00.000-04:00

In the Stink
When I was at my physical last week, the doctor asked me how my mental state was. I told him I was mostly fine, except for being traumatized a few days earlier when he’d stuck his finger in my ass. He tried to make me feel better by telling me that he’d had a prostate exam after that, and his doctor has “the biggest fingers in town.”

So, as it turns out, I wasn’t lying to the doctor when he asked about my mental state. I just feel like I need some “quiet time.” The World is a loud, imposing place. I have so much going on; as I told Michelle, I’m either doing something, thinking about doing something, or feeling guilty for not doing something. It sucks that I get to relax more when I’m at work. Even sitting on the couch after Mia’s gone to bed and flipping through channels isn’t relaxing. (I look at the DVR menu and see that it’s 63% full, knowing that I need to watch something on there rather than another rerun of The Surreal Life.)

In other (less whiny) news, the show in Gainesville (Florida, ‘stella) went well. If by “well” I mean pretty much just like a show here in Tallahassee in that we had all of a dozen people watching us with 30 or 40 people outside drinking on “The Porch.” Still, it was fun.

And my “ball situation” is still in a grey zone. Things have been feeling normal down there, so I’m switching back to boxers to see if I can provoke a response. Y’know . . . from my balls.

2005-07-29T17:09:00.000-04:00

Rock
As I was watching soccer last night (DC United vs. Chelsea FC) and wondering if Styro was at the game (and then realizing that the Maryland stadium isn’t exactly right down the goddamn street), I was thinking about blogging about how fucking awesome that match was and what a true MLS believer I am. So, yeah, mission accomplished. I guess.

Tomorrow night, the band is playing at this club in Gainesville. Should be exciting. Should.

2005-07-27T11:34:00.000-04:00

Dump
It’s one of those days when I feel like I’m stuck in the wrong lane. Literally. Y’know when you’re used to driving in the middle lane of a certain three-lane road and you’re coming up to a stop light and you notice a dump truck is in your lane and all the people in front of you are picking the right and left lanes so you pick the right lane and when the light changes you go by the dump truck but inexplicably remain in the right lane only to have nearly all of the cars in front of you making right turns at different places . . . and then the dump truck passes you a mile down the road. And you end up getting behind the dump truck at the next light anyway. Yeah, great start to the day. Mia didn’t really say much while I was carrying on, “Good God, I could’ve just stayed behind the dump truck.”

Thanks for all the ball-concern, The Internet. Truth be told, I’m still in wait-and-see mode. I had a physical with the same doctor yesterday, and I told him I’d monitor the symptoms (which seem to be dissipating with the brief-wearing treatment) until I decide I need to see a urologist. I think cancer and UTIs/bladder infections have been ruled out. Can’t say I’m too worried. Once things stop working like they should, or I feel like I’ve been shot down there, I’ll ramp up the worrying.

2005-07-25T16:54:00.000-04:00

At the End of the Day, His Girlfriend Still Recorded a Godawful Country Duet with Kid Rock
While I'll admit I wasn't really rooting for ~~America~~ "Livestrong" in the Tour de France, I respected his words to all the "cynics" about cycling being a real sport and how hard it is. So . . . when is Jeff Gordon gonna stand in front of the microphone? Never. Because millions of Americans are convinced that driving around an oval for four hours constitutes "sport."

Tiny Dancer

2005-07-21T20:46:00.000-04:00

tiny dancer

We went to a birthday party this past weekend for one of the girls at Mia's daycare. It was held at an indoor "playground," which is good because it was raining outside. A lot.

So, there was a slide and lots of riding toys. And a dress-up area which is where Mia picked up this skirt. There are more pictures, too. Including the ever-popular, ubiquitous cat shots.

2005-07-19T22:58:00.000-04:00

Balls
Not sure how carefully I can walk the line between “interesting” and TMI, but my day has been just fucked up enough to walk that line.

Almost a week ago, I started having some pain . . . down there. On one side, mostly. (One of my balls was hurting, and the other felt great. I don’t want to be accused of being a prude, on second thought.) It felt similar to the hernia I'd had (before its repair 10 years ago), but for an extended period. In another context (guys), it might be how you’d feel an hour or so after someone kicked you in the balls.

Anyway, it was like that for a few days. Yesterday, it was getting harder to walk comfortably; I was groaning (audibly) when I had to move in a way that . . . provoked discomfort. Oh, and now the pain was on both sides. Googling produced a number of possible culprits, the most reasonable of which seemed to be relieved with anti-inflammatories, so I popped some Motrin last night and felt better. But I promised Michelle I’d call the doctor today. Which I did.

I had a “work-in” appointment for 2:45. I figured that afterward I could go back to work to get a head start on a particularly rough project that threatens to absorb much of my week . . . without going into too much detail and/or getting side-tracked. I showed up for my appointment at 2:35 and sat in the waiting room until almost 4:30. (As it turned out, I had been “worked in” to being the last patient of the day. Exploring all the long-unrelevant magazines you know in love. Good thing I’m “patient,” even as I’m mentally calculating how badly not getting back to work is gonna fuck me. Little did I know . . .)

Weight checked, urine sampled, blood pressure taken . . . the doctor came in and started asking the specifics. No, it doesn’t burn when I pee. Not an injury that I’m aware of. Sex drive not affected, no.

“Are you up for a prostate exam?”

Uh-oh. I hesitated but figured this totally unknown quantity might come into play. “Sure?”

He warned me it was going to hurt like hell. “You’re a brave man,” he chided.

Nothing that happened to me for the rest of the day, none of the mind-boggling inconveniences and frustrations, could equal that exam. I’m sure my gaybo little yelps of pain did little to make me appear more masculine. "Massaging the prostate" isn't as innocuous as it sounds.

Trust me.

2005-07-18T13:03:00.000-04:00

Flickr'd (Finally)

2005-07-14T20:46:00.000-04:00

head with glasses
Originally uploaded by Scott-san.

This is kind-of cheating, because Michelle took this picture. While she was driving. But it gives you a preview of my hair. There's another picture of my daughter and I. Maybe you can find it faster than I can.

2005-07-13T12:33:00.000-04:00

Bruckheimer'd
Yesterday, I was driving behind a pickup truck that was loaded with boxes marked to contain a range and a microwave. I guess someone was redoing his kitchen.

