Friday, June 25, 2004
How Things Can Start
Things pretty much started in the summer, 12 years ago.
We’d gone to the same high school for a year (me as a senior, she as a freshman). We had a few mutual friends but had never really met.
But the summer after she graduated from high school, one of her faux-friend / classmates (let’s call her Meg) hosted a series of parties . . . every time her parents went out of town. I was going to FSU and working at a video store at the time, and my work friends included several high school acquaintances. I’d also had a brief, ill-advised romance with Meg. Meg expressed a desire to not have us at her parties, but we crashed them anyway.
I went to one of Meg’s first parties that summer without my girlfriend. This one was a fairly casual affair . . . no skinny dipping, no public sex or vomiting; it was actually very grown-up for a bunch of teenagers and twenty-somethings. In between all my on-my-way-to-drunken conversations with my friends (and other party-goers), I noticed this quiet red-headed girl standing away from the crowd. She looked lonely, but not. Just detached. I don’t remember if I talked to her. I might have said something about the heat lightning outside that night. She left soon after.
I saw the redhead at another party soon after that one, this one thrown by the girlfriend of my best friend (who would grow up to be Mr. ADD). I was somewhat less restrained at this party. I bumped into her in the kitchen; I was drunk and/or stoned and she was tentatively drinking from a bottle of vodka. I don’t think there were any intelligible words spoken.
Meg’s next party was more of the typical “kegger” than her previous soireé. I was carrying around a bottle of tequila (before I developed an aversion to it). I remember everyone was doing shots, and I was just drinking straight from the bottle. At some point, I wandered to the backyard, where I found the redhead sitting on the trampoline. We talked for a few minutes, although I think I was slurring most of my side of the conversation. I probably offered her some of my tequila. Somewhere between the drunken people flinging themselves into the pool in their underwear and several of us packing into a dark room to listen to Nine Inch Nails songs, she left. I asked Meg for her phone number. I called her . . . right then. I was drunk. Her dad answered. When he put her on, I could tell she was surprised to hear from me. But she said she wasn't coming back to the party.
In the weeks that followed, she would come into the video store and give me things that she’d written. Mostly poetry and lyrical fragments she had written at church. We started exchanging poetry at that time. Soon after, we set up a date.
I don’t remember anything about the date itself, but when I dropped her off, I kissed her goodnight. And after that, she told me she had a boyfriend who’d just come back to town from Texas.
(Not) The End.
Wednesday, June 23, 2004
“It’s a Non-Issue.”
Of all the catch-phrases that I’m partial to utter, this one’s gotta be near the top of the list. In case you’re wondering about its usage / context:
Boss: “You’ve done all the reports for that site?”
Scott: “Yeah, so I guess that means I need to burn the CD, huh?”
Boss: “If you have the time.”
Scott: “Well, the final report hasn’t been approved yet so, at this point, it’s a non-issue.”
Some other faves include:
“It looks like the world’s about to end.” (strangely not a reference to Bush’s possible re-election; rather, this is used when the daytime sky turns very dark before a storm)
“Oh, come the fuck on!” (I think this one is obvious in its frustration; several variations of this one are used during driving, along with a plethora of other expletives)
“I’m going back to the boudoir.” (going to bed to read or watch T.V., or an invitation to go talk; otherwise it’s, “I’m going to bed.”)
“I need to have a sit-down.” (bathroom)
“The Ghetto” (not a real ghetto; used to describe any of the Union 76 / Circle K’s around Tallahassee that don’t print out a fucking receipt when you pay at the pump; most often, it’s, “Oh, make sure you go to Gate and not the [fucking] Ghetto. I want a receipt.”)
“New Thief” (New Leaf Market, the crunchy/hippie grocery / co-op where we buy our soy jerky, thai noodle packets, and frozen ethnic dinners; very pricey)
“Club Publix” (widely used name for the Publix grocery store that’s strategically placed in the area where many FSU students live off-campus; the average age of the clientele is about 21, female, and scantily clad*)
* I don’t want to exaggerate here. I mean, it’s not like the store is chock-full of girls in bikinis. It’s pretty evenly split between attractive college-age girls and the men that shop there to see them. And then there’s me . . . stopping by every couple weeks because it’s convenient, being a well-stocked (heh-heh) grocery store that’s on my way home from band practice. No, really . . . I don't go there to gawk. (And that's not because I'm gay.)
Tuesday, June 22, 2004
That would be what I’m up to. In pounds. And not the British kind.
I’d felt the weight coming on recently. Felt my body getting heavier with each step. My pants getting a little more snug.
