Thursday, July 31, 2003
See, This is How it's Gonna Go . . .
I'm working on a longer post for tomorrow. Well, right now I'm just working, but the post is taking shape. In my head. And then I'll be off (pretty much) for a week. I should be able to keep this up from home. Actually, I'll have to.
Wednesday, July 30, 2003
A Family Affair
I'd noticed that Michelle was carrying around (and writing in) a little notebook. I asked her if she'd started writing again, and she blew me off playfully. Then she confessed that she was writing a 100 Things list for a 'blog she doesn't have.
Last night, I asked her if she was going to create a (new, heh) 'blog to post her 100 Things list, or let me post it here. That's when the idea came up about making Kamikaze Lunchbreak a team 'blog. I don't know if that will happen, but I suspect this post will spur more discussions on the matter.
In the meantime, look at this picture. If that isn't the cutest baby you've ever seen, then clearly you've done more drugs than I have . . . and you're doing those drugs right now.
Tuesday, July 29, 2003
Things You Should Know
I made a big decision over the weekend . . . kind-of an affirmation.
I’m tired of watching my life spiral out of control. And watching my creativity spin down the toilet. And watching my relationship with my family degenerate into a Cold War. And surrendering our house to a permanent sty.
I’ve decided to take control. To do something. To clean. To steal back the creative juices of my youth. To kiss my wife each morning and night and make sure she knows she’s loved.
Sunday night, I turned off the T.V. after Sex and the City was over and went to our private library of high-brow literary works. I pulled off the copy of Things You Should Know by A.M. Homes. I got it for my birthday last year (from two people) and I’ve yet to read it.
This is just the beginning.
I hate drama, and I’m not talking about the thespian variety. I’m talking about the out-of-hand miscommunications, or non-communications, that threaten the very fiber of all personal relationships. Where words are exchanged (or not exchanged), and feelings are thrown into the open in a torrent of raised voices and tears (or hidden under a dirty, cat-soiled blanket of resentment).
And, really, nothing feels better than clearing the air and cleaning things up.
It kind-of sucks to rediscover something in your e-mail inbox that you were supposed to take care of weeks ago. So, I will now quietly be putting this quarterly update letter together for our client.
One of the attachments is actually a monthly update memo that I also never sent out.
Why can’t the Democratic Leadership Council just let things sort themselves out? If you feel that Howard Dean isn’t “centrist” enough to win the presidency, or even the nomination, why can’t you just let the voters decide? Don’t fucking whine about his increasing popularity to boost the sagging numbers of your lesser “centrist” candidates. (Paging Joe Lieberman and Dick “Captain Charisma” Gephardt.)
Can we step away from the Establishment thinking for a sec? It’s this kind of meddling that props up the status quo and makes people wary of the whole political process. Running to the middle and embracing “centrist” ideals is what the home stretch is about, right? Trying to win the nomination is when candidates court the party’s base . . . in your case, liberals.
What’s the worry? If Dean can’t beat Bush, Kerry probably can’t either. Sorry to burst your (er, our) bubble.
Monday, July 28, 2003
Maybe I'll Keep This Up If You Send Me Vodka
I'm back. Sadly, there isn't a lot to tell you about the rock-n-roll trip to Atlanta. The whole affair was somewhat crisis-free. No drama, no over-consumption of alcohol. (We were given 12 pint-sized PBRs for the band, and I don't think we even finished them. What kind of rock stars are we?)
We rocked pretty hard for the handful of people that were there to see us. Maybe we'll be invited to play there again.
So, I was going to do a more comprehensive review of the entire weekend, but I'm busy playing catch-up at work. And then I'll be getting ready to be off for a week. That's right . . . Mia's daycare is closed next week, so I'll be Mr. Mom. I don't know how this'll affect the Lunchbreak.
Maybe it'll be Kamikaze Weekbreak.
I'd better stock up on the vodka.
Wednesday, July 23, 2003
Who Stole My Fuckin’ Knickerbockers?
I’m trying to tie up some loose ends here at work before I head out of town for our big sh-- . . . our 30 minutes of what passes for fame. So, if you happen to find yourself in the less-than-savory part of Atlanta that surrounds this club at around 10:30 tomorrow night, stop in and be dazz-- . . . half-awake.