Anyway, right out of your favorite car-chase scene, stuff starts flying out of the back of the truck. Big, white packets. I ran the first one over because, well, it basically fell out of the truck and directly in the path of my right front tire. I looked in the rearview and saw something that looked like a styrofoam peanut come out, and I was thinking it was just packing materials. So I didn’t feel that bad when I ran over the next one.

Although, secretly (or not so secretly, I suppose), I hope there was something important in those packets. As long as it wasn’t a kid or a pet. Or a copy of the Constitution, because that motherfucker’s been through enough.

2005-07-11T16:26:00.000-04:00

All These Hurricanes? Getting Old. Really.
Man, and I used to love Hurricane Season.

If you watched the Weather Channel at all this weekend, you probably saw the Dennis-related hype and hysteria. This stuff moves in cycles. There’ll be a yawner of a storm and then everyone gets complacent only to get ass-raped when the next storm comes through and then feels really let down when the NEXT storm comes through. Now the Pensacola area has had, what, two powerful hurricanes in eight months? Ivan kicked their asses, so everyone was frothing away for this one. The Weather Channel field people are getting themselves all worked up and, afterwards, it’s, “Here in Mobile, we recorded a wind gust of 47 miles per hour.” And standing in the road as the eye wall passed by, Jim Cantore exclaimed (paraphrasing), “We just had a wind gust that was easily 75 or 80 miles per hour!” Gusts? Not impressed. For a storm that had sustained winds of over 120 miles per hour?

Yeah, so, for the next one, we’re gonna drive to the beach with Mia for some family body-surfing. We're inviting the bull sharks, too.

As it was, we spent pretty much the whole day inside our house. Except for a jaunt to Fresh Market to buy some (overpriced) groceries and organic “goodies.” Oh, and when Mia and I went to Target in the afternoon (around the time the storm was making landfall 180 miles to the west).

The most amazing thing about the day? We didn’t lose power once. We live in a faberge egg of Tallahassee’s fragile power grid. They’ll probably wait until there’s some spectacularly beautiful fall day when I’m planning to watch a crucial football game, and then they’ll shut our power off for three and a half hours. Y’know, to balance it out.

2005-07-06T22:23:00.000-04:00

Yippee Skippy(ies)
OR
"Whores Don’t Get a Second Chance"
First of all, the photographs. It seems that taking seven cameras to cover our trip to Atlanta is akin to ordering the First Airborne to take down a preschool full of French children. Yes, yes, I did take some pictures. Nothing quite worthy of a Flickr account launch, although I’m still pondering. I guess I was hoping for a more impressive start. (Michelle’s few pictures were much more interesting and artsy.)

Now to the matter at hand. I’d mentioned doing a Skippies taste test (see previous post). The concept was simple: Give Ms. Brown’s version of the drink a test drive (and repeat as necessary). According to the Flickr post, the recipe was one part vodka, one part beer, and a part and a half of lemonade. Yum, you say. The proposed recipe hyped “cheap” beer and vodka and lemonade from concentrate (Country Time); we strayed from the path going with Hawaiian Punch lemonade, Smirnoff vodka, and Kirin Ichiban (in a can). Really, I don’t think this made a difference. (We were probably cursed anyway with Michelle’s sentiment that, “Beer and vodka just isn’t right.”)

I took photos of the ingredients, but it’s not much more interesting than reading the above, and the picture of the resulting drinks looks like three glasses of frothy piss. So, y’know. Anyway, I did document the conversation that took place during Round One. It was tape-recorded (and is transcribed) for your “enjoyment.” Er, enjoy:

(Scene: 10:14 on a Saturday night, apartment, child asleep in adjoining room, dimly lit, air thick with anticipation of scary drink and the impending Identity-viewing.)

Michelle is staring at the three glasses, as Ms. JAB takes hers (having already “called dibs” on it).

Scott: There shouldn’t be any difference.

Michelle (laughing): There shouldn’t be any difference.

Scott picks up one of the remaining glasses.

Michelle: You seem to want that one.

Scott (referring to the glass): Okay. Well, it’s square.

There is a clink of glasses.

Scott: Best of luck. (Long pause for drinking first gulps.) Wow.

Ms. JAB: It’s like you don’t taste the beer until the end, like the aftertaste is the beer.

Michelle: It tastes . . .

Scott (laughing): Yeah, I don’t think we’re gonna be able to drink very much of this.

Michelle: This is what I would imagine nail-polish remover . . .

Ms. JAB: Yes! That’s it. Nail-polish remover. It tastes like how it smells.

Michelle: It probably has nothing to do with the fact that I just painted my toenails, but . . .

Scott: It doesn’t smell like nail-polish remover. I don’t know what it smells like. But there’s, like, that much vodka. (Holds up a vodka shot glass indicating about 2 ounces.)

Ms. JAB (perhaps to Michelle, who put down her glass on the bar): You’re not gonna try to finish the first drink?

Scott: Um . . . we can.

Michelle: Ya’ll have fun with that.

Laughter.

(End scene.)

There was no Round Two. Ms. JAB and I finished our drinks, and then I started in on Michelle’s while finishing of the huge-ass can of Kirin.

None of this made Identity any more interesting, though. Which is sad. Very.

2005-07-01T12:41:00.000-04:00

Loose Ends
No, this post isn’t about the Hilton family. But it is about the ‘kaze family. We’re leaving in just a few short hours for a long weekend in Atlanta. I’m all packed . . . with no less than seven cameras. We’re gonna be Flickr-ized next week, yo.

I’ve also packed some vodka as there’ll be some kind of Skippies taste test. I’m not sure how beer, vodka, and lemonade can taste great together, but I’m willing to give it a shot. (I read about Skippies on Sarah Brown’s Flickr page. Which reminds me of a dream I had about Ms. Brown, wherein we went to visit her except she didn’t live in Brooklyn but some unnamed NYC suburb 40 miles north of the city, but she STILL had a great view of Manhattan and we went to a rooftop party with her. Look, I don’t know Sarah on any level---I think I’ve commented on her site exactly once---but, y’know, whatever.) There’s a good chance that this taste test will be documented here. Should it actually occur.

