web tracker

Tuesday, September 30, 2003
Post-Birthday Request
Yes, yes . . . the pictures are still on the way. I'm going to need help from Michelle to take a few more around the house and then get them off the camera. (I'm a digital camera 'tard.)

But I need your help with something. For my birthday, I received some gift cards from Border's. I need some Scott-specific recommendations on how I should spend them.

I'm pretty picky, but I loved Memoirs of a Geisha; historical fiction is always a hit. I really like A.M. Homes. I like non-fiction, too. And some humor (didn't like David Sedaris that much). Anyway, see if you can come up with something.

Monday, September 29, 2003
Thirty-Two and Life to Go
Well, the birthday weekend wasn’t exactly the marathon of debauchery I’d hoped for. Oh, yeah, there was some drinking, but no malt liquor. There was no vomiting, no nudity, no arrests. There were no floor shows. Really . . . what were we doing? Were we even trying to have fun?

Yeah, we had fun. Dinner. Some drinking. Too many gifts. We also took a few pictures, but not as many as I'd hoped. I have some to post, along with some mundane, getting’-to-know-your-host pictures. So, that’s the project for this week . . . post pictures from the birthday . . . and beyond. (I guess IA will stop coming here if I don’t.)

One picture I’m going to try to post is the one of the big, black dick.

And with that . . . see ya tomorrow.

Friday, September 26, 2003
Inbetween Day
Yesterday was my mother’s birthday, and tomorrow is mine. It used to be tradition for my mother and I to go out on the day between our birthdays for dinner and a movie. That tradition died years ago, but she came out last night to Thursday Night Sushi™.

It was a fun time with the usual crowd (myself, Michelle, Miss Mia, Mr. Glory Hole, and The Shiksa). I tricked mom into letting me pay for her food, as she was trying to pay for hers, as well as ours. She got really mad about it, too. Geez. Some people.

Anyway, I don’t know when the festivities tomorrow are gonna start. No, not the family stuff . . . that’s at lunch time. I mean the real festivities. There’s gonna be an early steakhouse dinner with friends followed by . . .

Look for pictures next week.

Have a great weekend!

Thursday, September 25, 2003
How to Get Out of Debt
Several months ago, when I discovered The Simon, I read a brilliant article titled “How to Go Bankrupt.” You should go read it. It’s a story, of sorts . . . not an instructional / inspirational puff piece. (Go on . . . you won't be disappointed.)

Anyway, I thought about that article today while I was finishing up the application for our consolidation loan. No, the Kamikazes aren’t gonna cop out and file for bankruptcy. And we’re not going to go through some agency that negotiates lower payoffs. No, sir. Because we believe in paying every penny we owe. (Which is a lot of pennies, as it turns out.) So we’re gonna roll that into one giant lump. And finance it for several years. At an obnoxiously high rate.

The Kamikazes currently have three credit cards, three store cards, and a line of credit at our credit union. In a few weeks, we will be down to one credit card and a huge-ass consolidation loan. It’ll be nice to only have to write one check every month, rather than six.

I also think back to when the ‘Poo (under her previous persona) claimed that she'd be friends with anyone who had more debt than her. Well, Michelle and I should be her best friends forever.

Or at least for the next seven years.

Wednesday, September 24, 2003
Sneaking Out
Ms. Crab (or is it just Snowshoe now?) posted some questions on her blog a day or two ago, and the first one asked about a memorable episode of sneaking out from your past / high school years.

Now, I was a good, obedient adolescent (once I emerged from my shitty-ass rebellious phase between the ages of 11 and 13). I didn’t start smoking, and I rarely tried to steal alcohol. But one time, my best friend (now Mr. ADD) convinced me to sneak out with him and his girlfriend, Liz. He’d been sneaking out here and there, and it was now becoming a habit. On this particular night, Liz had invited her friend along (whose name I can’t remember), so my friend wanted me to come, too.

I think we were both 15 at the time.

I think he told me he’d be coming to my house around midnight, or 2 a.m., so I stayed up as long as I could, talking to my mom and drinking Jolt cola. When I “went to bed,” I was wired from the caffeine and anxiety about sneaking out.