Given that I’m a bit busy, you get one of these fragmented posts you’ve come to know and love.
Several years ago, when Latrell Spreewell choked coach P.J. while he was at Golden State, I thought, “Man, what a fuckin’ thug this guy is.” But then he was traded to the Knicks, and my early uneasiness was replaced by the thought that he was just misunderstood. And then I came to really like him and the rest of that misfit, underachieving basketball team.
So now I’m reading that the Knicks are gonna trade him. I realize that he’s the only player with any value to other teams, but the guy’s the heart and soul of the Knicks. I mean, for fuck’s sake, the people of New York are going to wake up in a week and realize they’re buying tickets to see the Clippers!
Has Spike Lee signed off on this deal? What the fuck?
They fired someone in our office yesterday. Unlike my friend, who was “laid off” last November, this guy didn’t get any notice or severance. Uh-oh.
We had a birthday lunch for someone today. In the large conference room, where yours truly likes to make socially inappropriate comments. Today, it was a bunch of the “admin” people . . . with the Regional V.P. Observe:
(When discussing the benefits of having siestas at work, as they do in Spain): “Yeah, we could have them right after one of our staff meetings.”
(When discussing birthday plans at The Melting Pot): “That’s where Michelle and I go to dinner when I get my bonus.”
(When discussing a pair of G-Lo jeans from Beall’s, a gag gift for the birthday girl . . . in my best intercom/commercial voice): “Cut . . . for your ghetto booty.”
I’m so getting fired now. And then I’m going to Hell.
I got a my “Dirty Feet” mix CD in the mail a couple days ago from Jules. Looks like a pretty good mix. I haven’t finished my assessment of it. (Michelle came in as The Doors were on and asked, “What are you listening to?” I think she would’ve been more pleased if she had come in one song earlier and heard “Son of a Preacher Man.”)
My July mix has been slow in coming together, as I was waiting to get back one of my CDs. I mean, I could’ve been naughty and downloaded the song, but I figured I’d be respectful of the band whose promo CD I bought used. Ehem.
Anyway, I think I have the kinks worked out, so I’ll be gothin’ it up this weekend burning a handful of these muthas. They’re not going to be very popular with anyone who never had an affinity for lots of black clothing, hard/dark music, and/or strong vodka-based drinks (i.e., vodka with a splash of fruit juice). I’ll e-mail a few of you to offer options for mix CD exchanges. For anyone else who really wants one, there’s always the infamous quiz . . . coming next week.
Tuesday, July 22, 2003
None More Black
The Queen's post reminded me of the Tori Amos song "Tear in Your Hand," specifically the part where (I mistakenly thought) she sang, "the black of the Blackest Russian." Y'know, even more black than a Black Russian?
I'm retarded. At the time, it seemed perfectly logical to me. To bad that "time" lasted for at least a couple years.
Monday, July 21, 2003
I find it a little unsettling that you can start a 'blog to tell everyone about your quirky life, your snarky witticisms, and stories from your past. And then something truly awful happens in your life. I've seen some of that on other people's sites, and now it's happening on Julia's. Send some positive thoughts her way.
I know you guys didn't think I was talking about myself up there. I mean, my life is pretty boring, I have nothing really snarky or interesting to say, and the stories of my past are slightly less boring than I am now. I mean, Christ, was the highlight of my weekend drinking key lime pie martinis at Waterworks, watching Stealing the Superfortress on the History Channel, or playing disc golf by myself? Actually, it was probably spending way too much money with Michelle and Mia at Target when I was still a little hungover . . . which I almost mistyped as "hungever."
Let's define "hungever," shall we? Is it a state of hangover-edness that just won't go away, or being really well hung?
Saturday, July 19, 2003
Live and in Your Town, Atlanta
I don't usually whore for my band here, but we're gonna be playing in Atlanta for the first time on Thursday, July 24. The show is at The Earl. Doors open at 10. We play at 10:30.
So, if you live in Atlanta, it'd be cool if you came out to see us.
Friday, July 18, 2003
Hot or Not?
Wait a sec . . . I’m not askin’, I’m tellin’.
(This idea was borrowed/stolen from here, not here. Or here.)
