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Now that our car quest is over and The Wife has a suitable vehicle, I am in the process of trying to unload her car on some poor, unsuspecting sucker. Not that I’m trying to scam anyone–I’m very clear about the process and have no intention of hiding the blown head gasket (it’s not like you can hide a blown head gasket anyway–the car shakes like a earthquake when you drive it).
In the past, I’ve always used Autotrader to buy and sell cars. But about a dozen years ago something called the internet got invented (by Al Gore) and launched all sorts of wonderful free services–most notably, Craigslist. Craigslist has been in the news an awful lot lately. For those unfamiliar with the service, Craigslist offers more than overweight strippers and dirt cheap hookers–you can also buy and sell goods. So instead of plopping down 50 bucks on Autotrader, I opted to try posting a free ad on Craigslist.
They say in life you get what you pay for. Perhaps that’s the attitude of Craigslist shoppers: they figure since the ad is free, the product should also be available at a significant discount. I can’t believe the riffraff I’ve . . . . .
The other day I walked passed a booth of volunteers trying to get people to register to vote. A chik jumped in front of me and asked with her biggest smile, “Are you registered to vote?”
“Of course I am,” I said politely. While I saw no need to be rude, this was a conversation I really didn’t want to participate in. With finals to worry about, 90 percent of my brainpower was focused on something else and I didn’t even realize I was talking to her.
“That’s wonderful,” she replied. “Would you like to volunteer your time?”
And without realizing what I was doing, I blurted out a laugh. I feel a little bad because I respect what she was doing…but volunteer work is just something I don’t believe in. Kinda like charity and the Easter Bunny.
The “Terminator” movie recently came out. I have little interest in seeing it in the theaters because of my “no sequel” policy. The Wife, on the other hand, is dying to see it. Even though she’s never seen a Terminator movie before, she’s driven to view this incarnation because she finds Christian Bale dreamy. Seems like faulty logic to me. I think . . . . .
With summer time fast approaching, I felt it was time to embrace my summer ‘do and shave my head. I wasn’t allowed to shave my head last summer because The Wife wanted to make sure I had hair for our wedding (which is kinda silly because it takes me about three weeks to grow a full head of hair). I like to buzz my hair short for the summer because it gets ungodly hot. Plus, sometimes I just get sick of hair. All the washing and conditioning. Spending two or three minutes every morning styling it. Not being able to wear a hat because I’ll mess it up. Just between you, me, and the World Wide Web I’d much rather sport a maintenance-free shaved head than look good with my dark, curly locks.
I have always put comfort over appearance (a trait that’s obvious to anyone who has ever seen my wardrobe). Funny thing about personal appearance, you rarely get to look at it. Sure, there are those few minutes in front of the mirror in the morning or perhaps if someone snaps a photo. But for the most part, you never look at yourself. Suppose I buy a new . . . . .
While using a public restroom earlier today, I couldn’t help but notice the, uh, ‘artwork’ that decorated the stalls. Besides the dirty lyrics and phone numbers of girls looking for a good time, there were quite a few penises drawn on the walls. What compelled a man to draw a penis (I’m assuming man–this was a men’s room)? Much like any other drawing, it’s a skill that is perfected and mastered through time. Did Matt Groening draw a perfect Homer first time he sketched with his crayons? Of course not–through practice, he evolved to the point he could sketch the entire Simpson family in about 15 seconds. Same is probably true for the penis-sketchers. They spend their free time doodling ding-a-lings that they can throw one on a bathroom wall in seconds. I find a bit of irony in that. Those who write are walls do so to prove their manhood. They tend to be lowlife scumbags who masquerade in a macho persona. But if you’re a guy who spends his free time drawing penis replications, exactly how manly are you? If anything, that kinda fascinated with male genitals strikes me as a bit gay. But that’s just my take. . . . . .
When I was little, I thought Grownups knew everything. Whether it be a math problem, spelling a word, or trying to identify a rash, I felt like a Grownup would know the answer. Grownups were always so together–so calm and knowledgeable. That’s what made Grownups better than kids–they knew everything about everything. Maybe it’s because both of my parents were smart so I grew up in a home where knowledge was prevalent. Grownups weren’t just older kids–they were perfect people. They went to school, got smart, and became Grownups.
Six-year olds are naïve I was no different. I thought there was nothing a Grownup didn’t know or couldn’t do. My dad was always repairing the house, growing plants, and watching sports–it felt like he knew everything. My mom use to cook, fix all my booboos, and could answer any question I ever gave her. They were Grownups and in complete control of their lives.
My folks had me in their mid-20s–I’m getting close to an age when I can remember my parents being as old as I am now. I have memories dating back to when I was three-years old. I guess what I’m trying to say is I’m older . . . . .