Officially, this is up 10 pounds since weaning myself (read: leaping) off the modified Weight Watchers diet I was on.
So, rather than counting points again (just yet), I’ve started phasing into a workout plan. Miss jab gave us her recumbent bike exerciser a while back, and I’d used it exactly none. So, I got up 15 minutes earlier this morning and rode it for 12 minutes. I’m gonna work up to longer times, three or four times a week. Because if there’s one thing you should never do without preparing yourself, it’s jump into
Friday, June 18, 2004
Taking Over the Airwaves (Even Without My Kentucky-Fried Meatsword)
The local college radio station has something called “The Twelve-O’Clock Takeover,” during which they play five songs selected by one of their loyal listeners. The playlists can be filled out on campus or at a station-sponsored show.
When we played with The Butchies a couple weeks ago, I filled out a playlist . . . which they played at lunch today. I literally turned on my radio just before noon, and the DJ announced that they were gonna play some songs chosen by “Scott S.” Now, I listed a couple alternates, but they only played four of my songs . . . I’m guessing because my selections were on the long-ish side. Observe:
“Moya” (Godspeed You Black Emporer!)
“Dirty Boots” (Sonic Youth)
In honor of (not really, but bear with me) this momentous occasion, I will be doing another CD giveaway. There’s a really good chance that this will involve a quiz and, that being the case, the quiz may involve questions regarding Deadwood and Kingdom of Loathing. There may (hypothetically, of course) be a post-rock-inflected tiebreaker question.
See ya next week!
* As much as Michelle would think I picked this for my Corrin Tucker fascination, I was at the show trying to think of something “bouncy” to counter some of my other selections. And “Oh!” is pretty fuckin’ bouncy. Alas, they didn’t play “Oh!” but rather another song (title track) from the same album. College-radio fuckers.
Thursday, June 17, 2004
I Think We All Understand that “Real” has Very Little to do with the Administration’s Evidence of Pre-9/11 Ties Between Saddam and Al-Qaeda*, or Aretha’s Performance of the National Anthem Before Game 5 of the NBA Finals
I’m slowly realizing that I might have a gambling problem. Now, the frequency of my gambling isn’t going to trigger any alarms. But the fact that I’m in a “pool” for the U.S. Open might point to some kind of problem. Because when you’re betting on golf . . .
Still, betting tends to make things more interesting. Michelle and I should really be betting on the outcome of The Ultimate Love Test (although I don’t think either of us would put money on any of the couples to stay together). Or betting on the outcome of celebrity trials, or Marion Jones’ battle with BALCO and the USADA.
Seriously. Take some trivial competition that you have little or no feeling about (which, for us, wouldn’t apply to The Ultimate Love Test). Find someone who is on the other side of the issue in question, and wager on the outcome. I suppose that's why it’s called “making it interesting.”
I’m probably the 45,369,984th person to come up with that realization.
In other news, the 2-CD mix I did for Bob was recently distilled to a single CD. I’m going to review it and then decide whether to make any available and how I’d chose those who are worthy of receiving a copy. It’s a pretty challenging set . . . the aural equivalent of the return of Six Feet Under, mixed with the Alma Garrett / Seth Bullock rendezvous. In other words, this mix is a little downbeat (beaten down?), a little ill-advisedly sleazy, a little gay, and a lot of an emotional rollercoaster.
In still other news, NO! (Let this be my plea, Mr. Kerry. I know you’re a douchebag, and I’m voting for you anyway, but Gephardt is 1,000 miles beyond “douchebag.” Please, for the love of all faith-based candidates and the Little Baby Jesus, pick Wesley Clark. Do it for me. Do it for America.)
* In making Iraq safe for (the Administration’s version of) Democracy, Bush also made it safe for terrorists. And not-so-safe for our Patriotic Oil Barons™. Ironic, eh?
Tuesday, June 15, 2004
When Tropical Rain Happens to
Inevitably, when you (meaning me) have to make a lunchtime run to Eckerd Drugs to buy Father’s Day cards (and toilet paper), the increasingly dark sky that’s been threatening to piss down rain all morning will open up its Heavenly Bladder on you (again, me) as you’re about to make your walk from the too-far-away-but-hard-won parking spot to the store.
And, of course, on your way back to work, the traffic light at one of the most confusing and busy intersections in town will be flashing red and no-one will know what to do. C’mon, people, Tallahassee gets over 5 feet of rain a year and the traffic lights inevitably go out within the first few drops . . . this is nothing new. If this had been an actual emergency, you would have been instructed to get THE FUCK off the road because I know how to drive.