-- Saxon Shore
-- these Girls, especially the redhead (no, the one on the far right)
-- that the Girls are making their debut at Floyd’s Music Store tonight
-- the temperature in this God-forsaken city
-- getting behind-the-scenes scoops via IM from this person
-- when Julia actually updates her blog more than once a week
-- that she’s back (her trip to Providence wasn’t so hot, though)
-- Thursday-night sushi (okay, sushi in general)
-- a baby daughter’s smile, even at 5:45 in the morning
-- my motherfucking sinuses
-- Anna Kournikova
-- the New York Knicks
-- people over 80 driving anything other than a golf cart
-- having no creative motivation (it was even a challenge to do these goddamn lists)
-- our nifty war in Iraq (I bet the soldiers think getting picked off one by one ain’t so hot either)
-- the fact that I’ve lost two of my past three cribbage outings . . . after my much-vaunted six-game winning streak
-- anything or anyone on Entertainment Tonight (actually, that whole fucking show sucks)
-- paying $35 a week for dinner every Thursday night
-- being poor and in debt (or, rather, poor because you’re in so much debt)
Wednesday, July 16, 2003
Confessions of a Gaybo
Arm-chair psychologists would have a field day analyzing my relationship with my father, trying to make a connection between our lack of a connection and my “gaybo” reputation. I’d love to say everything isn’t so black and white, so cut and dried. But the evidence is so tantalizing, right? I mean, even I’ve struggled with it—trying as hard as I can to not to be like him . . . and he’s a rugged, manly, meat-and-potatoes guy.
See, it probably started when my father wanted a daughter. He grew up with four brothers, and he wanted a little girl. When my mom went into labor, they had a list of girl names picked out (Yvonne was at the top of the list), but no boy names. The story goes that as mom was in the hospital, she heard the song “Watching Scotty Grow” on the radio and thought that Scott would make a great boy's name. When I was born and I wasn’t a girl, my father actually accused my mother of willing me into boyhood. The year was 1971.
The early years were fairly happy, I suppose. We moved from Connecticut to Florida just before I turned three. And then my memories begin. And then things got a little more sordid.
Memory paints my father as somewhat feeble in his nurturing, head-of-family role. Drop in some details from my mother, and he looks downright slimy. Reportedly, he cheated on her with multiple women. Sometimes, I’d even go places with him and his girlfriend(s): to the beach, weekend vacations out of town. I remember flashes of these situations—puzzle pieces that really come together when you factor in my memories of playing in the waiting room while my parents went to marriage counseling.
As I got a little older, my father tried to get involved in my interests (or, more accurately, get me involved in his interests). He coached my cub-league baseball team for three seasons. He worked with me on my football skills. He got me interested in playing guitar, and he started taking me to lessons. He gave me guns and taught me how to shoot them (in competitions, too). He took me hunting. He bought me an expensive racing bike, took me to my races, and encouraged me to train. He took me rodeos and truck pulls.
But we never really connected. We weren’t “buds.” In my teens, I started rebelling in my snotty, passive-aggressive way. I was finally seeing him as being an abusive drunk after years of, well, drinking too much and hitting my mother. Around this time, I began seeing my father as someone I didn’t want to be. This is probably why I never started smoking, and why I swore off beer (that lasted until I turned 21), and why I hardly learned to fix a goddamn thing myself.
And then things started getting openly hostile between us. Like the time I was getting ready for my junior prom and my date supported my desire to stick all my hair up and my dad blew up at me and my mom (for allowing me to do what I wanted) and he stomped into their bedroom and refused to come out. Or the time I told him I was going to get my ear pierced and he told me, “I’ll cut your fucking ear off!”
And then there’s our Gulf of Tonkin, our Fort Sumter, our assassination of Duke Ferdinand, our Pearl Harbor: my nineteenth birthday.
After whatever festivities occurred that day, I was in my room (yeah, I still lived at home early in my community-college days). I heard some not-too-unusual yelling in the kitchen. After a few minutes, I came out to investigate. I found my mom sobbing in the kitchen.
“Do you know what your father just told me?”
I quietly shook my head.
“He doesn’t want to be married to me anymore.”
My father was sitting in bed drinking a martini in his underwear. I stood in the doorway. I don’t think either of us said anything.
So, I resigned myself to the inevitable divorce. I chose to live with my mother because “she need[ed] me more.” He said, basically, that he’d never marry anyone like my mother again. But he did.