I can’t remember what time things kicked off, but my friend showed up in his sister’s car (a mid-80s silver Nissan Sentra). He drove us to his girlfriend’s house and parked down the street. They came back to the car five or ten minutes later (after the window-knocking-and-tip-toeing-out routine). We then drove out to Killearn (what passes for upscale in 1980s Tallahassee) to pick up “the friend.” I drove from there . . . I think so my friend could make out with Liz. We passed a cop going the other way on our way out of Killearn, and I almost had a panic attack.

I can’t remember much about the actual night. We were out until four or five in the morning. I think I made out with “the friend;” actually, I think we went out at least one other time (when I could legally drive) because I seem to remember stripping my Volkswagen’s clutch backing out of her driveway. (Yeah, strange that I can’t remember her name.)

My friend went on to lose his virginity to Liz within a few months. The lesson here is that someone's first kiss can lead to the first everything by sneaking out regularly.

Now I'm more glad than ever to be a parent.

Tuesday, September 23, 2003
Still Here
I chose to read rather than write today. I had to catch up with a lot of neglected bloggers . . . and play chess, too. Tomorrow, I have to go out at lunch to buy a present or two for mom's birthday. Thursday, I'm getting my hair cut.

When the fuck am I gonna have time to post something?

Actually, I was going to try and post some pictures sometime this week. Maybe I can upload some and post this week . . . before my birthday arrives and the malt liquor makes me forget.

Monday, September 22, 2003
What Are Those Dark Circles Under Your Eyes? Are You Wearing Eyeliner? And What’s With the Hair?
Was it an eventful-but-quiet weekend, or an uneventful weekend spread across several different locales? I’ll go with the latter. It was definitely out of the ordinary, but not in an exciting way. Anyway, much was learned. Here are the highlights (in bullets):

-- I learned that while fish lie dead on the beach, crabs will eat their eyes.

-- I learned that being away from your wife and child for 24 hours is not freedom. Not unless “freedom” somehow equates to going from being lonely to spending hours with your incessantly chatty mother . . . which is quite the opposite of lonely.

-- I learned that when I “go all out” and “dress up” for a special show (our drummer’s last with the band), I end up looking like I did in high school . . . big hair and all-black clothes. Plus eyeliner. I don’t have a picture to post (yet), but imagine a blond Robert Smith . . . with a goatee. (Hey, at least I didn’t wear the lipstick, too, for Christ's sake!)

-- I learned that, despite having not been to the movies in several months, I will invariably choose to watch Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines at the cheapie theater. I was with my mother, and I didn’t want to see something that Michelle and I might go see . . . in the off-chance that we have a free moment on a weekend . . . sometime. (This won’t happen for the next several months.)

-- I learned that, if you finally put Kansas State on your football pool and eliminate the spread so that you pretty much have to pick them over the injury-riddled Marshall squad, they will still find a way to fuck you by losing. If I haven’t said so before, let it be known that Kansas State sucks hard.

Okay, I didn’t really learn anything. Except that I really, really shouldn’t be wearing eyeliner.

Actually, I think I still have some of it on me. That's what my boss said.

Friday, September 19, 2003
The Cast
When talking about anonymous friends in blogs, I see a wide array of techniques. But many people create fun identifiers for their friends and family members. SJ has Mr. Husband, Ms. Solo has “the boy,” Estella has Vapid, and JR has Girlfriend™. Kerry has cool identifiers for all the bit-part players in her life. And CW’s stories focus on him, his wife, and all the other “motherfuckers” of the world.

I currently employ the tried-and-true “first initial” strategy. But that’s not as fun, now, is it? So I’m thinking I need to come up with consistent, catchy nicknames for my friends, especially as I’ll be talking about them a lot when I summarize my birthday weekend/trainwreck.

Thursday, September 18, 2003
Doin’ the Unbusy/Busy-Again Dance
Work is careening madly from frantically busy to very slow to busy again to not-really-that-busy-but-your-timesheet-better-reflect-a-certain-level of busy-ness. All of this has me thinking. And reflecting.