My 32nd birthday is approaching and I’ve reached the point in my life where I’m comfortable with what I know…at least I thought I was until I discovered I’ve been using commas wrong for my entire life. Of course, you probably already knew that–you’ve read what I wrote. I took grammar classes and earned a degree in English…only to discover I’ve been completely wrong. now I either hafta unlearn 25 years of improper punctuation (not an easy task) or try to forget what I discovered and continue doing what I’ve always done (easier…but there’s a pride-thing involved).
I was doing homework and stumbled across the definition of independent clauses and this little sentence:
I didn’t know which job I wanted, and I was too confused to decide.
In my opinion, that sentence is improperly punctuated. To me, that comma is completely unnecessary. I don’t know where or why, it just is (comma splice comes to mind). I see that sentence contain two, separate ideas and they’re joined together by an ‘and.’ Alas, it takes more than an ‘and’ to join separate clauses together–you need a comma, too.
Maybe it’s because I grew in New Jersey and they’re not too keen . . . . .
I am a big fan of crappy teen dramas. It started way back with the original “90210” and continues today with the new “90210.” When I was in the midst of my “Dawson’s Creek” phase, I wondered how these television producers could keep coming up with new teen drama plotlines. Every teenager in America goes through the same struggles. I don’t wanna lessen their trauma, but how different is the “Dawson” version of teen drinking compared to “One Tree Hill?” It’s hard to tell a story that’s already been told–at least hard to do and make it seem fresh and interesting.
Back in the original “90210” I remember losing one’s virginity was a major plotline. This theme eventually gets explored in every teen drama and to this 31-year old adult, it’s a little played out. I know I’m not the target audience of these shows, but I’m sure I’m not the only 30-something watching (and if I am, I really need to rethink my life). The shock value of teen sex is completely gone. I remember how controversial a 1991 episode of “Roseanne” was because 17-year old Becky wanted to go on birth control. Unfortunately, that sorta “shock” isn’t shocking . . . . .
Air travel is far from an exact science. I’m not much of a flyer because I rarely go anywhere. When I do, I wonder if it’s worth the inconvenience. Don’t get me wrong: if you’re traveling to Hawaii, it’s worth flying because no one has built a bridge yet. But the hoops and hassles you need to go through for short trips has me wondering if it just be easy to drive.
Passengers are required to get to the airport 90 minutes before their flight leaves. You gotta check in your bags. Worry if the bags weigh too much. Go through the gate. Take off your shoes. Be subjected to random searches. Turn on your electronics. Turn off your electronics. Getting on a plane feels like a twisted version of “Simon Says.”
I understand the need for these security steps but it’s a darn shame that everyone has to go through this because of a few bad apples. A few years ago, some idiot tried to smuggle a bomb on a plane through his shoes and now every commercial passenger is required to put their shoes through an x-ray machine. Eight years ago, a bunch of deranged idiots decided to . . . . .
Recently I walked out of a Jon Cena movie…but not for the reasons you’d think. It only took about five minutes of the “12 Rounds” to make me sick (also not for reasons you’d think). The movie is part of a growing phenomenon in cinematography that I think is ruining movies. I can live with WWE superstars make movies; I can’t stand movies shot on hand cameras.
I don’t understand why more and more movies are shot this way. Instead of using a perfectly balance tripod, a great deal of movies today are shot by handheld cameras. I think directors do it to create a ‘gritty’ feel that puts the audience into the action (in reality, it puts me in the bathroom). This is a style that I’m not comfortable with. The quick pans and extreme close-ups make me queasier than an overeater at an all-you-can-eat buffet of week-old fish. I can’t stand it. Quick zoom. Quick cut. Extreme close-up. Pan left. Pan right. Hurl in the aisle–I’m telling you, it ain’t for me.
I’m not sure I get the appeal of it. Admittedly, I didn’t grow up watching music videos and I’m not a fan of rapid cuts–but I . . . . .
The concept of appraisal values is as confusing to me as slurred Spanish spoken by a stuttering drunk. My brother majored in business so maybe he might be able to grasp the concept better than me (then again, he turned that business degree into a lucrative career of waiting tables for a chain restaurant that promotes “flair”). To me, an item is only worth what people are willing to pay for it. If a rare, 16th century gold coin is worth $2 million that means there’s some bonehead out there with too much money willing to pay $2 million for it. If a painting is worth a hundred grand it’s because someone will pay $100,000 to get it. Guides, catalogs, and estimates mean nothing because I believe market determines price–not some ‘expert’ in an expensive suit with bifocals.
When I was a kid, I use to collect baseball cards and the baseball card collector’s bible was a monthly magazine called “Beckett.” Not only did it provide interesting articles, it also listed the price of every baseball card known to man. This was useful when trading cards with your buddies so nobody got ripped off (“I’ll trade your Carl Yastrzemski baseball . . . . .
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