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I came home and found a car parked in my driveway. Instead of flying off the handle–like every instinct wanted me to do–I reported it to my complex’s office and they promised to called a tow truck. I tried to get on with my life but kept peering out the window to make sure the car was still there. Some nitwit parks in my driveway and he thinks that’s the end of it…but it’s not–not for me. I wanted the jerk to feel the consequences of his actions…and what better way to suffer than having to free an impounded car. As much as I didn’t want that car in my driveway, I desperately didn’t want the owner to move it before the tow truck truck arrived. I tried making a snack to eat, but couldn’t concentrate on my food. I tried watching TV but found myself distracted. It was too much and I was obsessing. I couldn’t stop thinking about the car and became extremely angry. If the owner appeared in my presence, I’d end up ripping him a new one for being an arsehole. If the tow truck came, I’d be tempted to help him break a window.
I . . . . .
The Girlfriend informed me there’s a . . . . .
I broke the law today. The Girlfriend thinks I’m evil person and continuous lawbreaker–but it’s not something I do every day (unless keeping a dead hooker buried in your basement is illegal). I should probably hire a lawyer and only confess my wrongdoings to a priest but I’m so damn emotional about the topic I can’t keep my mouth shut.
I was stuck in yet another freeway traffic jam. This one was nowhere near as bad as previous timewasters–but frustrating nonetheless. My friends and coworkers tell me I should take solace in that at least I’m getting paid to sit in traffic but it’s just not enough for me. Getting outside is great and being in a cubicle sucks: but sitting in traffic isn’t much better. I suppose technically I’m outside. But with all the exhaust from other cars, you can’t roll the window down. The car feels like a plush prison cell, equipped with a radio and air conditioning.
As I was parked on the freeway, I watched the vehicles in the carpool lane brisk past me. I was moving a swift ten miles per hour; they were driving about six times faster than that. And even though they . . . . .
When The Girlfriend I went to San Diego last month, we stayed at a hotel that just open. And by just opened, I mean two days prior. The place was brand spanking new–so new that the address couldn’t be found on Mapquest.
There’s a difference between a national hotel chain opening up and a lavish grand opening on the Las Vegas strip. Instead of celebrities and glitzy, that San Diego hotel opened to empty rooms and hallways that reeked of glue. Las Vegas hotels work out all their kinks beforehand; smalltime San Diego hotels lock their guests outside at night because the door near the pool doesn’t work (thank goodness I managed to flag down an employee; otherwise, I would’ve had to spend the evening sleeping on a pool cot).
I’ve stayed at an Unidentified National Hotel Chain many times before and one of the reasons I do so is because the free breakfast they offer in the morning. I’m not talking a continental breakfast composed of generic cereal and day-old bagels. No, no–Unidentified National Hotel Chains have wonderful fresh, hot breakfasts. Eggs, waffles, bacon–a true, real breakfast with the quality of Denny’s–sans the smell of old people on the . . . . .
I read an article online that said the earth has four billion phone lines and one billion computers. That ratio doesn’t seem right. Four to one? I have one phone line and about a dozen computers–I must be throwing the scale off.
This story is a little old, but it took me a while to gather all the facts before I attempted my spin on it (whaddya know: I can do research). A while back, the LA Times reported that an LA judge named Alex Kozinski had a pornographic website. I’m giving you the gist of the story because there’s no need for me to reiterate the whole LA Times piece. The highlights include “a video described as a half-dressed man cavorting with a sexually aroused farm animal” and “the judge acknowledged maintaining his own publicly accessible website featuring sexually explicit photos and videos.”
Once the story ended up on wire services, it took off. Why wouldn’t it? It was sleazy and involved a prominent judge…who just so happened to be presiding over a trial about porn. This story was as juicy as they come. For almost a week, Judge Kozinski got ripped in national media. He was considered a . . . . .
I recently had to renew my car insurance–that means it’s time for my semi-annual insurance complaint (just because I stopped complaining doesn’t mean it’s no longer true). My dues went up (again). I spent $400 on car insurance in 2007 with nothing to show for it. I spent another $220 for the first six months of ’08. Now it’s up to something like $250. What a total waste of money: the day I get a dime out of car insurance is that a teen starlet does not flash her privates on the internet. At least one of the two gives me pleasure.
George Carlin died last week and I can’t help but feel a little sad. I’m not sure why–I’m not the type to get caught up in celebrities’ deaths. I guess there was just something to George Carlin: besides being a funny comic, he just seemed like a real likeable guy.
There is a tremendous amount of media coverage of his death–many other celebrities are saddened by his death. I’ve read Carlin tributes from Matthew Berry and Kevin Smith–just a wide spectrum of different folks in different strokes of the entertainment business. There’s one common thread I’ve notice amongst . . . . .
Everyone has a birthday and everyone deserves a special day on their birthday–that’s why I had no problem going all out for The Girlfriend’s birthday this year. When you meet the girl you’re going to marry you better damn well treat her like a queen…even if it means having to go see Kathy Griffin perform. I spent $70 a ticket–good money that could buy a lot of pizza and porn–and took The Girlfriend to see comic’s show. Not a lot of straight males buy Kathy Griffin tickets and I now fear I might end up on a gay watch list.
It turns out my fear was more substantial than I thought. In a crowd of a few thousand people, there were approximately three straight males. The gay quota was through the roof–including an obnoxious gay guy who sat directly in front of us. Normally I don’t have a problem with the gays–after all, I used to work at Disneyland. In fact, I’ve come to realize that I love gay dudes (there’s something about that statement that will probably worry my mother). Gay guys always seem to have an energy about them. They love life and are always jovial (maybe that’s . . . . .
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