All this attention to professional obligations has really cramped my blogging. I haven’t been able to stop by all of my favorite sites and/or leave comments as much as I’d like. However, I did see Estella in comments somewhere and decided to stop by her place. The sea monster drawings alone warrant a place on my blogroll . . . in place of Mr. Whitey, who has disappeared. (sniff, sniff) Yeah, I'm still a gaybo.

In other blogroll-related news, I'm adding hover text to some of you tools. I'm hoping to make it around to everyone . . . eventually.


Also cramping my blogging is my lunchtime addiction to playing chess (yes, still badly). I’m 9-17-1. I won today in a timed game, even after pissing away several of my power pieces in really stupid, stupid moves.


Hurricane Isabel/Isadore/whomever is currently tearing into the mid-Atlantic coast. My last communication with Styro was a while ago, when she signed off to bake cookies in her gas stove. The storm is gonna zoom right past her in Richmond, so let’s all cross our fingers that it doesn’t get much worse than a couple/few hours of intense excitement. Hopefully she’ll be able to sleep later . . . as long as there are no large trees near her house.


Oh, I’m now a cooking loser.


Sheryl Crow’s cover of “The First Cut is the Deepest” has me thinking. That she sucks. Sheryl has lost every (any) ounce of cool she ever had with me. I’ll still listen to the one CD of hers I own but, dude, couple this with her duet with Kid Rock, and that “first cut” should be part of her death of a thousand cuts. Or something.


It’s been quiet on the mix-CD front, eh? Well, I was working on my three-CD 90s retrospective (that’s 56 songs, kids). Two people asked for a CD, and I’m giving one of them to the Queen . . . just ‘cuz.

Next up is the fantabulous birthday mix that has been foretold. I’m gonna do 10 for my Top 10 blog-friends . . . at least eight of whom will be, like, “What the fuck is this shit?” After that, I’m following through with my promised personalized mix for everyone’s favorite shark-lovin’, geometry-fearin’, monkey-Scrabble-playin’, eye-patch wearin’, cookie-mailin’ 20-year-old . . . Amy Choppa.

Wednesday, September 17, 2003
Surfing Through the Ages (With Ubiquitous Product-Placement)
It started about 12 years ago, when my grandparents retired to Myrtle Beach. My mother would drive the eight hours to see them once or twice a year. On several of these trips, my mother would bring me back a souvenir . . . usually a Billabong t-shirt from one of the local surf shops. It didn’t seem to matter that I’d left my surfer-chic phase behind in the middle of my high-school years, when I abandoned my faux beach persona in favor of dark clothes and general misanthropy. So, in the early 90s, I had a large (and stylistically inappropriate) collection of Billabong t-shirts.

When we were at my mom’s for breakfast this past weekend, my mom showed our friends a picture she’s had on her refrigerator for the past decade. It was taken on my 22nd birthday, and I’m wearing one of the Billabong shirts (a black one). Our friends thought it was funny that my hair is largely unchanged from the photograph (but I’m at least 30 pounds heavier). I remember that night 10 years ago, as a group of us were about to venture out to Salty Dog for pool and beer, and mom had insisted on capturing the moment for posterity.

Last night, I did the wash. As I was sorting my t-shirts between the “good” pile and the “around-the-house-and/or-working-and-getting-dirty” pile, there was only one shirt for the latter pile—the Billabong shirt from 1993. The shirt’s original black color had faded somewhat, and the fabric felt more threadbare. The logo and words have largely flaked off, but are still identifiable. And there I was, 11 days before my 32nd birthday, folding a t-shirt I’d gone out drinking in 10 years earlier. The moment felt very strange and heavy.

Perhaps to bring this thing full-circle, I should wear that t-shirt while I’m out boozin’ it up on my birthday this year. For those of you all into tying things up neatly and/or full-disclosure, don't expect to see pictures from the upcoming birthday along with a scan of the older photo. Ain't gonna happen.


