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I was born in New Jersey and lived there until I was ten (technically, 9 and 11 months–but who’s really counting?). When my family packed up and moved to southern California I suppose we were kinda like the Clampetts. Actually, we were nothing like the Clampetts. They were rich and proud of their roots.
Once in California, my parents tried to dress me for the part–or at least what they thought the part was. I wore loud, outrageous shirts. I remember a bright orange thing with no sleeves: it looked like a karate vest crossed with a pumpkin. Crimes against nature like floral-print shorts and aviator sunglasses too large for my face. My hair was combed in a style that completely didn’t fit my head–or even suitable for the hair I was born with (you can’t slick dense, curly hair). I’ll admit: I was excited too–it was exhilarating to be cool and on the cusp of fashion greatness. Alas, “cool” is a relative term. What I thought was cool was miscast in Southern California, and–unfortunately for my self-esteem–the kids started laughing at me before I even made it to the bus stop.
In junior high I decided to adopt the . . . . .
The Wife calls me a sports snob. It’s a term I have come to embrace because it’s true: I don’t like talking sports with most people because most people are idiots. Well, maybe idiots is too harsh of a term–they’re not as knowledgably as me (probably because they have families and lives and all that stuff). Remember that time when I went to the Angel game and I was appalled because the “fans” next to me had no idea who Mark Teixeira was (or how to say his name)? Yeah, stuff like that.
My snobbery is only part of my problem. I work at an elementary school that literally has three male employees (the AP, custodian, and me). Sure, it’s nice knowing I pretty much have a private bathroom (although messy situations become harder to deny), but it also leaves with me a sports void because I have no one to talk to. Being a sports snob and trying to discuss the read option with a pregnant fourth grade teacher isn’t exactly fulfilling. Even if I tried to dumb myself down just for the sake of talking to another human being it wouldn’t be possibly.
I’ve tried keeping an open . . . . .
The time has come for me to replace the Almighty Honda. This is not something I want to do. I dread all aspects of it. Even as I write this, I’m doing so in darkness and out of earshot of my car (ya know, just in case it overhears). I think it would be easier to replace The Wife than replace the car, but then again I’ve had the car longer than The Wife (it has seniority). Despite my reservations, the truth is I’m driving a car that’s twice as old as my students and it’s just time for a change.
Reasons for change? Well, did I mention I’m driving a car twice as old as my students? This would be fine if my students were younger than five or older than 25. Anything else in-between means I’m driving an old car. Not a classic. Just old. Kind of like that lame age for Grownups between 35 and 55 when you’re expected to behave responsibly (reckless fun by youngsters is considered “youthful indiscretion;” reckless fun by seniors is “too old to know any better”).
I’ve also noticed I’ve been getting pulled over more often. Not for moving violations–just “checking . . . . .
I haven’t had much to be proud of lately. I work at a job that suits the financial needs of a teenager. I haven’t had a good haircut since 2008. I’m a burden on society and take more in government aid than I pay in taxes. But I can proudly proclaim I had a gas-free October. I filled up my gas tank on November 2nd. The last time I bought gas before that was September 23rd–meaning I did not buy gas for the entire month of October. Driving a highly fuel-efficient Honda played a big part in that, but I’ve had the car for almost four years and I’ve been getting 35 miles per gallon from the beginning. I was able to go six weeks in between fill-ups thanks to a perfect storm of events that left my car at home more often than not (no, it didn’t break down–it’s a Honda). Since I’m only taken one class, I only go to school once a week. October was filled with rainouts and byes, so I had only a couple softball games all month. And since work is a mere four-minute walk, it’d be wasteful to drive there. I typically go . . . . .
When text messaging was first introduced to the world, I thought it was an absurd concept. I mean, why take the time to type someone a message when it’s much easier to verbally tell them? Cell phone companies tried to tell us how useful texting was. I remember a commercial that showed two people at a party who were unable to talk to each other because the music was too loud. Being hip and smart, they used their cell phones and communicated via text messaging. Seemed foolish to me. If a party is that loud, go outside. And who goes to a party with music that loud? Plus, it cost something like 10 cents a message. Nothing I ever had to say seemed worth 10 cents. I stayed away from text messaging like Tigers Woods stayed away from controversy. But that was then…
…this is now. Today, I’m a big texter. The Wife gets angry ’cause I spend way too much texting other people instead of talking to her. I’m glad I’m on an unlimited texting plan ’cause if I wasn’t, I’d probably spend a full month’s unemployment check on text messages. I send and receive more texts than you’re . . . . .
I read an article about a woman who was hit by four separate cars while trying to walk across the freeway (and you thought you were having a bad day). The first car hit her and pulled over. As the woman started to get up, another car hit her. A third and fourth car hit her as she was lying on the road. Needless to say, the pedestrian didn’t make it (further proof people are not cars and shouldn’t be walking on the freeway).
But the part that stands out most to me is two of the four drivers drove off without sticking around to make sure she was okay or talk to the police. I gotta hope there’s a special place in Hell for people that hit someone with their car and drive away because they don’t want to be held liable for their actions. I understand if someone robs a liquor store because they need the money. I can relate to someone who kills their wife for the insurance money. I can even fathom stabbing someone over a pair of sneakers. But I have no sympathy for the people who ran over this gal on the freeway. After . . . . .
Sitting at home on a Friday night, I managed to stumble across something wonderful on the television. I’m sure everyone has heard of the Lingerie Bowl–but did you know there’s actually Lingerie Football League? It’s was the most entertaining thing I’ve seen in months…and not for the reasons you’d think.
The LFL is horrible, hideous, and the most pathetic business venture I’ve seen since my parents decided to open up their own restaurant. The football was beyond bad. The announcers took their job too seriously. And the uniforms looked like a pathetic attempt at creating risqué Halloween costumes. Maybe it’s the part of me that loves watching a train wreck, but I couldn’t look away. I found myself laughing, crying, and wishing I had a bunch of buddies over so I could watch the spectacle with other train wreck fans.
Where do I begin? Wow. Speechless–I feel speechless. I don’t know what to mock first!
I guess we’ll start with the football. As gridiron junkie, I can appreciate good football like a Frenchman saviors a fine cheese. What these girls were playing couldn’t be called football–ten-year olds play better football than what I saw (at least 10-year olds try . . . . .
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 . . . . .
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. . . . . .
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 . . . . .
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