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Friday, October 31, 2003
One Time, I Dressed Up as a Lion
Yeah, welcome to the Halloween edition of Kamikaze Lunchbreak. I'm just killin' time until I can go get my drunk on before the Girls' big show. And then it's off to bed, 'cuz I gotta get up early for my disc-golf tournament.

Perhaps I revealed too much. Er . . .

Mia's been sick and out of daycare for the past couple days, so when I haven't been taking care of her, I've been working. Or sleeping. Certainly not entertaining you (not that I do much of that anyway). I'll try and catch up on it next week. And finish my CDs. Really, you people are high on my list. Just like I am . . . on your lists . . . with my bad haircut and Land Rover.

I suck. Have a great weekend.

Thursday, October 30, 2003
Time to Fess Up
In the interest of full disclosure and holding up my end of the honesty bargain, The Internet, I feel there are a few things I need to tell you. This won’t be easy. But here it goes:

-- In defiance of the Gods of Hallow’s Eve, I will try and be away from the house tomorrow night so that I don’t have to hand out candy to the non-dressed up ghetto kids who come to our door. Also, I likely won’t dress up when I go out to the Girls’ show, which they will be dressed up for.

-- When I was in elementary school, digging on the clay mound at the Learn-n-Play after-school care, I knew right away that I had stabbed myself in the eye with the stick and that it had not been (as I told the Learn-n-Play administrator, my mom, and the doctor) my friend who was digging next to me.

-- I’ve never surfed. I say this, The Internet, because, in high school, I was often challenged while dressed in surfer-wear. I name-dropped specific beaches where I’d been surfing when, in reality, I once tried to stand up on a surfboard in the chop at Cape San Blas . . . which, until my teen years, I called “Cape Sand Blast.”

-- I use a mouse pad with my optical mouse. To make matters worse, I sit too close to my monitor . . . much closer than the recommended arm’s length.

-- We have (and drive) one of these. I know, I know . . . I lose lots of liberal cred for this indiscretion. I should be wearing red ties and reading Ann Coulter books. Really, The Internet, I’m sorry. We’re sorry.

Wednesday, October 29, 2003
Dark and Mysterious
So I mentioned last week that there was going to be a Halloween-themed dinner party at our house over the weekend, and there was. I didn’t want to post about it until I had some pictures; likewise, I didn’t want to promise pictures unless I was going to get pictures. Well, I got the pictures, and they wouldn’t interest you that much, really. Sorry. No cats, no inflatable dates, no nudity, no people lying in their own puke. Just people posing for the camera.

The party was a success, though. Michelle’s invitations said to dress “dark and mysterious,” so we did . . . except for Mr. ADD, who wore jeans and a Culligan t-shirt. I thought I looked spiffy, although the picture doesn’t do me justice.

We had four bottles of wine on hand as alcoholic appetizers for our witches’ brew (a cauldron and huge punch bowl, both filled with a vodka / rum / pineapple juice / orange juice / Sprite concoction). And then everyone else brought wine.

For dinner, we started with salad, and followed that with pumpkin soup. And then was the main course: citrus red snapper with baked sweet potato chunks. The sweet potatoes were al dente. For dessert, Michelle made a chocolate pudding / mousse graveyard which was covered with crumbled Oreos and had Pepperidge Farm Milano cookies as tombstones. (There was a picture for this one, but it didn’t really do it justice.)

After drinking, teasing, eating, drinking, gossiping, stepping out to watch the fifth overtime of the Tennessee-Alabama game, and drinking some more, we adjourned to the living room to watch this movie, which, I must say, is one of the worst movies I have ever seen. Really, it’s not bad in a good way, either. We commented several times on how horrible it was, and that it’s sad that someone, somewhere, is proud of it. I mean the girl who was the star probably puts this high on her resume.

I don’t think we had enough alcohol on hand to sustain the party after that. Things fell apart as we tried to make the transition from the movie to SNL’s Best of Tracy Morgan.

So, if you’re breezing through Tallahassee, we have a cauldron full of fruity liquor in our freezer. And it’s frozen. So, stop by and we’ll chip you off a large piece.

Tuesday, October 28, 2003
How to Shake the Blues
If you find yourself feeling low, put-upon, downtrodden . . . try these simple steps:

1. Find a good-sized glass, like those strange goblets you found at Goodwill a few months ago.

2. Get out the graduated measuring glass.

3. Get vodka out of the freezer.

4. Pour 2 ounces of vodka into the measuring glass. Follow with 2 ounces of triple sec and 2 ounces of Rose's Lime.

5. Put a few ice cubes in the goblet.

6. Pour the double kamikaze into the goblet with ice. Then pour the mixture back into the measuring glass. And then back into the goblet.