Flash forward a decade or so, and my father is a very sad man. He’s living a life not at all of his choosing. I can see it when I go visit him. We’ll be working and he’ll just stop and stare into space, slowly smoking his cigarette. I know he’s wondering how he got there.
My goal is to not have to wonder that. Ever.
Tuesday, July 15, 2003
Rather than try and defend my manhood, I’ll let you know that I’m having one of those days. Y’know, the ones where your band was doing some live recording at a closed club the night before and you were up way too late (crawling into bed sometime around 12:45 a.m.) and you have trouble getting to sleep because you’re convinced one of your needy cats is gonna jump on your chest and start meowing incessantly and after falling asleep you’re awakened seemingly minutes later by your baby daughter playing in her crib and upon looking at the clock it’s 5:35 a.m. and you have to get up because it’s your job to get up first and you have to make a bottle for your daughter’s breakfast and once you finally get to work you have to start right on that report with no “settling in” blogging or e-mailing because that report is going to the U.S. EPA and it was supposed to go out yesterday and how you wish there was a Starbucks across the street even though you don’t support chain coffee stores you’re not gonna drink the coffee-service coffee no matter how goddamn out of energy you feel but you know that lunch will come soon and you'll eat your Lean Pocket and your Cajun-flavored Pringles and your plastic-bagged Frosted Flakes and drink your Sprite and you will lose at Go but win at Cribbage and all will be okay, somehow?
Yeah? Well, I lost at Cribbage, so my day isn’t like yours at all.
Fucking six-game winning streak right down the shitter.
Monday, July 14, 2003
Things You Should Know
I had a good weekend . . . maybe not as good as The Queen, but good nonetheless. Here’s the rest:
-- I have a six-game winning streak going in cribbage at Yahoo! games. (Wanna make it seven, motherfucker?)
-- According to Michelle, I flirt with lesbians.
-- Speaking of Michelle, we went on a walk with Mia around our “neighborhood” yesterday. I thought the houses around ours were more slum-y, so I was pleasantly surprised to find them merely old and unattractive.
-- I’m looking forward to this fall so much. In fact, I’m already thinking about which weekends I want to have cookouts/parties on game days. (It looks like we’re gonna be out of town for the FSU/Miami game . . . in Atlanta so Michelle can see R.E.M. Dammit.)
-- I was sad that Charlotte and Harry broke up on Sex and the City. I heard there are gonna a couple weddings to end the series. And David Duchovny is going to be in a handful of episodes. I think Miranda and Steve are going to get married. But not Carrie and Berger, and not Charlotte (and anyone). Any thoughts?
Friday, July 11, 2003
I'm Such a Good Little Blogger, I'm Gonna Link the Entire Goddamn Planet!
Instead of scrounging for work this morning, I decided to surf ye ol' Internet. And rather than just reading a handful of blogroll sites that always make me feel slightly inadequate about my own blog-worth (or blog-value), I stumbled onto several new (to me) sites that made me feel slightly inadequate. So, in review, slightly inadequate + slightly inadequate = more inadequate.
Here--in the patented, easy-to-read, bulleted format--is a summary of my morning:
-- Went to Amy's site to see if she had responded to my comment about the missing cameras for teams Taco and Burrito (ya just had to be there, okay?). She is/was giving away cookies to people who commented on this guy's site. I enjoyed it, so I'll likely add him over on the left.
-- While I was commenting, I read Melly's comment that made reference to salad tossing. Of course, I had to go there. It turns out her site is infinitely more readable than the drivel you find here. She's got a kid, too. He's cute. So, references to salad tossing, use of the word "cunt," and baby pictures. Why are you still here?
-- I proofed some figures, did some letter production, took a call from my mother-in-law about how Mia's doing (she has a cold . . . thanks for asking), lost the college radio station I had just tuned in yesterday after a two-month absence, and took a call from my mother who's having her carpet replaced today.
-- Went over to Queen Styro's place. She had a link to Whitey. Funny stuff . . . and strangely like me. Except better and funnier. And younger. Man, fuck him.
-- Went over to SJ's place to see how her fundraising is coming. SJ's going to take part in a 24-hour Blogathon later this month, and she's raising money for Bookaid. She's taking topic ideas for the Blogathon, during which she will have to update her site once every 30 minutes (at least) for 24 hours. Y'gotta respect that, right? Also, you can't beat the penis-o-meter.