The last time I went with mom to Myrtle Beach, Michelle went also, and she took us to the surf shop to pick out shirts. I got an all-black one that had a silly smiley on the sleeve, with the front reading “bong.” That was in the summer of 2000.

Tuesday, September 16, 2003
What Joy
This weekend, the in-laws are renting a beach house. We’re going down with Miss Mia Friday, but I have to come back Saturday for a show . . . our last show with our drummer of 2 ½ years. I’m sure this will make for an emotional-rollercoaster of a weekend.

And then next weekend is the almighty birthday. (Gasp!)

Now that I’ve sufficiently experimented with photo-posting, I’ll have to display evidence that fun was had by all. At least until someone throws up.

Monday, September 15, 2003
Shot in the Face*
It was an eventful weekend. Our show with Michelle’s band. The Mogwai show on Saturday. My alma mater managing to score two touchdowns in the fourth quarter to overcome Georgia Tech.

It was also a weekend of “firsts.” Observe:

-- It was the first time my mother has watched me play in a band—live and in front of a crowd. And I’ve been doing this for over a decade. (I picked her up and drove her to the gig, as she’s not supposed to be driving.)

-- It was the first time (in this band) that I have played a show without drinking any alcohol. (I had a brevé mocha instead, because I play much better when I’m hopped-up and tense than I do when I’m buzzed or tipsy. Didn't really help me sleep later, though.)

-- It was the first time I’d seen Mogwai. (And for being touted as the loudest live band ever, they weren’t that loud. I didn't even wear earplugs.)

-- It was the first time I’ve put a baby seat on a bicycle.

-- It was the first time my mother has hosted a french-toast-and-sausage breakfast for several of my friends. Or any kind of breakfast, really.

It was a great show Friday night, a real-life CW moment for me . . . people asking me to autograph stuff and telling me that it was our best show ever. Some guy even said it was the best local show he’s ever seen. (Granted, the guy was pretty young and his musical tastes pretty narrow, but still.)

(* You’ll notice there are no references to bukkake in this post. That's because I thought of another great thing to say about someone, without cursing. When I’m feeling particularly full of loathing, I will use the expression “________ should be shot in the face.” Like, at the Mogwai show, there was a guy who kept holding up his hands to the band and gesticulating with his fingers, as if he were conjuring up more rock from them. Yeah, that guy should have been shot in the face.)

Friday, September 12, 2003
How I Know This Town Isn’t Big Enough for Both of Us
We went out for sushi again last night with A and R, as is the Thursday ritual (until we can’t afford to do so . . . which has really been the case for weeks now). Anyway, Michelle has band practice, so she always leaves before the check comes. So, once we paid our checks, we headed for the door.

I was carrying Mia, so I handed the diaper bag to R, who passed it to A citing a need to go to the bathroom.

Outside, we walked toward the Kamikazemobile. We passed a woman who I saw do a double-take out of the corner of my eye. She stopped and looked at us.

“Hey, is this yours?” she asked, referring to Mia.


She glanced at A, who quickly interjected, “Not mine!” (The woman seemed to remember what Michelle looked like.) “What’s her name?”


We exchanged our “Good to see ya’s” and went on our way.

Once the woman was safely inside, A asked, “So, was that an old lover?”

I paused for a second. “Actually, that was the person I lost my virginity to.”


Michelle and I run into her every now and then, with all involved surely hoping for a quick exit / trap door / worm-hole. I mean, geez, you’d think almost a decade and a half of time would help to make it less awkward, but it always seems quite the opposite.

Thursday, September 11, 2003
Democracy is a Dish Best Served . . . Period


To: The DNC
From: A concerned voter

I've been reading a lot, and seeing newstories on T.V., about your displeasure with Howard Dean's apparent lead amongst the (potential and real) candidates for the Democratic nomination. About how he can't beat Bush. About how he's too far left and his ideas are out of sync with the more mainstream ideals of the party. About how he's a loose cannon, a renegade.

Well, maybe you've been reading, too. Have you seen Rob's site? Or this post over at Greg's?