7. Go play some chess online. Try to win this time, dumbass.


Thanks, everyone, for the spirit-lifting comments. You're the greatest . . . right up there with Miss Mia and Michelle. Okay, maybe not right up there, but you're just below them, anyway.

It's raining outside, which usually makes me happy. But I'm very put-upon here at work, and my brain hurts. I've been feeling somewhat drained for the past few days. I don't think the weather has ever affected me this much, so I think it's something else.

Anyway, that's all for now. I'll be home tonight, so perhaps I'll check in later.

Monday, October 27, 2003
Please Buy Our Trash, Please!
I’m one of those people . . . the ones you hate. I’m one of the people that you don’t really want to be, but you feel bad for not being. That’s right, I’m a “morning person.”

I don’t advertise it, really. I’m not particularly proud of the fact. I just function better between the hours of 6 and 8 a.m. Without coffee, even.

Sometimes, it’s an inconvenience. Like at my job, where I’m doing a lot of reading. I structure my workload so that I do my heavy-duty reading in the mornings. All my mindless word-processing / formatting tables / print production work gets scheduled for the afternoons.

Anyway, this skill (mutant ability? superpower?) came in handy this weekend for the garage sale. We got together with Michelle’s parents, her brother’s family, and one of the in-laws’ neighbors for a multi-family sale. At the in-laws’ house. For some odd reason, I woke up at 5:20 a.m. (alarm was set for 6:10) and immediately started thinking of things I had to do, so I got up.

I made nifty signs for our larger items, most of which sold: elliptical/ski exerciser ($18), computer (monitor, CPU, speakers, keyboard, and mouse . . . $32), rocking chair ($8), and Sega Genesis / Super NES (two systems, with some games and extra controllers . . . $23). I kind-of feel like I let myself get talked down. Which is fine because we made about $100 selling crap that was just taking up space in our house.

The highs and lows:

-- Driving past Starbucks around 6 a.m. and seeing that it’s dark (i.e., not open). I continued on to the Circle K to get some machine powder coffee-like thing (Cinnamon Cappuccino) with a third of the caffeine. (Somewhat low)

-- I had the computer priced a la carte (in case someone just wanted the pieces) and as a package ($48, with printer). I didn’t figure anyone would really want the CPU by itself, so I priced it at $5. Some guy actually bought that first. Then he came back 30 minutes later and wanted the rest. He talked me down quite a bit. He mentioned something about how they were donations for some youth program. (Luckily, I don’t keep porn on my computers . . . not that one, anyway.) So, I sold the computer for a little more than I wanted for just the monitor. And he paid with two rolls of quarters and seven dollars (after paying $5 for the CPU earlier). (Pretty low)

-- Having two people who wanted to buy our rocking chair at the same time. The first one was this guy who asked me how much I’d take for it (priced at $12). I said $10. He started to balk, until this woman showed an interest. She really wanted it, but he was “first.” He talked me down to $9, then $8. The woman said she’d pay me $12 for it. But, for some unknown reason, I sold it to the guy because he was “first.” That won’t happen next time. (Definitely low)

-- The guy who bought the rocking chair apologized for aggressively haggling while the nice woman with the slightly British accent wanted to buy it for what I was asking. “I wasn’t tryin’ to Jew ya or nothin'.” (Lowest)

-- After pocketing my share of the loot, I only had to load up a printer, pasta maker, and some clothes of Michelle’s and Mia’s that were late additions. (High)

And y’know what? We’re doing it again next month at another house.

Making extra cash for selling junk is cool. Next time, I’m gonna haggle less. Because the score was: Bargain Shoppers 12, Scott 3.

Next time, I’m gonna win.

Friday, October 24, 2003
Drive By
If, while driving, I make a gun with my hand, point and you, and make the “PSSSSHHH” sound with my mouth, it means you’re driving like an ass-clown. Really, stop it.

Even if you don’t see or hear it, I’m gunning for you.


I think I’ve mentioned this before, but I don’t remember my dreams much. However, yesterday, I woke up with fragments of several disparate dreams . . . or parts of the same dream.

Let’s see, there was a parking lot adventure, where four of us (I don’t remember who, exactly) were in a car and we were trying to convince the driver that she was too drunk to drive. (This is after she took the car, which was not an off-road vehicle, out of the parking lot and into the woods.) After much debate, she finally relented. And then a waitress from the bar brought out drinks for us.