-- I've been thinking a lot about Michelle. This has been a strange week for us . . . really busy and full of distractions. And now we're both getting colds from Mia, who's had a cold all goddamn week. Michelle mentioned a couple nights ago that she was thinking of starting her blog back up (if she could get her template set the way she wanted). So, leave a comment to motivate her!
That's all I have now. I have to pee. And play some Yahoo! games.
Yeah, I didn't link to the whole goddamn planet. What're you gonna do?
Thursday, July 10, 2003
The Stew of Thursday
Hey, let’s get political for a sec. (Yeah, I had to visit Jared’s site to remember how to do that.) I’ve been passively keeping up with the Dems in their heated, dramatic battle for campaign dollars. Yeah, thrilling. Anyway, Newsweek had a piece recently about Howard Dean’s skillful use of the Internet for fundraising and how he’s widely being viewed as a frontrunner, given that he’s outpacing the other Dems in money.
So, the article went on to say that the other candidates are laying off coming out and attacking him for various strategic reasons. It reminded me of how the political games are played building up to primaries and elections. And, being that it’s a game, perhaps one day they’ll lay odds on it in Vegas and you’ll be able to actually bet money on who’s going to win various primaries.
Yeah, the buildup to that wasn’t nearly worth the payoff. Shit, maybe they already do that kind of thing . . . those gamblers will bet on anything, right?
Still, I feel a little removed from the action. A friend of mine is actually involved with the Young Democrats here in town. I passed up a $35 Dean fundraiser to eat sushi (about $35, with Michelle). Priorities?
I like how Rummy was referring to the WMD as “weapons of mass [stumble] murder” in his speech yesterday. Stellar, there, fellas.
Show of hands for those of you who figured that, when all was said and done, we’d be justifying the attack on Iraq to improve the lives of its citizens? Because that’s what it’s amounting to. And now, by those standards, there are dozens of countries we should be attacking, right?
I mean, damn, we’ll be attacking ourselves soon.
Someone’s car alarm keeps going off in the parking lot of the TGI Friday’s right next to our building. It’s making me want to KILL. THAT. DUMB. ASS. WITH. EACH. GOD. DAMN. HONK.
Well, I didn’t want my radio there, but I moved it back to where it was previously so that I could get my college radio station back. It’s coming in about 90 to 95% static-free. I was going to go insane if I had to listen to one more Avril song, or Faith Hill song, or Counting Crows covering Janis Joplin, or that godawful Kid Rock/Sheryl Crow collaboration. I was going to fucking die, right here at my desk, after ripping out my own heart, if I had to listen to any more of that.
There’s another CD in the works, kiddies. This one’s gonna be a dance/club mix . . . goth, industrial, darkwave, and new wave. Yeah, not for everyone. Most of the songs are the same ones I used to drunkenly stomp around to in dank, smoky clubs a decade or so ago. Now, I’m going to offer them to a handful of people, and then I’ll have a quiz to distribute a couple/few more. (If you take and do well on the quiz, then you’d probably enjoy the CD.)
Wednesday, July 09, 2003
Oh, How We Fight
One of the more interesting things I saw over the weekend (besides my life flashing before my eyes as I was bobbing helplessly down the Ocoee River), was the car fight.
You see lots of great things while driving. But how often do you see two people fighting in a car . . . in the middle of the road?
At first, I was only partly paying attention. About half a mile ahead of us, there was a red Chevy (a Beretta or Cavalier) stopped in the left lane of the other side of the highway. I guess I thought they were making a left turn; however, there was nowhere to turn, and there was no median separating their lane from ours.
So, as I’m speeding towards them at 10 to 15 mph over the speed limit, I see a person get out of the driver’s side and run around to the passenger's side. Still, I’m not thinking much about it. Then we got even closer, and I noticed there was a commotion inside the car. The “driver” and “passenger” were wildly swinging at each other. And the car was moving. At this point, I was very close to the car, which was starting and weaving and stopping and starting again. I never did make out exactly what was going on in the car; I was kind-of focused on driving by the time we got right next to them.
As we passed (safely) by them and continued on, I thought about calling the police. I looked in the rearview mirror repeatedly for the next minute or so (before we went over a hill) to see if anything was resolved, or if anyone else stopped.