It seems that there are several people out there tired of your meddling. Tired of candidates that don't stand for anything (which you seem interested in propping up). Are you trying to rig the nomination? Well, I'm here to tell you that it's not going to work. At least not with me.

Look, fellas, I want the incompetent boob out of the White House as much as you do, but you're going about it the wrong way. See, you wait until after the primaries and then support the winner in the general election. Pretty simple, eh?

So, let me put it to you like this: First of all, if Gephardt or Lieberman wins the nomination, I likely won't vote Democrat. Hell, I might not vote at all. And I'm starting to have my doubts about Kerry, too.

If you continue doing what you're doing, you're only going to alienate more voters and encourage them to support third-party candidates. Your actions only serve to strengthen the argument that there is really only one party: the Democans, or the Republicrats . . . not two sides of the same coin, just the same coin.

Are ya gettin' me?

Yeah, I didn't think so.

Throwing Down the Gauntlet
It's a dare, kids. Those of you who feel inclined to write, especially poetry, go here, look under "The Writing Process," and do the "Twenty Little Poetry Projects." Here's the dare part: Post the resulting "poem" on your blog (if you have one).

Yes, honey, you have to do this, too.

Wednesday, September 10, 2003
Oh, Yeah . . . I’m Covered in Sweat for You, Baby!
I spent my lunch break (one of my favorite parts of the weekday) receiving our furniture. Not fun. Really . . . this whole experience has not been a joy, and I really don’t recommend it to anyone.

It started about ten weeks ago (the last Friday in June). That’s when we paid the balance on our five-piece furniture set that we bought on Ebay. It was new, and the dealer promised delivery in four to six weeks (no, this wasn’t guaranteed).

I was checking in periodically, worried that I was gonna miss an e-mail telling me the furniture was being shipped. “No, we’re still waiting.” Four weeks, five weeks, eight weeks. Finally, we got notice (two weeks ago) that it was coming from the manufacturer to the dealer. Then there was another delay. When the dealer got the furniture, they shipped it to a regional distributor who routed it to a residential-delivery company.

Everything was moving in slow motion. I was supposed to pass along my wife’s anger and frustration to everyone along the way but, once it was out of the dealer’s hands, it didn’t seem appropriate.

So, long story short, the furniture was finally delivered today at lunch. I had to un-crate it and help move it in. Michelle helped, too. By the end of the whole process, I was soaked with sweat (yeah, it’s cooler, but it’s still summer and still fucking Florida). I’m sure Michelle was feeling less-than-fresh.

Hopefully, a day or two down the road, we’ll start to feel good about this adventure.

Tuesday, September 09, 2003
Where Good Ideas Go When They Die
I've somewhat emerged from the dark cloud of "work" that's been hanging over my head. I was tying up some loose ends this morning, which is why there was (is) no real post today.

As the title suggests, I've had some good ideas of things to tell you and/or do here, but they're evaporating into the ether as we speak. Here's a list of the ones I can remember:

-- I posted the picture of Mia yesterday to: a) show you all what a beautiful baby Michelle and I have, and b) experiment with those basic HTML skillz . . . which I will need if I want to post pictures from my upcoming birthday weekend. (I'm sure some of those will one day be admitted into evidence as "Exhibits A through J.")
-- I was gonna recount my exchanges with Michelle during the Dubya's "begging for money" address Sunday night. Oh, wait, it's really quick, so I can do that one. We just added "of terror" to the end of all the sentences he missed.
-- I was gonna (not) tell you about poker the other night . . . how I lost $20 in this space of just three beers.
-- I was gonna (not) tell you about the football pool I'm running . . . how I'm 20-25 overall and eight games out of first place for the season. (Yeah, we're picking against the spread, Sport-o.)
-- I can tell you that after 20 games of chess at Yahoo!, I have a rating of 1156 and my record is somewhere around 6-13-1.
-- Friday night, my band is playing with Michelle's band. I'm picking up my mother and taking her to the show. Oh, and we're going to see Mogwai Saturday night. (They probably won't play "Helicon 1," so I'll skip wearing the Depends.)
-- I sent in a recipe to Cooking for Losers, but it will probably never be posted.
-- They play Bardo Pond a bit much on my college radio station. Don't they know that I'm not lounging on shag carpeting, baked out of my mind, and reading comic books? No? Well, I should clue them in, then, huh?