There was another part where a group of friends were, for some reason, discussing Michael Jackson. “What a fucking freak!” someone said. And I replied, “Yeah, you know he’s gay and he’s gonna get married again just to prove he’s not. Like that guy who married Liza Minnelli.”

And that’s when I noticed that Lisa Marie Presley was in the room. I told her I was sorry.


Since Father’s Day (look at your calendar . . . a long, long time ago), I’ve had this $50 gift card to AMC movie theater, given to me by my mother. Michelle and I don’t have (read: make) a lot of time on weekends to see movies, but I want that to change when this movie comes to town. I don’t need to tell you why (do I?).

Oh, I want to see Kill Bill, too.


That poem from yesterday, if you must know, has very little basis in reality . . . my reality, anyway. I wrote down some images after a drive up to Atlanta. Around the same time, that first line came into my head . . . from where, I do not know. The poem really wrote itself after that.

I'm going to stop promising things here, but I can promise that more poems will be posted.


Halloween is almost as important to Michelle as Christmas. Tomorrow night, we’re hosting a Halloween dinner for her bandmates, for which Michelle created individual invitations and has put together quite an ambitious menu. Neither one of us is really proficient in the kitchen, so it’ll likely be an interesting dinner.

After dinner, we’re watching the requisite scary movies. One of them will most likely be 28 Days. Another suggestion was The Others. And, of course, there will be a silly zombie movie . . . y’know, like the cherry on top.

Have a safe weekend, everyone. Yeah, even you. Especially you.

Thursday, October 23, 2003
Cruise Control

I think you want me to hit you again,
but I can’t be sure.

The dusk-swallowed Georgia backwater is splayed out before us
like hesitation, like reluctance.

You’re staring out the window as we pass
Blackshear Lake—darkened, silent—

perhaps reflecting on a hand’s velocity
or the last rays of the sun

(gone for good),
your face in my lap,

the lights across the lake reflecting off the glassy black,
pointing at us,

engine humming—hungry for the fuel
that makes things go, come—

our bodies crashing together
in the back-seat, side-of-the-road,

middle-of-nowhere drive we find ourselves—
reaching a speed we can’t possibly maintain.

Wednesday, October 22, 2003
Ode to a Glory Hole
Anyone who read the comments to yesterday’s post will know that I solved the riddle of the “anonymous” poster. I don’t get many of those (I’m too boring for suddenly ambitious lurkers), so I was excited and insulted at the same time. As we’ve noted time and time again, sarcasm is sometimes hard to convey in ‘blog writing, and/or it’s all too easy to mistake something innocent as sarcastic.

Such is the case with the comment from my friend, Mr. Glory Hole.

For those of you who are curious, Mr. Glory Hole is an attorney who works with Michelle. He’s Jewish and, next month, he’s marrying a nice Catholic girl (the Shiksa). In Cocoa Beach. The Kamikaze’s are going to be there. The goal is to once again catch a glimpse of some of that "wedded bliss" . . . and then drink ourselves into a coma.

And, also for those of you who are curious, I’m sure someone knowledgeable can provide a definition of a “glory hole.” C’mon, someone . . . step up to the plate. It's right up there with bukkake, jelly doughnuts, and angry dragons.


Speaking of stepping up to the plate, thanks to everyone who joined together to prop up my failing self-esteem.

Tuesday, October 21, 2003
Don't You Want Me?
I'm not really encouraged by the lack of commentary on my after-the-fact Atlanta itinerary, so I'm blowin' you fools off today.

Okay, not really. I've been busy working on a 1,684-page PDF of a crop study for a prominent agricultural company. And when I wasn't doing that, I was taking a long lunch to go grocery shopping, and to try and spend $75 in gift cards from Border's. (There were too many choices, and I was having commitment issues, so I settled on dropping $25 on the new Death Cab for Cutie CD, plus a couple magazines.)

I may be back tomorrow . . . if I think you're gonna make it worth my while.

Just kidding. No, really.


Monday, October 20, 2003
Road Trippin' (And Knowing the Difference Between Yards and Inches)
In the interest of minimizing reader irritation, or at least reducing any potential shred of disappointment, I should stop promising things. Like pictures. But I did take good notes over the weekend, so I have this:

Kamikazes in Atlanta

6:15 p.m.: Finally leave the house. Michelle had actually been off work for a while. I didn’t leave until late, and then I had to gas up the car and run by the credit union. On the way out of town, we stop for the traditional road-trip kick-off meal at the Chick-Fil-A drive-thru.