Ah, ‘tis the (Hurricane) Season. (And Jesus sure as Hell ain’t the reason. Neither is Hoobastank, for that matter.)
Monday, June 14, 2004
It’s Money in the Bank
There’s really nothing better than sitting down (or, even better, lying down) to update your check book Sunday night—subtracting all the checks you starting writing before you even got paid and all the groceries and things you’ve purchased over the past couple days—and realize that you still have a positive balance.
Well, except maybe getting another surprise refund check from the Hyundai dealership. (This time, it was because the payoff on our trade-in was less than expected.)
Or that it was just a relaxing, conflict-free weekend with good friends, good food, bad movies, and no take-home work.*
* Well, it wasn’t absolutely conflict-free. There was a crisis on Manic Sunday that involved our daughter waking up (not really awake, though) with labored breathing, phlegm-y chest, and no appetite . . . all very unusual. We called the doctor and then put her back to bed, as it seemed that she wanted to sleep it off. Which she did. Now she’s back to her sassy self. Almost. Damn cold. Damn new teeth.
Friday, June 11, 2004
(Not) Celebrity Poker
Played my first poker since that amazing game the week before the Super Bowl. I still had a lot of my winnings from that game in a Ziploc bag.
I started playing last night with about $30 (keeping a roll of quarters in reserve). I did okay for a while, but my confidence (and a run of bad cards) slowly led me down the dark path to only having $6 left. Which I quickly pissed away on some pocket Jacks.
I left with my empty Crown Royal bag, a roll of quarters, and my cell phone . . . all sealed inside the Ziploc bag.
It didn’t feel good to be back to my familiar (losing) ways.
I really want to feel bad about The Gipper, but I (along with many patronizingly weepy Americans) haven’t given him much thought in, oh, about a decade . . . just when there’s a news story about his Alzheimer’s, or A.M. Homes uses him in a short story. Mostly, I’m frustrated that I can’t watch the evening news without seeing live coverage of his casket being driven through the streets of Washington. Yeah, that makes me selfish, but I don’t think he kept us from saluting a Russian flag, and my family was likely poorer after the whole Trickle-Down thing. Basically, he’s just a nice guy who’s assassination attempt I re-enacted with my friends when we were nine years old.*
We’ve taken to watching ABC’s The Ultimate Love Test, in which ABC producers "test" four couples' relationships by separating them for three weeks; one of them stays home, while the other goes to Cabo San Lucas and is tempted by fantasy men / woman and/or ex’s. Any couple that stays together through the experience gets $100,000. Or something like that.
Every time they ask, “How many of these couples will pass the test?” Michelle makes the “zero” sign with her hand, saying, “Zeeeerrrrroooooo. Say it with me, honey.”
Ms. Jazz Hands remodeled her house (along with boyfriend, Mr. ADD). They’re hosting a dinner party this evening to do the big “reveal.” I’ve seen the work in progress, and it’s pretty nifty.
Following the Extreme Makeover: Jazz Hands Edition, we’ll be drinking and doing . . . something.
* We were playing the Secret Service agents, not Hinckley. Geez. I’m not that mean.
Thursday, June 10, 2004
Two Great Tastes that Taste Great Together
An IM conversation that illustrates how the fascinating worlds of Kingdom of Loathing and Deadwood can become one:
styrofoamcaity: i sent you a ghuol egg to grow as a familiar.
styrofoamcaity: they are BADASS>
styrofoamcaity: you'll love him.
divebomber71: Cool. Thanks. Although I'm not sure what a "familiar" is.
styrofoamcaity: do you have a terrarium?
divebomber71: I slept off my "beaten" status. No.
styrofoamcaity: i sent you meat too if you need to buy one at the market.
styrofoamcaity: go buy a terrarium.
styrofoamcaity: then put the ghuol egg in the terrarium.
styrofoamcaity: you'll LOVE this familiar.
styrofoamcaity: he generates HP for you at the end of fights by feasting on your enemies' corpses, and he'll get you muscle or moxie or mysticality or whatever
styrofoamcaity: and more meat
divebomber71: Holy Christ!
divebomber71: It's like Woo's pigs!
styrofoamcaity: HE IS AWESOME IN THAT WAY
divebomber71: I'll name him "dirty cocksucker."
styrofoamcaity: LOL yessss!
styrofoamcaity: excellent work my friend
I foresee a long day of
Wednesday, June 09, 2004
Sometimes, You Take the Good with the Bad
Highlights of the past week (or so):
-- My introduction to Kingdom of Loathing (including my invitation to join the Indie Rock Snobs, my ascendancy to “Emo Kid” status, and my Dripping Meat Crossbow gift)
-- The soon-to-be-famous “Blow-Job Soliloquy” from Al Swearengen that ended Sunday’s episode of Deadwood . . . hopefully setting the appropriate tone for the season finale.
