|
|
I have spent way too much time over the past couple weeks talking about politics. Sure, it’s a subject that fires me up–and I guess it’s best to write about something you care about–but that’s not the kinda writer I wanna be. I like writing about funny stuff. I like telling amusing, lighthearted stories with my own slanted view on society. So enough with the gloom, doom, and negativity–let’s talk about something fun.
From the “it could only happen to me category,” lemme tellya about the snafu I somehow managed to get caught up in with my landlord. I learned a long time ago I’d much rather have something do something automagically than be held responsible to remember to do it myself. It’s not so much because I’m forgetful…I just sorta get distracted and ignore responsibilities for something more amusing. Either that, or I’m lazy. In any case, it’s all automatic for me. Programming the VCR to record shows (back when I had a VCR) even if I planned on staying home to watch them (ya know, just in case). My phone is “programmed” to change to “audible” every night just in case I fall asleep with it on vibrate. . . . . .
Things were different a hundred years ago. Blacks couldn’t vote (or run for president). Women couldn’t vote (or run for vice president). I don’t know what the price of gas was, but I’m sure it was cheaper than today. Even marriage was different. Back then, a wedding consisted of a guy, gal, her dad, and a shotgun. It was so much simpler. A modern wedding includes all of those things–plus numerous forms, fees, and other unnecessary bureaucracies.
The Girlfriend and I had to apply for a marriage license. Who needs a license to get married? Can that license get revoked? Why do we need the government’s permission to get married? It’s not like the state has any right to deny anyone marriage. Not anymore. Assuming were dealing with two human beings, everyone has the right to get married in California.
Applying for a marriage license isn’t that hard–the hardest part is come up with the 60 bucks required to get a license. Unfortunately, marriage licenses aren’t granted online or over the phone so we had to trek down to the courthouse to get our license. What a sight that was. You see it in television and movies all the time, . . . . .
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 . . . . .
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 . . . . .
When I was in high school, I used to bike pretty much everywhere. Soccer practice, friends’ houses, Music Warehouse–anywhere I had to be I got there by bicycle. My buddy and I had annual passes to Knott’s Berry Farm and we spent a lot of summer days there. A few times we went over to the beach…even though none of us liked to swim. I biked to Disneyland when I didn’t feel like driving just because I could (Disneyland, Knott’s, and the beach were all with in biking distance…yet somehow I was always bored). I think my radius was about ten miles.
A couple years after high school I abandoned my bicycling ways. Work ended up being too far to bike and it was awfully hard to pick up girls for dates on a Huffy. Like most things in life, it’s not like I stopped biking cold turkey: it sorta just phased its way out of my life.
But for years I’ve felt bad about it. I used to love biking. It was fun, easy, and fast (mainly ’cause I ignored every traffic law imaginable). When I went to college, it was easier to bike there because finding a parking . . . . .
My dear friend Red Jesus owes me a rather sizable sum of money and when I bought pizza tonight, it bumped up the tab ten bucks. “That’s $83 you owe me now,” I reminded him.
Being the kind of person who doesn’t like having debt hanging over his head, Red Jesus reached for his wallet. He didn’t have the $83 on him–but he had some cash and wanted to make a dent in his outstanding debt. “Here ya go,” he said and handed me some cash.
“Three bucks?” I said to him.
“You’ll get your money,” he said, tying to justify the smallest good-faith payment the world has ever seen. With deadbeats like that, who needs enemies?
Let’s dive into a quickie about the health care industry. Since Dr. Zaius and Sacred Heart Hospital tried killing me (which is another story I’d like to tell–but we’ll save that for different day), I wanna see a different doctor regarding my deviated septum. I don’t know why it took me two months to contact the insurance (maybe it’s because deep-down, I knew it’d be a pain in the ass). I called the insurance and explained my situation. Dr. Zaius said I had . . . . .
I was at Disneyland with The Girlfriend trying to recuperate from the 451 degree temperature outside. We noticed a kid run by us, screaming with tears in his eyes. He was a tiny lad–The Girlfriend said he looked to be about three-years old but I’m never good at that sorta assessment. What I am good at is recognizing other people’s misery. The kid was bawling hysterically and my immediate assumption was the kid was lost. But then I saw a pack of 12-year old girls flock to his aid and figured one of them had to be his sister. The girls’ behavior struck me a particular. They kept their distance from the boy; trying to engage in conversation but were intentionally avoiding contact. A sister would pick up or hug her crying little brother. Something seemed amiss and that’s when I intervened.
“Is he lost,” I asked the girls.
They said yes and he started screaming “I want my mommy!”
“Where did you last see her?” He pointed in the direction he came from–completely far from where we were.
“We need to find a cast member.” With Disneyland routinely welcoming more than 40,000 guests a day, a lost child . . . . .
Been kind of a slow week–two weeks. Nothing interesting happened to me. nothing to complain about. Despite the drought, I still feel compelled to post something. Instead of resorting to reruns, I’ll dig up something I wrote a few months back but never posted. Just ’cause it didn’t happen yesterday doesn’t mean it isn’t interesting.
Who am I kidding? None of this is interesting.
Last night some idiot parked in my driveway. I was angered because it’s a total sign of disrespect. I’m not talking about a designated parking spot with a “reserved” sign. I don’t mean parked in front of my house. I don’t even mean parked in an area that all of my neighbors and I have come to accept as ‘my spot.’ I mean he literally parked in my driveway. There’s no grey area. It’s the spot right in front of my house separated from the street. It has my personal property in front and to the side of it. This arsehole knew exactly what he was doing when he parked in my driveway–it’s not the sorta mistake one can accidentally make.
Imagine the frustration one feels when coming home from work to find a stranger’s . . . . .
I’m thinking of abandoning the iRANT on MySpace. I don’t see the need for it anymore and I really don’t have the time to deal with it. I write for me–not for an audience. Friends, family, and loved ones often peek in to see what I’ve written. I’ve also managed to build up a small audience of strangers on MySpace. But I don’t need MySpace anymore–not when I have a fully-functionally website (yes, even to Mac users). I’d get more hits at MySpace, but I’m not doing this for the hits. I write for me. If anyone cares to read it, they’re more than welcomed to (unless you’re a coworker). My regular readers would still be free to find the iRANT on my website. I just feel like MySpace isn’t worth the aggravation of trying to post the iRANT–not when I really don’t give a damn if anyone reads it or not. We’ll see…
I was late picking up The Girlfriend for lunch. After profusely and repeatedly apologizing, she let me off fairly easy. “I got to see a really funny car accident while waiting,” she said. She then proceeded to tell me how she watched a guy step into . . . . .
Friday afternoon I was driving through a parking lot when it happened: some idiot backed his car into me. They say during traumatic experiences, things slow down for people. I remember sitting in my car watching it slowly happen–but I think the slowing effect was due to him going about three miles per hour. There was a green Lexus in front of me, also circling the lot for a spot. For reasons unknown to me, he stopped his vehicle and the reverse lights came on. The car started slowly backing towards me. I’m not sure why I didn’t honk the horn–probably because I didn’t believe what was happening before me. Dude had to have seen me–I was right behind him and it’s not like I came out of nowhere. Besides, what kinda idiot drives in reverse without looking behind him? Review mirror. Looking around. I figured he had to see me. Alas, he was as blind as I was wrong: even when he bumped me, I still couldn’t believe it was happening.
I didn’t know what to say or do, so I sat in my car contemplating my options. The guy was obviously an idiot but I wasn’t sure if . . . . .
|
|