7:30 p.m.: (near Pelham, Georgia) Michelle gets in back seat with Miss Mia, who’d been crying intermittently and was fighting sleep.

8:45 p.m.: Miss Mia is finally asleep. We remark that she’s the prettiest baby ever (which she is, fucktard).

9:35 p.m.: Yours truly, eyes heavy, turns the driving over to Michelle. (In his old age, the once-solid Scott is getting fairly useless on these road trips.)

10:03 p.m.: *silence* “Next year will be 10 years since college and 15 years since high school.” *Sympathetic nods, followed by more silence*

11:20 p.m.: Arrive at Michelle’s sister’s (Miss JAB’s) place. Unloaded car, assembled Pack-n-Play, said our “hellos,” put baby (back) to bed . . . not necessarily in that order.

11:45 p.m.: Bed

6:55 a.m.: Mia’s awake, for some inexplicable reason. You’d think a sleep-deprived baby would sleep longer.

9:15 a.m.: Thrift-shopping.

11:40 a.m. (driving to find lunch and listening to Kinski’s “Semaphore”): Scott: “Yeah, the ending speeds up and doesn’t quite fit, but this song still rocks my fuckin’ balls off.” Michelle: “That’s your daddy, Mia.”

11:50 a.m.: Mythos for lunch . . . Greek food worth the (very) long wait

2:00 p.m.: Michelle and Miss JAB left for Little Five Points while I stayed with Miss Mia, who would not go down for a nap. (We didn’t bring our stroller on the trip for some inexplicable reason.)

3:40 p.m.: Mr. ADD calls from Tallahassee. He lets me know the bad news . . . that the Legion of Doom has set up a fortress in the woods near his house. “But the Super Friends should be able to take care of it,” he says, reassuringly. I have to admit, I’m relieved.

4:10 p.m.: Michelle and Miss JAB come back to the apartment.

4:20 p.m.: The moment when Joe Theismann is on T.V. during halftime of the Notre Dame / USC game. When I realize that one of my most hated sports figures went to school at one of my most hated schools. When I wish Lawrence Taylor would appear, tackle Mr. Theismann, and break his leg . . . again.

4:30 p.m.: More family-themed thrift shopping.

6:58 p.m. (during a commercial break in the Florida / Arkansas game): Michelle: “Okay, he’s not singing that.” Miss JAB: “Whoever’s singing it needs to stop.” Scott: “It’s the Steve Miller Band. Get with the program.” Miss JAB: “Not if that’s the program.”

7:45 p.m.: Miss JAB tags along to Johnny’s Pizza to watch the FSU / Virginia game on ESPN. (Miss JAB doesn’t have cable.) The Greek food was weighing heavy on us, as she couldn’t eat anything and I could only eat half of a 12-inch pizza (green peppers and feta). But we did split a pitcher of Amberbock, and chased that with another pint each.

10:24 p.m. (during the FSU / Virginia game) On T.V., a Virginia fan holds up a sign that reads: “Silly Seminoles, Rix is for kids.” Funny, funny stuff.

We ended up leaving before the end of the game. Miss JAB could get Fox, so we watched the end of Game One of the World Series.

7:35 a.m.: It Came From the Crib

9:45 a.m.: Golden Corral for some food-trough breakfast

10:25 a.m.: Wal-Mart for some last-minute grocery items and food for Miss JAB’s cat, Maddie.

12:20 p.m.: Leave Atlanta. Because Michelle starts out driving, we’re sure to make better time; she tries to maintain 85 mph whenever possible, while I usually try to stay around 8 to 10 mph over the limit (i.e., much slower).

3:30 p.m.: We stop for so I can get some Krystal’s. (I will regret this in approximately 12 hours. Seriously.)

5:00 p.m.: Home at last.

That’s the trip in broad strokes. I left out some of the minutia, like listening to the new Death Cab CD, trying to write some poetry, trying to get Mia to walk around the apartment, how Mia tried to sneak out a “thank you” to her aunt after breakfast yesterday, how cool it is that Michelle bought several yards of fabric and was charged for several inches (the total was $0.48 for almost 10 yards of fabric), or the fact that I saw more evidence of multiculturalism in Atlanta this weekend than I have in all my time in New York City.

Friday, October 17, 2003
Well, the Yankees have freed me from caring about baseball for the calendar year 2003. Really, it was a great game last night. Fun while it lasted.


I like the latest trend of violent commentary/threats involving “shivs” I’m reading on everyone’s sites. That’s such a great word. Shiv. Seriously, I can’t get enough of the shiv-talk.