-- Our daughter’s long-awaited foray into using the English language on a more regular basis.
-- My sister-in-law’s car looking like this when she went to leave for work Monday morning.
-- Michelle deciding to bring her brief ‘blogging career to a swift end.
-- Our cat pooping on Michelle’s silky Japanese robe (perhaps related to the previous item).
Update: It appears that she's started 'blogging again.
Monday, June 07, 2004
America Loves a Winner, Part 49
You all know what a cynical fuck I am about how the general populous of this Great Nation™ is always quick to get behind a proven winner. And you know I’m not a big fan of “sports” that involve cars driving around in a circle. When the cars are horses, I’m mildly more interested (especially when there’s money on the line). And when it’s a horse going for the Triple Crown (oh! The VISA Triple Crown™) . . . well, that’s more interesting still.
I had the T.V. in our bedroom on while I was bathing Mia Saturday evening. As I was helping and cleaning Mia and watching her play in the tub, I could step into the hall and watch the
Lemme tell you how gripped I was as they came around that final turn, how I’d been watching Birdstone tear out of nowhere to challenge for the lead. And lemme tell you how I laughed and laughed and laughed when Birdstone crossed the finish line first.
All those dejected people in the stands made me smile.
Why are Americans so in love with happy, predictable endings? I ask you, The Internet.
Friday, June 04, 2004
Chiiiiinaaaaaaa . . . Decorates our Taaaaaable
I’m happy I’ve finally taken the time to visit almost everyone’s site in the past couple / few days. Not that I had the time, but I made it. Stole it, actually. I’ll probably get in trouble for slacking off some at work. But I feel I’ve earned it. (You would, too.)
I’d been really behind on my ‘blog-reading. And now I need to update my template (‘blogroll) again . . . more sites to add, drop, and revise. (For instance, SJ at I, Asshole had to go on hiatus for legal purposes related to her divorce.)
If you feel like you deserve to be added and aren't over there now, you can plead your case. If you asked for hover text over your 'blogroll link (you know who you are), check it. And if you're counseling at a summer camp for handicapped people and didn't leave behind a mailing address, you're in trouble, little missy!
So, the Mighty Indie (Music Snob) Queen sent me a link to a game that she’s addicted to. And I might be getting there, too. I have changed the title of my ‘blog to reflect this addiction. You can hook yourself up to the crack-pipe here. (Post written by Norm the Indifferent)
Michelle e-mailed me about some Japanese china she saw at lunch at Goodwill. It was, like, real fine china. The kind that we chose not to register for when we got married. She actually left work to buy some. I can’t believe how much she
Here’s a floppy-haired guy during last weekend’s Indian / stir fry / sushi dinner party.
That’s a Kirin Lager in his hand. The glazed-over look might be partially attributed the low resolution of the picture.
Thursday, June 03, 2004
Merritt Island is on fire,
smoke rising into the eastern sky
where a herd of grey-purple manatee-clouds swim above the Atlantic,
where the cruise ship we’ve missed is slipping out of port.
And the sky is aflame to the west
where sunset has joined the Orlando reactor fires,
where fallout dusts the Bee Line’s toll-poor tourists.
even as we drive across the bridge
over the Indian River
and the sun winks its last flash from the treed horizon.
A spectre of Hope rises toward moonlight—
phoenix in our wake.
No, this isn’t the poem I alluded to earlier. This was written last November, while we were in Cocoa Beach for the Glory-Hole wedding. It’s been fermenting in a state of semi-finality, so I decided to call it “done.” And then post it.
Tuesday, June 01, 2004
We are Not Femme . . . Not Entirely, Anyway
In a bit of news that will likely only impress the punk-rock diva (and maybe Mrs. Dayment), we're opening for The Butchies tonight. I was interested in seeing them play when they came to town, so our bassist / venue go-between asked if we could play the show. And the booking guy said yes.
I love it when a plan comes together.
A co-worker told me about this one. You'll notice that the man pictured does not have floppy hair and looks to be 52, not 32. I suppose I could have a 14-year-old son, though. But I'm not sure I'd let him jump out of my boat to wrestle an alligator.