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

So mom’s been home for almost a week now. Things are going pretty well. Getting her set up and organized has been a bit time-consuming, so any extra time I thought I’d have for blogging has gone to doing that. That, and getting SIX PACKAGES OF CDs out to some of you. Seriously, I’ve finally sent out (most of) the CDs we’d promised to send. In January.

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

I thought there was something else. Hmmm. Well, you could go here, but only if you’re totally bored and have nothing else to do. Or if you’re curious where all my political semi-ranting has gone.

2005-06-27T16:45:00.000-04:00

"Good Luck, [Mr. Glory Hole]."*
The gods of Good Fortune have been smiling on me. Last Thursday, I sat in on the “realest” poker game I have access to. And I tripled my money. It was every bit as awesome as I could have hoped. I’d detail some of the more memorable hands but, really, no-one would care. Well, maybe Melman.

The bigger paradigm-shift-esque happening was that I cut off a full two-thirds of my motherfucking hair. For serious, CW. There is really no way that the word “floppy” can be used to describe my hair. I’ll work on getting a picture of it. Really.** Nag Michelle if you wanna make this happen faster.

In other news, the ‘ju and I found a baby possum while playing disc golf yesterday. It’s currently on its way to some branch of the Wildlife Refuge (or some-such agency).

* Early on in the night, I jokingly said this to Mr. Glory Hole as the cards were being dealt. Because I went on to win that hand (big), and Mr. Glory Hole had an awful night, this quote became the running joke for people wanting to change their luck. Mr. Glory Hole didn’t think it was funny, but fuck him. He’s in Paris for a week.

** I keep thinking about starting a Flickr account because that’s what all the cool kids have done. Y’know, you have a blog, a My Space page, an iPod, and an account on Flickr. And it makes me feel all empty that I can’t post comments on all these girl-on-girl pictures I’ve been seeing. Michelle has the digital camera most of the time and is really more savvy about digital-photograph management. Really, she should have the Flickr page, but I feel that I need to propel us into the 21st century.

2005-06-23T16:37:00.000-04:00

Too Write
I had a brief moment yesterday when I felt lighter, like the pressure of the World wasn’t on my shoulders. Like, “I’m finally getting caught up. Time to relax, enjoy life.” Anyway, it was brief.

It’s nice that the creative stuff, like playing in a band that has made exactly zero dollars for its past two shows, is so rewarding. Seriously, the band stuff is very therapeutic. And the writing, well . . . it’s going.

It’s funny how I go through phases with the poetry. I won’t write anything for a while, and then I’ll slowly start doing it again . . . coming up with a couple mid-grade poems. And then I get it in my head that I need to go through all of my poems since before college (we’re talking over 15 years of poetry, here, people) and make lists of possible chapbook/collection ideas and/or poems I need to submit for publication. Then I’ll churn out another poem or two, nothing spectacular. And then . . . nothing. In the current run-through, I just completed the “list” phase and I’m preparing to send out several batches of poems. (To put it in perspective, I’ve published maybe a dozen poems in 15 years . . . most of those in local presses where I had some kind of “in.” And quality? While listing the poems, I assigned semi-objective ratings to them [on a scale of 1 to 5]. No poem got a 5 and two of the three that got 4.5s were written last century.) It doesn’t help that when I read other people’s poetry, it’s very black and white (“How the fuck did this get published?” to “Man, I suck ass”).

So, we’ll see how my domination of the poetry world (note the lower case) goes.

Also in the world of writing, it should be noted that the ultra-secret “political” blog finally had an unexpected birth. I’ll post a link to it when it hits its stride. Y’know . . . in a few ~~weeks~~ ~~months~~ years.

In other news, nothing helps heal the wounds of losing lots of money in poker to your family quite like playing with the "big boys," which I will do tonight. Pray to Little ~~Baby Jesus~~ Tom's Newbie Scientologist ~~Girlfriend~~ Fiancee that I get a lot of pocket pairs and suited face-cards.

2005-06-20T16:27:00.000-04:00

How Do You Put a Pseudo-Gay Craddle-Robbing Scientologist in His Place? WITH A LIST!
Even a squirt gun. Or, hell, just get up and leave.

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

We had a show over the weekend, opening for a band that I’ve long revered but, now, having lost some key personnel, I think the band is going to shift into “more electronic” territory. So, I’ll probably stop listening to them. Because, as everyone knows, God hates techno.

As a humiliating aside, we pulled about six to eight (depending on whom you ask) people to the show. There were three people on the guest list, one of whom never showed up. I don’t think there’s any doubt that we’ll be bigger outside our “hometown.”

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

The poker losing streak continues. I think I’m playing scared. I’ve done statistical analyses of four different games and my hands-played vs. hands-won percentage is dropping. Meaning I’m playing too many hands and/or I’m not betting effectively enough to win the hands I’m playing. Yesterday, I managed to avoid losing everything, but still. I'm down for the year.

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

Continuing to roll the dice here at Kamikaze Central, we’ve decided to have my mother discharged back to her house this weekend. The hope is that this will end the four-month ordeal that began with her fall. There is talk of a legal action. Being very anti-litigious in nature, I’m advising caution.

She’s feeling much better (physically and mentally), so I’m fairly confident that she can make it on her own (again). Of course, I’ll be checking in with her regularly.

2005-06-16T08:15:00.000-04:00

Neighbors?
I think I’ve hinted here before that Michelle and I are somewhat antisocial and/or mildly misanthropic. We’ve lived for four and a half years in the same house and we don’t know our neighbors. We’ve never even met them. Not really.

On one side, we have the African-American “family;” I really don’t know what the exact configuration is over there. I’ve seen the same guy (I think) mowing the lawn several times (with an electric lawnmower). And the same woman getting into her police car. (Yes, there is a police car parked next door 75% of the time, which I’m convinced cuts down on our home-invasion potential.) Anyway, I’ve said (or waved) hellos to them a few times, hardly ever even exchanging banal pleasantries (like, “Wow, hot day,” or “Looks like rain”). They have an annoying little dog that yips at me whenever I go into the back yard with Mia (prompting the usual, “What’s that noise?” to be followed by, “It’s that shit-assy little dog from next door.”). Do they have kids? I’ve seen one or two on occasion, but it’s usually when there are several cars in the driveway . . . maybe a post-church get-together.