On a side note, I knew someone in high school named Shiv.


Okay, folks, here it is . . . the formula (let’s call it the Kamikaze Theorem) that will calculate/predict how many comments you will receive on a given post:

C = [T x (2Q + F/2 + L/10)] - Y


C = the number of comments you will receive

T = the relative trauma/interest level of the post (scale of 1 to 5, with 5 being fairly traumatic and/or interesting . . . or if you’re giving CDs away, and 1 being a post about your baseball career)

Q = the average quality of your posts in general (scale of 1 to 5, with 5 being Julia and 1 being, um . . .)

F = the number of sites you frequently comment on

L = the number of sites (links) on your blogroll

Y = the number of people you’ve made mad somehow (e.g., harassing them about the Yankees, failing to keep promises, threatening with geometry, using dangling participles)

Let me know if the Kamikaze Theorem applies to your site. We may need to revise it, or invoke the Crabby Hypothesis. Or the Law of Choppa. Or the Styro Postulate. Or the Fez Principle.


That’s about all I have. We’re going to Atlanta this weekend. Probably won’t see this guy on this trip. (If you got home from a trip to the big—or bigger—city, would I be the first person you’d want to see? Yeah, I didn’t think so. But thanks, honey.)

Maybe I’ll keep a handy-dandy travelogue for your amusement. And take pictures (which may or may not ever be posted).

Thursday, October 16, 2003
Give ‘em the Heater
What a great time of year. Summer seems to be gone . . . even here in Florida. The sky is blue, the breeze is kicking up, the leaves are changing color (and I think you know that color is brown, without a stop at red or orange or yellow).

‘Tis the season for cups of hot chocolate, hot coffee, or hot brevé-mochas. For dusting off that copy of The Cure’s Faith CD, or your favorite Sisters of Mercy. For getting out the “winter wardrobe” of sweaters, jackets, and long underwear. For turning on the heat. For calling up the oil company and scheduling a delivery. And calling the HVAC-repair company to come inspect and service the furnace.

Okay, so it’s not all great.

Using heating oil sucks. Really. It’s a nasty pain in the ass. And—as it’s delivered to our 295-gallon tank that is buried in the ground and sure to have leaks in the fuel lines—not environmentally friendly.

Yeah, we’d love to switch over to gas, but I think we’d have to replace at least three appliances for the city’s utility program, and I don’t think it’s worth it. Not now, anyway.

So, before we have too many more cool nights, I have to call. I’m not running the heat until they come out because I didn’t change the filter last year, and I’m lazy. I’d rather pay someone else to do it while they check our system to make sure we’re not going to die of carbon monoxide poisoning in our sleep.


In other news, I can’t get Adam Green’s “Bunny Ranch” song out of my head.

“Bind me, gag me, take me to the bunny ranch.
People dying, kill me in the packing house.”

Y’know, it almost brings a tear to your eye.


Wednesday, October 15, 2003
The History of Baseball (As it Applies to Mr. Lunchbreak)
You’re Getting Very Sleepy*

Unless you’re new here, you know I don’t really like baseball. I find it uniquely boring . . . not much higher on the activity scale than golf. But I didn’t always feel that way.

Things started with tee-ball (or Atom League, as they called it here). I can’t remember what our team was called, but my dad was the coach. He continued coaching the next two seasons of Junior League, where there was actual pitching.

I remember the early baseball-training years. Learning to hit a baseball hanging on a rope from a tree in our front yard, and the time I hit the girl next door in the face with a bat when she snuck up behind me. (I never saw her; it was the back swing.) And learning to catch and how that lesson of “watching the ball into your glove” would result in a bloody nose.

My first season of “pitch” baseball, I only made contact with the ball twice from the plate; I think both times resulted in short ground-outs. The second season, I was a much better hitter. I don’t remember my batting average, but I did hit at least one triple and a couple doubles.

For that last Junior-League season, I played third base. I thought I was pretty good, but my defining moment was when the ball came to me and the guy at third decided not to try and make it to home plate and he tried to get back to third base and I dove to tag him out and I got his cleats in my face and the ball rolled out of my glove and he was called safe. And I cried.

So, I didn’t have a future in baseball. The next league (Junior Majors) was where teams were sponsored by local businesses and the pitching was faster, kids older, etc. I was destined to be a spectator only.

Which works out fine down here . . . if you’re a Braves fan. TBS runs every one of their games, all season long. I know because, when I was growing up, my mother watched a lot of them. (This might have had something to do with me being a Phillies fan, come to think of it.)