I checked the paper to see if there was a story that may be related to it, but nope. Should I have done something other than drive by? I ask you, Internet.
Tuesday, July 08, 2003
I've re-addicted myself to Yahoo! games. To date, I've logged 98 games of cribbage (I think I'm 52-47); that's my "pick-me-up" game after enduring the frustration of my most recent exploit: Go.
You've probably seen Go in your favorite Aronofsky movie (maybe not Requiem for a Dream, though). You can read about it here. It seemed like something I'd be really good at, and it turns out I suck. Hard.
Anyway, that's what I've been doing during my lunchbreaks for the past few days at the office. And it's not like I don't have anything to say, either. There are posts waiting to be written . . . CDs waiting to be burned . . . photos waiting to be posted.
Yeah. I'll get right on that.
Monday, July 07, 2003
Who Knew That National Celebration Could Equal Such Trauma?
How come those long, holiday weekends either never seem long enough, or they’re too goddamn long? Well, because there’s a thin line between a great weekend and a shitty one, that’s why.
And I rode that line this weekend.
So, I will learn from my mistakes (past and present) and the mistakes of my friends. Here are some tips to help you (gentle Internet readers) enjoy your future weekends a little bit more:
-- Those GPS guidance systems in rental cars don’t always point out the quickest, most-direct route. In fact, they may send you 45 minutes to an hour out of your way.
-- Just accept that things are not going to go as planned. It’s really sad when a little miscommunication, combined with the strange occurrence of bad timing, can result in lots of screaming and friends almost coming to blows.
-- Let’s say you’re going whitewater rafting. The river is running almost twice the normal volume (high and fast). Now, during the instructions, you’re hearing, “In the event you should fall out of the raft, blah-blah-blah-blah,” because, y’know, you’ll never fall out of the raft. Well, if you really believe that, you will fall out of the raft and not realize where you are until you’re 20 feet from your raft, and you’ll ride the next few rapids with no boat, no paddle, gasping for air, and thinking you’re gonna die.
-- Even if you eventually win The 80s Game, you’re still going to feel like an ass when someone asks you, “Which Star Wars movie contains the following line: ‘Luke, I am your father?’” And you say, “Return of the Jedi, which did not come out in 1981.” In fact, if that happens, you will probably never live it down, not even if you correctly answer a later question by knowing that the Ewoks live on the Moon of Endor.
-- Your baby daughter doesn’t know it’s the weekend, and your enjoyment of said weekend is not her primary concern.
So, anyway, the weekend wasn’t totally lame. I just don’t feel like writing about it much. Actually, as I had to take Mia to the doctor this morning and the work’s piling up, I don’t really have time right now.
Wednesday, July 02, 2003
Friends (How Many of Us Have Them?)
Anyone remember doin' freaky breakdance moves to that song? Anyone?
Last night, they re-ran the best-ever episode of Friends. It was the one with this exchange:
Chandler: "I'm very happy we're going to have all the sex."
Phoebe: "You should be. I'm very bendy."
Hands down . . . best dialogue of the entire series.
Tuesday, July 01, 2003
The Much-Needed Downtime
For someone who decided to stop writing about nothing, I've been doing a lot of writing lately. About nothing.
Well, I'm positively giddy. Maybe "giddy" isn't accurate (but is gay), so I'll just say I'm very pleased. Why? In the tradition of the 'Poo, I'll make a list:
-- Our daughter (that'd be mine and Michelle's . . . not mine and yours) is finally over her ear infection. Amoxicillin didn't really touch it, but Augmentin kicked the shit out of it. Her ears are "perfect," the doctor told Michelle.
-- That report I've been working on sporadically over the past 24 hours is gone. The details of how it's being delivered in Tampa are pretty funny, but I don't think you'd get much out of it, so I won't bother to explain.
-- It's the first of July, which means we're less than two months from the start of football season (yeah, college football, Einstein). I have my $5.99 college football preview from The Sporting News. Starting to think about a pool. (I wish I could be excited about FSU's chances of improving.)
Maybe that's all I have to happy about right now.
Still trying to figure out how I want to do the pictures. I'll get back to you on that. (Or, is that "get back to me?" Maybe I was talkin' to myself. Didja ever think of that, fucker?)