On the other side, there’s a white couple. Who have a kid. Maybe. Our yards are separated by tall, bushy trees (on our property and I’m too lazy to trim), so we don’t see them a lot. Just when we’re pulling out of our driveway every once in a while or driving by their house. The husband sits on the front porch and smokes. We don’t wave. Oh, and they have a couple pit bull-ish dogs in their back yard.

Now, the neighbor across the street . . . that’s the interesting one. Actually, he’s not that interesting. See, he used to have a wife. I’d see her out working in the yard, or jogging down our road. And then she disappeared. Her Trooper was never in the driveway. Sure, she’d pop up every once in a while, usually leaving within a few minutes of arriving . . . sometimes when he wasn’t there. His little red Nissan is there all the time. On weekends, there’s a maroon Taurus, but I’ve never seen who drives that. My money’s on casual-sex-partner-reluctantly-transformed-to-girlfriend. I need to make up a story "about" them and then use that as the basis for a tawdry book.

In other news, Mia is 80% potty-trained. She hasn’t had an “accident” at daycare for weeks (even during naps). She still has an occasional accident with us on the weekends and she still wears a pull-up to bed. Sheez. Next thing y’know, she’ll be slamming beers in front of us and telling us to “Fuck off.” Can’t wait.

2005-06-13T22:47:00.000-04:00

Thriller
What's the opposite of "starfucker?" Because, whatever it is, that's what I am.

Okay, so if there are two sides (those who think celebrities can do no wrong and anyone who thinks differently is just trying to tear them down, and those who assume that the celebrities are guilty and are trying to "buy" their freedom), I'm more partial to the latter. But that doesn't mean I wanted Michael Jackson to be guilty, or that I wanted this to all be true. I just thought he was. Or think he is. Maybe not as surely as I felt that O.J. was guilty (of something far worse), but still. This goes beyond the creepiness factor. I really think he did those things. And now he's "free."

Apparently, the verdict was handed down as I was leaving work. I turned on the radio in the car and they were playing "Thriller." I knew that something had been decided.

And y'know what? I'd be willing to bet that Michael's back feels a lot better now.

2005-06-09T14:47:00.000-04:00

Eating In
I haven’t eaten at my desk more than five times in the past three or four months. Really, that is the fuel for this Little Blog That Could. I use that time for “writing” things to post, reading and commenting on many of your blogs, and playing games on Yahoo! Luxuries, I guess.

Every day brings another lunchtime adventure. Okay, so sometimes I eat in the conference room with coworkers. But usually it’s a trip to my mom’s to eat, watch the news, and pick up her mail. Or a trip to the center to see mom and bring her the things she asked me to find. Or to meet with a social worker. Or something else. Yesterday, it was trying to solve the mystery of why the SSA would be discontinuing my mom’s disability payments, and then trying to find my mom’s brown shoes. (I’ve looked all over her goddamn house and there are no shoes that even approach brown-ness. Or brown-ocity.) Today, it was a lunch meeting with my boss and boss’ boss.

It feels good to be catching up with you guys again. On the other hand, I started writing this post yesterday. All three paragraphs of it.

2005-06-07T15:20:00.000-04:00

~~Stats that Shape a~~ Things I Learned This Weekend (Victorious / Rock Edition!)

-- Like white pants after Labor Day, a woman should refrain from wearing tights under her clothes to an indie-rock show in a club that keeps its doors open in a city with a summertime relative humidity above 85%. And men should refrain from wearing tights, period.

-- Sometimes, it’s really hard to maintain a steely hatred for someone in another band under the unwritten rules of inter-band dealings.

-- Admittedly limited reporting reveals that Gulf Breeze is so boring that people visiting there have been inspired to (accidentally) hurl their bodies through sliding-glass doors.

-- “I’m not playing that whole set,” or “You’re the biggest pussy of all of us,” can sometimes mean, “I just want to be left alone.”

-- Sometimes the cards don’t go your way. “Sometimes” can also stretch for a whole two hours of poker. Eventually, all of the chips will be gone. Deal with it.

2005-06-03T17:06:00.000-04:00

The Road Ain’t No Place to Start a Family
The band is taking its dog-and-pony show on the road this weekend. Tonight it’s at a bar/venue in town (and near campus) that’s better known for their wet t-shirt contests. And tomorrow night, we’re playing in Pensacola. (Yes, ‘stella, I will totally wave my bottle of Night Train in the direction of Gulf Breeze.)

In related news, I will be very, very tired this weekend.

2005-06-01T17:02:00.000-04:00

It’s Nice When We Both Win, of Course, but Me Winning a Lot When She Loses $10 is Much Better Than Her Losing $10 and Me Winning 80 Cents
I’m not gonna lie: I was really looking forward to the family game(s) of poker. That wasn’t my primary motivation for trying to negotiate getting everyone (and their sick and/or displaced cats) to the beach house. (I’m not saying that my argument had the most merit or was even the most practical/logical, but I was just trying to make everyone happy. It’s a sickness really.)

Anyway, we played poker with just four of us. It’s really more fun to take money from the in-laws (even if I was planning on giving it back as a gesture for them paying for the beach house), but it’s no fun to lose money to anyone. Michelle plays poker like it’s a sprint; she often starts strong but fades fast. All in all, the group was fairly evenly matched but, in the end, we ended up giving Blondie and Mr. Spaceghost $9.20.

The other attraction at the beach was, well, the BEACH. Personally, I don’t like the beach. But then Mr. Spaceghost and I rented a skim board and, suddenly, I was a 14-year-old boy all over again. Of course, after all the harsh wipeouts and running and jumping, I’m pretty sore. Days later. Because I’m 33 years old. (Luckily, there are no photographs available of me with the 4-inch sprout of hair I’d fashioned to keep the salt-water/sun block out of my eyes . . . and the beach skanks from crowding me. I mean, what could make the obviously too-old guy with the skim board more appealing?)

In other news, after clambering for her “CD” in the car yesterday afternoon and this morning (and getting her way, of course), Mia then said, “Play your CD, daddy.”