I’ve been to see the Braves twice. The first time was in eighth grade. We took a group trip to Atlanta for educational purposes and took in a game while we were there. As it turns out, they were playing the Phillies. I wore my Phillies hard hat, and they won 8-2 . . . if memory serves. (The next time I went, I can’t remember much. It was with my mother, about eight or ten years ago. I just remember the guys sitting in front of us were playing mound ball.)

When I was in high school, I think I became turned off from baseball because of the redneck pricks at our school that played it. Or maybe it was because, when I watched sports, I liked the ones with full contact (like football) or the ones where there aren’t long periods of the competitors shifting their weight from foot to foot, scratching their balls, and intermittently spitting their chew. Baseball turned into something both grotesque and boring.

My friend JG was brought up a Red Sox fan, but he became a Yankees fan later in life. When I lived in Albany, I started following the Red Sox (a little) because one of their relievers had been our pitcher back in Junior League. (Of course, he was later traded away.) So, I spent a lot of time reading box scores to see how he was doing. And talking to JG about the pennant race. But I didn’t really watch much baseball.

And, yet, here I am, a few years later, frothing over the post-season. Granted, it’s because I like a good story. I mean, what better story is there than the potential match-up of the Cubs and Red Sox? Should the Red Sox lose tonight, we could have the Cubs vs. Yankees, which would be good, too.

Yankees vs. Marlins? Eh . . . what channel is basketball on?

* Alternate title idea shamelessly stolen borrowed from Estella.

** Note to Cubs fan(s) on the left-field foul line: If the ball is coming towards you, and the left fielder is coming to catch it, and it looks like it might be close to the railing where the guy might be able to make a play on the ball, let the guy catch the ball. I mean, really, he’d probably even throw it up to you when the play is over. Wouldn’t that be better than leaving the Marlins with men on base and only one out. We’re not talking hindsight here, either, people. We’re talking curses. We’re talking haven’t-been-to-the-World-Series-since-the-last-World-War. We’re talking if-the-Cubs-don’t-win-tonight-it’s-all-your-fault-how-are-you-gonna-live-with-that?

Tuesday, October 14, 2003
Who is more deserving of your sympathy?

a. Kobe Bryant

b. Rush Limbaugh

c. the guy who was driving next to us on I-75 when an airborne hunk of tire rubber slammed into his Lexus SUV

Monday, October 13, 2003
Losing is Not Fun
First of all, thanks to any of you who thought of me if/when you saw the final score of the FSU/Miami game. But if by thinking of me you chuckled to yourself about what a sad, pathetic bastard I am, you can suck my balls.

I won’t bore you with details of the game or my analysis of why things happened they way they did, but it suffices to say that my Saturday was most unfun. Actually, it was just that three-hour period that was less-than-amusing. But, like most traumas, beer helped things pass more smoothly.

The Interpol show the night before the game was great (as expected). I might have a picture and/or a summary of the show later.

In other news, I had to take my mom to the eye doctor at “lunch” (I was gone for almost three hours). That’s why this is so short and substance-less.

Friday, October 10, 2003
The Departed
The ol’ blogroll is in a continual state of flux, isn’t it? The latest round of changes includes some new addresses for older ‘blogs, a newly added ‘blog, a ‘blogger back from hiatus, and a few cuts. Sadly, the ‘Poo will be leaving us, too, but I haven’t dropped her from the blogroll . . . out of respect. Yo.


Yeah, so I’m really busy at work. I’ve been trying to tie up some loose ends so that I can leave early. Michelle and I are driving to Orlando to see Interpol. It’s likely that I’ll be posting this five minutes before I leave.


In the course of getting some projects out of the way, I took a report home to work on last night. There I was, reading about chlorinated-ethene plumes at a drycleaning site, and having a drink. Really, all work should be like this. If I can’t drink during company time*, then doing work at home necessitates drinking. Sound good?

And if you have to ask what I was drinking . . . I mean, really.


Speaking of drinking, tomorrow is the ultra-huge FSU vs. Miami game. ‘Round about 4 o’clock, I’m either gonna be buzzed and elated, or drunk and pissed off. If you’re not rooting for FSU, you’re the fucking Devil. Got that?

The fucking. Devil.

(* Actually, every now and then – like when we won the big contract from NASA – they’ll come around with beer. Or, sometimes, we’ll have a happy hour on Friday afternoons. There’s really something to be said for kicking back at your desk with a beer.)