Monday, September 08, 2003
My Baby Can Beat Up Your Baby

She Bop
I read that this guy had a pretty good weekend. Sounds like a blast, really. But I bet Cyndi Lauper didn't climb into his bed. So, y'know, I win.

Friday, September 05, 2003
Gettin' Ready
Five minutes after leaving work, I was at the grocery store gathering supplies we'd need for the weekend. Tonight I'm playing poker, and I'm watching football tomorrow. Here is what I bought:

six pack of St. Pauli's Girl (dark)
six pack of Hornsby's cider
grocery-store sushi
bag of peanut butter M&Ms
quart of milk

Two are mine, two are Michelle's, and one is Mia's. Who's getting what?

I Swear
I’m a bad person, just like the rest of you. My mouth is a dirty place where the demons dwell. And when I’m not spouting alliteration, or trying to sound halfway intelligent, you can bet I’m cursing. I’d wager that 75% of the words that come out of my mouth while I’m driving are swearing-related . . . with or without Mia in the car. And that includes song lyrics and baby talk.

So, in honor of Friday, here is my list of the Top 10 curses favored by Mr. Lunchbreak:

10. you fuck

9. eat my ass

8. sweet gentle God/Jesus/Lord

7. Mother of God

6. oh, come the fuck on

5. what the fuck?

4. God dammit

3. Jesus Lord

2. Jesus God Christ

1. Jesus Fucking Christ

I’m not sure why our Lord and Savior has such a prominent place in my naughty, filthy, salty language. Maybe if he had more of a place in life, I wouldn’t call out to Him so.

When Dry-Cleaning Solvents Rule the Earth
Sorry. I'm so swamped with work (editing reports about the aforementioned solvents). It really pains me (pains me) to go a weekday without updating. However, in my spare seconds, I am working on a few things. I may even have something else up later. Or I'll make up for it this weekend.

Of course, none of this is a treat for you. Just in case you need a distraction.

And you probably do.

Wednesday, September 03, 2003
Okay, so Paul Hill has about five hours (from right now) until he's due to be executed. For those of you living under rocks, he's the guy who killed an abortion doctor and his escort, gunning them down with a shotgun.

His supporters have been sending live bullets to several people in the Florida government and judicial system. People on the other side are worried about making him into a martyr for the anti-abortion cause.

I say they shouldn't execute him. At 6:01, they can let him out of the death chamber. Walk him outside to a car to take him back to his cell. And maybe, just maybe, before he gets to his car, someone could shoot that motherfucker with a fuckin' shotgun. Just him, and not his escort. Shoot him and make it messy. Because if you're gonna put a martyr's face on violent protest, make sure it's splattered all over the place.

Couldn't the guy have just immolated himself in protest, and spared two lives and some taxpayer money?

Tuesday, September 02, 2003
In the Kingdom of the Blind, the One-Eyed Could Very Well be Blind for All You Know
What’d you do over the long weekend? More than I did, I’m sure. Michelle was rockin’ in Pensacola with her band Saturday night, so I spent half the weekend jet-setting with Miss Mia. I got to see some family from Augusta that I don’t normally see. I got to watch some football. The whole family went for a swim on Sunday. All in all, it was an average weekend, with some bonus coverage.

Here’s what I’ve got goin’ on for the rest of this work-week:

-- I have interview questions to write for three people (Leo, Kat, and Amy Choppa).

-- I was going to post my most-favoritest writing exercise on Patricia’s messageboard for some people to try.

-- Finishing up those 90s CDs. (I had an error on one of them, so I have to re-burn it. Crap.)

-- Get the football pool updated and ready for this weekend. (Hopefully I'll do better this time. Crap.)

-- Oh, yeah . . . work.