“You want me to play one of my CDs?”

“Yes.”

So I put in Interpol’s Turn on the Bright Lights and selected “NYC.” It was raining and seemed fairly appropriate. Mia listened quietly, staring out the window.

2005-05-27T07:16:00.000-04:00

The City of Townsville . . . is Being Evacuated!
Amazingly, Mia didn't wake up early this morning, so I've sneaked into our office and started writing this entry. Right into the Blogger template. Because when you're taking the day off work, you can be a little avant garde.

I thought I should catch everyone up with all the season(al) cliffhangers here at 'kaze central.

-- Thanks for all the well-wishes about my mom. I really, really appreciate it. She's now out of the "psych ward" and in a nursing/care facility until she makes some improvements and/or her coverage runs out. Which will happen in about 18 days, counting today. We're thinking long-term, so difficult decisions will be made in the next week to 10 days. And more passive sentences will be written.

-- Mia's awake.

-- The country girl won on American Idol.

-- I still have CDs to send out. From January. I know.

-- The "others" kidnapped Walt and blew up the raft. And there's a big hole in the ground which apparently leads to the second season.

-- In the next week, my band is playing at the local college radio station, playing a show in town, and playing a show in Pensacola.

~~Well, we're off to St. Augustine Beach for a long weekend of family fun.~~ Not so fast there. It seems that the sister-in-law's cat might need antibiotics so everything is up in the air. The pet-friendliness of the beach house might be tested. Hopefully.

Anyway, barring any further fraying of plans, there will be lots of drinking and poker and pictures. Yes, pictures. Besides Michelle's digital camera, we'll be taking our Lomo and the quad-cam I got for Michelle from Archie McPhee.

2005-05-24T21:06:00.000-04:00

The One in Which I Don't Scoff at Bipolar People Because the Resulting Karma Might Leave Me Jobless
Wow, we're up to about a week between posts now, huh? I'm having one of those blog-blocks where you think you're gonna post something brilliant and then you get distracted by . . . um, LIFE. Seriously, I was going to write about my sneaking out of work Monday to go see Revenge of the Sith and being terrified that someone would suddenly NEED me for something, or that Mia would get sick and no-one would be able to reach me with the cell phone off. Or how mom's week and a half in the behavioral health unit (read: psych ward) is coming to an end, and now it looks like we'll be placing her . . . somewhere, semi-permanently. I'm about to prepare to think about considering selling her van. And then her house. So, yeah, I was gonna blog all that shit, but then I went outside just 30 minutes ago to get the ladder so I could change our air filters when I heard a kitten-ish sound. I thought it might be Sabrina trying to sneak out into the carport but I went back to the screen door and she was clear across the living room. I wandered out of the carport and into the lowering dusk, there was a black kitten meowing his head off. I picked him up and held him for a second and then a SECOND kitten came out of the near-darkness. Fuck. So, I did what any good-natured friend-to-the-animals would do: I went inside, put some water and food in dishes, took the dishes out to the cats, talked to them for a few minutes, went back inside, turned on The Start loudly (to drown out the kitty-whining), and came back here to write this garbage.

2005-05-18T16:54:00.000-04:00

FUCK YEAH!
The other day, I asked Mr. ADD when Team America (which neither of us had seen) was going to come out on DVD. He said “next Tuesday” and that he’d bring it over for us to watch after he bought it. (Big South Park fan, that guy.)

So, true to his word, he did and we watched it . . . in all of it’s perverse glory. I love how Trey Parker and Matt Stone can present both sides of an argument, make fun of everyone involved, and make you feel better about caring. I wish I knew how to convey a message that borders on didactic while including a marionette sex scene full of ass-eating, a golden shower, and a “hot lunch.”

Seriously, the movie was hit-and-miss, but when it “hit,” Holy Toddler Christ, we laughed ‘til we couldn’t breathe.

2005-05-16T23:05:00.000-04:00

Blood
Look, I know that it’s a never-ending “rite of passage” for men, but it’s just so typically Monday how nicking myself shaving turned into a motherfucking bloodletting. Seriously, I’m surprised I don’t cut myself more the way I hastily go about raping my face with the Gillette Mach 3. Generally when I do nick myself, I do the tissue-clotting thing. I’ll sometimes forget to take it off and go into public with the telltale tiny Japanese flag stuck to my face and/or neck. But this morning, I was diligent and removed it while at home before I brushed my teeth. After brushing my teeth, I looked in the mirror and couldn’t help but notice the huge and growing river of blood moving toward my chin. What the fuck, FACIAL CARNAGE?

Of course, this morning, I had to interact with all sorts of people at Mia’s daycare or work while either actively bleeding or trying to get the blood to clot with my miniature tributes to Japan. "Yeah, nice to meet you. Look at the blood GUSHING OUT OF MY FUCKING JAW!"

2005-05-11T15:40:00.000-04:00

Here. Still.
I am.

I didn’t really want to bore you with fecal stories. Lots of ‘em. Because as a parent of a somewhat constipated, potty-training toddler, and the only son of a partially disabled and decidedly unconstipated mother . . . I have a lot to tell. But doing so would probably shatter the glass on your monitors. (And you flat-panel fucks can eat my ass. Okay, I’m just kidding. Mostly.)

I’m easily distracted, and have been busy at work. And scab-writing for Mr. Crunchy’s Reverse Survivor. And writing some other secret stuff. And participating in super-secret, bumbling legal dramas.

Don’t you worry, The Internet. I’m still standin’.

(yeah, yeah, yeah . . .)

2005-05-06T14:47:00.000-04:00

Freedom
I think. A lot. And worry. And obsess. And daydream . . . sometimes drifting off in the middle of a conversation. Or driving. I was sitting at a red light at 5:53 yesterday with my daughter behind me in the carseat, a light drizzle coming down, and Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar on Me” on the radio, and all I could focus on was the drumbeat. I mean, how did the one-armed guy play all that?

I want freedom. Not the “freedom” that we’re supposedly helping the Iraqis fight for, or the freedom to escape my immediate-family obligations (although not having to be my mother’s caretaker might be nice), but a free mind. I can’t remember the last time I didn’t feel put-upon and encumbered.