Wednesday, October 08, 2003
I have a lazy eye. When I was a toddler, my parents had to do eye exercises with me to strengthen it. Of course, I don’t remember any of this. I grew up wholly unaware that I had this problem. But I’ve been strangely aware of it the past couple years, like when my vision doubles late in the day. Or when I first stumble into the master bath early in the morning and look at myself in the mirror . . . my right eye staring straight ahead and my left eye drifting off to the side. Doubling.

And now I’m even more aware of it, because I’ve passed the lazy eye on to Mia.

We’d noticed for a couple months that she didn’t always look straight with both eyes; her left eye was sometimes slow to respond. At her one-year appointment, we were referred to an ophthalmologist. (Actually, because we’re not in a HMO, we could’ve referred ourselves, but no-one told us that.) I took Mia to the ophthalmologist this morning.

I can’t really tell you what’s more terrifying: the thought of her having to possibly undergo surgery to correct the lazy eye (I never had to), or the pregnant trailer-vixen there with her child and her mother . . . wearing flip-flops and a t-shirt that read, “51% nice and 49% bitch . . . Don’t push it!”

Seriously, we’re going to try to avoid the surgery at all costs. I really don’t think we’d consider putting her (and ourselves) through it. So, we have to patch Mia's right eye for an hour a day, and then we’re going to have her re-evaluated in two months.

Keep your fingers (not your eyes) crossed.

Tuesday, October 07, 2003
Are You Receiving Me?
Dropping Mia off at daycare this morning, I saw a blind guy walking a dog through the neighborhood. He stopped at the corner and waited for me to turn left. And I almost waved.

Monday, October 06, 2003
Yeah, so I missed you all on Friday. Michelle and I were handing (our sick baby) Mia back and forth while we tried to put in a few hours at our respective jobs. Plus, Michelle was getting ready for a two-night stand with Girls on Film at a club on Panama City Beach. I stayed home and didn’t do a lot. But I discovered some Truth along the way:

-- Listening to a sick baby cry on and off for two and a half hours on a Friday night when you’re the only parent present will make you five shades of insane. You may even temporarily contemplate staying at your in-law’s.

-- You notice how when you see someone speeding and riding dangerously on a motorcycle, it’s usually not someone on a Harley, but rather some douchebag on a souped-up racing bike? And don’t get me started on people who ride fucking scooters. (Yeah, that was a joke for Queen Styro.)

-- Speaking of the Queen, she sent me a few CD-Rs (with recorded music), plus this book. For those of you keeping score, it’s Styro 2,309, rest of Blogworld, 6.

-- I think I watched more baseball this weekend than I had for the previous 32 years. Seriously, I was watching like I actually cared. I watched the Red Sox dance away from the brink twice, and watched the Cubs take another step toward destiny by beating the Braves. Now, if we could only flush the Yankees out of the post-season, all would be as it shouldn’t be . . . which would be good.

-- It was a bad weekend for other sports. The U.S. women’s soccer team lost to Germany last night, as did my mighty Steelers . . . the latter was the most embarrassing. Getting blown out by your arch-rivals? In your own house? (Yeah, not a word from you, either.)

-- I miss my dearly departed pillow (Michelle called it “the Contagion Pillow” because it was stained in all sorts of ways). I swear I’ve had that pillow since I was five. Anyway, I had to buy a replacement this weekend and, apparently, you can’t buy a pillow that firm anymore. (Michelle says the contagion made my pillow more supportive.)

I want to say thanks to SJ for the ear-infection-remedy tips, even if I didn’t take them. And I don’t think you’re a hippie at all. Not with that hair.


Thursday, October 02, 2003
Rush Limbaugh Proves, Once Again, That He is an Asshole*
It’s really refreshing to me that Mr. Limbaugh continues to alienate himself. I mean, I didn’t hear him say what he said about Donovan McNabb and, if I had, it likely wouldn’t have registered as a foul, racist slam (the claim Chris Berman has made). Somewhat troubling, but not racist.

For those of you in the dark, Rush Limbaugh is who he is (an ultra-conservative, ultra-offensive sack of shit), yet he was invited by ESPN to be on their Sunday Countdown pre-game show . . . y’know, for his controversial appeal, and likely so all the stupid fucking “ditto-heads” would turn on football instead of watching NASCAR 24-7. Anyway, this past Sunday, the subject of the Philadelphia Eagles and their beleaguered quarterback came up.

“I think what we’ve had here is a little social concern in the NFL. The media has been very desirous that a black quarterback do well,” Limbaugh said. He basically went on to say that McNabb is overrated and that the Eagles’ defense has carried the team.

Yesterday, Rush resigned from his ESPN post (“the path of least resistance”) rather than fight the waves of criticism that were crashing over him, even as he defended himself and refused to back down from his statement. (“I must be right . . . blah, blah, blah.”)

The man is out to press people’s buttons . . . bottom line. That’s what he does. That’s all he does. (Note the Terminator reference. Or don’t, fuck-o.) No useful nuggets of wisdom fall out of that guy’s mouth, and he certainly isn’t here to solve anyone’s problems. And to say that on ESPN, which is owned by ABC, which is owned by Disney . . . I mean, c’mon. How stupid do you have to be?

Oh, Rush stupid, I guess.


In other news, Mia has an ear infection with a possible side of bronchitis, so she’s on antibiotics and I may be in and out of the office tomorrow.

And, furthermore:

-- Margaret Cho has a blog.

-- This is the only time of year that I will really pay attention to the World of Baseball. It’s funny that the respective home teams of Leo and CW are playing each other. I talked to a couple baseball fans and asked if they (like me) were hoping for a Cubs – Red Sox World Series. They were. I’m tired of the Braves. I mean, really.

-- I’ve tried to watch as much as I can of the U.S.A. in the women’s World Cup. I actually had a lively debate about the worthiness of soccer with Mr. ADD about it last night. At a redneck sports bar. The jury’s still out on who one that one.

-- I forgot to mention that the shirt I’m wearing in the fried ice cream photo from yesterday’s post (yeah, not linking to that one again) is indeed the same Billabong shirt from this post.

(* I was gonna write “Big Fat Idiot,” in reference to the Al Franken book title, but Rush has kind-of slimmed down. I guess that makes him a harder target for snipers. Or maybe angry mobs will find it more difficult to catch him.)

Wednesday, October 01, 2003
The Birthday (With Lots of Link-y Goodness)
The day started much like any other Saturday: I took Mia to my mom’s, while Michelle went out to run errands. The goal was to get Mia good and tired so that we could feed her and put her down for a nap over at Michelle’s parents, where we were meeting around noon for pizza and cake. (That part of the plan worked pretty well.)

Michelle had already made me a red velvet cake, which is one of the few I’ll actually eat. The cake was amazingly huge . . . four layers. Before it was cut, I posed behind it, using my head as a point of reference.

So, we had pizza and cake and I collected my bounty. We socialized some, until things turned (as they so often do) to politics. Then it was time for good-byes.

Later that afternoon (after a trip to the mall to do a Converse All-Star switcheroo), we met up at Durango’s with a good many of our friends. There were two-for-one drinks, which apparently didn’t extend to Michelle’s top-shelf maragaritas. We were at the restaurant for a good two and half hours. (I love this picture of Ms. Jazz Hands; Michelle took it holding the camera over her head and “aiming.”) In the end, we were waiting around for a checks when they brought me the fried ice cream which, you can probably tell from my expression, I was hoping to avoid.

After dinner, we adjourned to the Kamikaze house, where everyone seemed to be in a rush to get their drunk on. (I hadn’t even begun drinking at that point.) We were trying to formulate a plan and, of course, no-one could agree. When we finally decided to go to the Space Bar, people started mixing their “road drinks.” (Yeah, don’t try that one at home, kids.) That’s why Counselor Cleavage put some rum and Coke in the dickie sipper.

The Space Bar is on the back side of the ever-popular, ultra-hip Waterworks. It’s hardly ever crowded and it’s smoke-free. Our lead singer works the bar there, and she was settin’ me up with drinks all night. (I lost count, but I think it was something like two pints of Newcastle and a few bottles of cider. I really meant to have a kamikaze, but it slipped my mind . . . I wonder why.) We listened to organ versions of standards and 80s pop faves (the “Hungry Like a Wolf” sing-a-long was a highlight).

So, that was my birthday, in a nutshell. Here’s the loot:

-- a pair of Converse All-Stars (from Michelle)

-- CDs by Saxon Shore, Mogwai, The Prids, The Swords Project, Radiohead, Landing, and another Mogwai.

-- DVDs of The Two Towers, Chocolat (somebody strayed from the list for that one), and Lair of the White Worm (ditto, but she didn’t have a list, and this one was more appreciated)

-- Lies, and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them by Al Franken

-- a couple of big-ass Civil War books

-- a fifth of Crown Royal and a Pittsburgh Steelers flask

-- a home sushi kit

-- a bunch of Border’s gift cards

-- a Target gift card

-- money

This concludes the birthday-related post(s). Hope I met everyone’s expectations.