I was walking down the stairs at work a few days ago, and I had a very brief lapse into how my mind used to be (largely uncluttered), making me very aware of my surroundings . . . content. Very peaceful. Unfortunately, it lasted for about two seconds.

I know there’s probably a medication out there that could make me feel this way all the time. But I’m afraid of blocking this all out, like some mental packrat who doesn’t want to throw anything away for fear that he’ll need it later. And what if the mental summersaults I’m doing now will keep my mind limbered up if/when I hit my 70s and 80s? Maybe neurotic people are better-preparing their brains to fight Alzheimer’s.

2005-05-03T08:54:00.000-04:00

Spirit-Breaking (with Urine)
We really had the best intentions. We went to Target Friday night and bought four packages of cloth potty-training pants for Mia (we now have a total of 12 pairs). Saturday morning, I put one of them on Mia before leaving for the park. While I was gone, she peed in them while sitting on Michelle’s lap . . . almost like peeing directly onto Michelle. Or so I was told. Michelle cleaned her up and tried another pair and, within ten minutes, she peed in those. So, it was back to disposable pull-ups.

We went to Target again Saturday morning to buy the “waterproof” trainers (vinyl outside and fitted leg holes . . . these sound dirty, don’t they?). I tried those with Mia in the afternoon while at my mom’s yesterday. She was playing on the couch while I was putting together my mother's piled-up newspapers for recycling. Then Mia announced, “I wan’ go potty.” I immediately thought, Wow, finally a step in the right direction.

Of course, she’d already peed. And the “waterproof” trainers had leaked. Onto the couch.

So, I think the score is something like Mia: 3, Parents: 0. (And Grandmother’s Couch: -1)

We’re gonna take a recess to reevaluate our strategy. And fortitude.

2005-04-28T16:27:00.000-04:00

I Want to be Anyone Else Today, So I’ll Make Like Everyone’s Favorite List-Poster
1) My trips to the ER with my mom are becoming ridiculously routine. I took my mother to an appointment with her doctor yesterday afternoon, and one false vomiting episode and one unwitting claim that she was “going to die” later, and we were back in the ER. The city'sother ER because my mom didn't want to admitted to the familiar hospital as she didn’t enjoy her stay last time. But as it turned out, she was discharged after a few hours because there was nothing really wrong with her that she wasn’t already being treated for. They gave her a shot for the nausea and a scrip for anti-nausea meds.

2) I watched American Idol with Michelle Tuesday night, so I can say with all certainty that I can understand why Constantine needed to go. Nickelback? Dude, leave that shit to rock-hacks-in-the-making like Bo Bice. After Constantine was finished (and Bice had actually turned in an average performance), I knew he was gone. Because, y’know, the city of Cleveland isn’t gonna give up on the talentless fat guy. (I’m sorry, Mr. Savol. But if you win, this show will be the punch line to the joke of reality TV. [Fuck. I should call and vote for him next week.])

?) We’ve been potty training Mia for, oh, about eight months now. Really, we’re taking the ultra-passive, let-her-find-her-own-way approach. Which isn’t working. She knows all about peeing on the big-people's toilet, but now it’s a control issue. She’s choosing to pee in her diapers/pull-ups. So . . . this weekend, we’re drawing the proverbial line in the proverbial sand. We’re going to Target tomorrow and buying several pairs of training pants. We’re gonna show her who’s ~~boss~~ ~~frustrated~~ repeatedly rinsing the pee and poop out of those training pants!

µg/l) Besides the struggle with the daughter’s elimination practices, I’m hoping to get out to see The Mountain Goats Saturday night. Mr. Darnielle is making another swing through town, and our friends’ band is opening the show. It’s nice to get out and enjoy a show and NOT have to worry about playing, too. Even if the cover is $8 and ciders are full price.

2005-04-27T07:46:00.000-04:00

Seasonal*
I love the change of seasons, especially the phasing into and out of winter. Which makes it all the more painful to live in a place where this does not occur. Either there’s no winter to speak of, or the transition to summer is very abrupt (sometimes taking place in March . . . seriously). Or both.

But this year, 2005, is fucking with me. First of all, I’m hating winter. And the strangely prolonged (gentle) transition to summer (an actual spring, for fuck’s sake!) . . . I hate that, too.

You see, our house’s heating system is sick. I think the underground heating-oil tank is taking on water. After spending hundreds to fix the pump on our furnace, and a few more dollars to pay for unnecessary visits and water-exorcising, I refuse to throw more money at a hopeless situation. Either we have to replace our heating system this summer, or replace our heating-oil tank (with one that’s aboveground).

This has been made all the harder with the beautifully cool nights we’ve been having. It’s hard to enjoy a brisk spring evening when you’re trying to calculate how many degrees the temperature in your house will drop overnight as the temperature dips to around 40 degrees. Or avoiding the use of the air conditioner when the house starts to get overly warm and stuffy because you’re hoarding heat for the approaching cold front. Opening the curtains to let in every ray of sunlight and leaving the 450-degree stove open will only heat the house so much, people.

* not really a reference to my recent posting frequency

2005-04-21T17:00:00.000-04:00

Maxi
Reality stared me down yesterday as I was grocery shopping for my mother’s imminent return home after two months in the hospital and rehabilitation. I was in the “feminine products” section trying to do the nonchalant scan as if I’m looking for the wife’s tampons, but was actually looking for maxi pads (not panty liners). And, of course, while I was trying to stealthily look for the maxis (standing across the aisle and looking sideways at the shelves), hordes of people decided they needed toothbrushes and deodorant. At that same moment. Fuck. Can’t a man inconspicuously look for maxi pads for his mom anymore?

I took my revenge on the World by mishandling some phone calls at the office. Our receptionist is on vacation and the backup phone-answerers are either out or not willing to answer the phone regularly. As the phone rings loud enough for everyone on our floor to hear, I’ll pick it up if it rings long enough to annoy me. And usually only when I’m expecting a call from someone who can’t use (or doesn’t have) my direct-dial number. While I was making some copies, I picked up a call from American Express, wanting to talk to someone who “can make financial decisions for the office.” I said, “Okay, hold on. Let me transfer you,” and I hung up the phone.

It’s a balancing act trying to manage the roles of dutiful son vs. competent father, and valuable employee vs. competent blogger. What, that Communist Party was five days ago? Michelle beat me to the pictures, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t give a shout out to Ms. Jazz Hand’s “Leninades,” or the manly UFC-watching in a small ~~cat shelter~~ bedroom, or the infinite enjoyment of the really drunk girl who threw up in the gay guy’s lap, causing the gay guy to throw up. (I wish I hadn’t been watching UFC during that last part. All I got to see was the RDG's shoes sticking out of the bathtub as I walked by.)

So, in summation, I’m busy. And tired. And worried about my mother ending up in the ER again. Dammit.

2005-04-15T17:13:00.000-04:00

Comrades of the Chorus Line
So, Miss Jazz Hands is having a birthday this weekend, and that’s got our schedule all a-jangle. (<----- I totally don’t know where that came from.) Tonight, we’re going to some sort of Italian bistro/café that I didn’t know existed (which is hard in Tallahassee), and tomorrow is The Party. The Communist Party. And because Miss JH is quite the planner/organizer/decorator, her “Communist Party” should be all the rage. Lord DeLay knows I have enough drab clothing to look like a Communist. I even have a hammer-and-sickle pin somewhere. And a red star. Man, I’m such a Leftist. Look out, Capitalists! Watch your backs, Democracy-ers!

In other news, I have CDs of mine and Michelle’s that are overdue from, like, two months ago. Oh, and I hear there's gonna be a D.R.A.F.T.

2005-04-13T16:46:00.000-04:00

”Sacred,” Simon? Really?
Yeah, I’m not a big American Idol supporter. I’m certainly not frantically dialing 866 numbers at 10 o’clock at night. Because Carrie doesn’t need my vote.

Anyway, last night was pretty disgusting. First of all, the fact that Federov is still on the show after last week’s bonanza of horror is real-world improbable. But then Bice dials up “Freebird” and phones that shit in. And didn’t get called for it. Not by “dude” man Randy. The vocal melody for the verse has, like, three notes. Adventurous choice? Same with Anwar and Scott’s choices. The only thing anyone remembers about “She’s Gone” is the fucking chorus (sorry, Hall & Oates). When you ask people to sing the verses, they sound lost. Point that shit out, Randy.

And Simon. What the fuck?

Bo Bice is gonna make a damn fine, second-rate Scott Stapp someday. Soon, hopefully. But, the way he’s being “pushed,” he could win. And then we can all Idolize mediocrity.

2005-04-12T16:53:00.000-04:00

Organization Killed Scott-san’s Blog
There have been lots of changes in ‘kazeland over the past week or so. More than I can write here. But, in the interest of my own manic state and America’s need to be fed information in bite-size bits, I’ve bulletized our recent life:
-- The house-cleaning reached a comfortable, maintainable level that we’re . . . comfortable with. I’ve expanded the aesthetic-improvement efforts to include the yard. We’ve even discussed inviting people to our house again. (The house was briefly in-law tested, so the scourge of cat pee has been satisfactorily alleviated . . . or just moved to a less-public part of the house.)

-- The cat, of course, is still peeing in inappropriate places. One of them is the back of my closet, where I’d thrown shoes I was no longer wearing but had held onto “just in case.” I’m brainstorming ways to harness Archie’s piss-pattern, perhaps outfitting the back of my closet as a “wink-wink, nudge-nudge” pee spot; plastic to protect the hardwood and newspaper . . . with some kind of carbon to absorb the odor so I don’t walk around smelling like a litterbox all fuckin’ day. As long as Archie still feels like a urinary outlaw peeing there, maybe he won't pee any place else.

-- I’ve started using my “planner” on a consistent basis, which means I’m getting a lot more done. And I’m rediscovering my love for list-making. But all of this productivity means that I’m not writing much here. I’m torn, really. (Uh-oh, this bullet is about to go in a completely different direction.) It just seems that everyone is in a lull right now and I feel that I might be, too, in spite of all the shit going on. My (creative) mind is going in 20 different directions; the band’s as enjoyable and productive as it’s ever been, I’ve given thought to Re-Animating my long-dormant poetry journal, and then there’s the daily obsession of the political ‘blog that has yet-to-be. And, most importantly, I’m (briefly) writing for Mr. Crunchy (again). Maybe I need a break. I didn’t want this to be all existential, but there it is. I wouldn't have much to say otherwise.

-- In TV Land, it’s nice that The West Wing is over. Now our DVR has more room for The Amazing Race, American Idol, Lost, Grey’s Anatomy (all three episodes waiting to be watched), Desperate Housewives, South Park, and Aqua Teen Hunger Force.

-- I’m very disenchanted with MTV’s PoweR Girls, which really deserves it’s own bullet (or series of bullets . . . or just bullets). Michelle was watching it when I got home one night, and my hatred of Lizzie Grubman was only stoked into a raging inferno. Why does she have to be successful? And ugly. Good Lord! While not quite as foul as Donatella Versace, she makes Paris Hilton look like Grace Kelly . . . on many, many levels.

-- We're very much enchanted with Deadwood, though. But I feel that there needs to be some more dyin'. No, the three whores weren't enough. That shady Mr. Wolcott is due. We know they're not gonna off Tolliver just yet, so we're probably headed for a full-on war between him and Al. And we know who wins when that happens, right? Yes . . . everyone.

-- I was gonna say I was done, but I have to add that I’m naming Duran Duran the Greatest Band of the 80s. Okay? We all knew that’s where things were headed.

Be back sooner than you ~~hope~~ ~~want~~ think.

2005-04-06T16:50:00.000-04:00

Civil Disobedience
Besides being somewhat petty, gossipy, and . . . petty, my working environment is fairly politically charged. A group of us often get together to eat in the conference room and air our differences (with other people . . . not usually one another). A lot of the time, we’ll discuss important issues of the day, like some silly thing the president said or did, what a douchebag Tom Delay is, how we’re going to Hell for reading a ‘blog “written” by Terri Schiavo, and whether a certain future First Lady was drunk when she killed her boyfriend all those years ago.

Today, one of our cohorts brought in a glossy of the First Couple, with a “personal” note underneath the picture, thanking the recipient for his support. The letter was addressed to a bastardization of our company’s name. The glossy had been casually displayed in our office’s reception area. We’re pretty sure who was responsible for the “support” and for displaying the picture/letter.

Somehow, the president was cut out of the picture and placed in a urinal downstairs. And we’re pretty certain this war is not over. In fact, it's just starting.

2005-04-04T17:14:00.000-04:00

Douche
This past weekend was one of the highest highs and the lowest lows. Actually, there was just one low, but it was a pretty big one.

HIGHS*
-- Cleaning the house. No, really cleaning the house, which is kind of its own reward. We haven’t really cleaned our house since moving in four and a half years ago . . . so, yeah, it’s nice.

-- Dinner on Saturday. Michelle’s parents kept Mia Saturday night so that we could get some cleaning done, but we took a little detour . . . out to one of the nicest restaurants in town where one of my oldest friends happens to be the Executive Chef. I hadn’t talked to him in about two years, but I asked the waiter to let him know we were there. My friend sent out a bottle of champagne, two extra appetizers (tuna tartare in shot glasses and crab cakes), an extra salad, and desserts. He came to see us at the table for a few minutes and we promised to catch up soon. After bringing our desserts (to go), the waiter announced that my friend was picking up the entire tab. Really, getting a free dinner is great, but it was one of the best meals I’ve had in my life.

LOWS
The battle of the “pee chair.” In our cleaning, we decided to move some furniture around. Part of this effort included moving a chair back to the “office” from the living room. The chosen chair was the “pee chair,” which Archie had taken to spraying. This chair is 95% of the reason that people don't visit us. We've grown accustomed to our living room's smell; most people haven't. It wasn’t until we actually started moving the chair that we discovered the extent of the damage. Even though Archie hadn’t peed on the chair in several weeks, the bottom of it was still wet. It seems that his pee has soaked completely through the upholstery of the chair down to the netting on the very bottom; even the feet of the chair were pee-coated. By the time we wrestled the chair into the office, my hands were orange with pee. The inside of the chair was saturated. So, I cut off all the bottom netting and douched the innards with an aggressive vinegar/water attack, aided by our wet-dry vacuum. And then nuked it with all sorts of cat-odor-hiders and Febreeze-type stuff. The next morning, the room smelled like a burnt vinegar. I’m sure the pee will ultimately win out (as it is wont to do), but then there’s always the axe. And fire.

* We really didn’t do a lot this weekend. I thought there were several “highs.” Maybe the dinner was just several "highs" rolled into one.

2005-04-01T16:46:00.000-05:00

Be My Friend
One would think that I've stopped writing anything important/interesting/vital here, especially since diving head-long into that 80s silliness. And "one" would be right. But I've been pretty busy at work and it is (was?) review season, after all. (That was a joke, boss. Actually, not really.)

I've thought of interesting stories, only to forget them. But, hey, I'm great at posting links to totally inappropriate material.

Anyway, I'll get back into it, I swear. I pinkie swear.

In the meantime, you can stop by my place at MySpace. If you sign up, you can be my friend. Styro has. Why haven't you?

2005-03-31T17:04:00.000-05:00

We’re Done for Now. More 80s Madness Next Week
I stopped the voting at 5 p.m. my time, in case I don’t get to post this before I leave (DAMN YOU, BLOGGER!). Anyway, it looks like the Go-Go’s squeaked by Berlin, but Cyndi Lauper and Blondie ended in a tie by my (somewhat unreliable) count. So, I’m casting my tie-breaking vote for . . . Ms. Lauper.

In other news, this blog isn’t so funny anymore, is it? Could we trump that with a Death Pool? Perhaps a question of who will live longer: the Pope or Michael Shiavo*? I’m already going to Hell; y’might as well gimme a hand basket to ride in.

* I’m in no way condoning the murder of Mr. Shiavo. I just wouldn’t feel too safe if I were him. Wal-Marts in Orlando are gonna start selling gun-range targets with his face printed on them.

2005-03-30T13:52:00.000-05:00

No, Really, Stop it With the Fuckin’ 80s Shit Already. Christ!
If you were to ask me, “Scott, how long do we have to endure this silly ‘voting for the best 80s band’ shit . . . can’t we just tell you Duran Duran was the greatest band of the 80s and end this madness?” Well, shit. If you put it that way, then I’d probably say, “Sure.” So, today’s matchup is an either/or proposition: Either vote in the next pair of matchups, or tell me why Duran Duran is the greatest band of the 80s. Or both. You could be doing us all a favor, no?

Ladies:

Cyndi Lauper vs. Blondie

Go-Go’s vs. Berlin

These seem like really close ones to me. But if you feel that no-one is going to top the aging, fey New Romantics named after the evil robot from Barbarella, then let me know.

2005-03-28T15:48:00.000-05:00

It’s All in (or ON) Your Head
There’s nothing quite like a good, juicy lice scare to ruin someone’s Easter. Fortunately for us, our child (and her parents) have seemingly escaped the daycare’s louse outbreak, but not everyone was so lucky. Kind-of put a damper on the “family” festivities. That and me winning everyone’s money (again). And if this keeps up, they’ll stop inviting me to play.

And what about the tornado watches and warnings? Seriously, Tallahassee spent a good chunk of the weekend under Department of Homeland Security-esque warnings that varied between those of the severe-thunderstorm and tornado varieties. There was a moment Saturday night when we actually contemplated waking Mia up and hiding in the bathroom when the Weather Channel guy was telling us, “If you live in the Tallahassee area, take cover.” It turned out to be a “Doppler-indicated tornado.” Because the world didn’t sound like it was falling apart like it did several years back when I experienced a real tornado (that I didn’t know was there at the time), I figured we were safe. And it was all over in a few minutes.

Oh, and basketball was exciting, wasn’t it? Unfortunately, I can only win the pool outright if Louisville goes all the way. Which is probably a lot like Urkel going “all the way.” Or Paris Hilton not going all the way.

Back to the 80s
I know everyone was hoping this would die but, alas, it must go on. Let it not be said that I don’t finish anything.

Round Two begins with the “men’s” bracket:

Duran Duran vs. Thompson Twins

Human League vs. Adam Ant

Vote for your favorites. Defending your choice(s) results in more points (not for you, but for the bands).