|
|
When life gets too busy or I have nothing to complain about, I just reach back and find something I wrote earlier but never posted (usually because it was uninteresting or poorly written…or maybe even both). This is one of those stories.
Over the weekend I had a particularly embarrassing incident. I woke up in the middle of the night to take a tinkle. I’ve been living in this house for three years; peeing in the same bathroom for three years. I haven’t moved any furniture since the day I got here and am pretty capable of wandering around in the dark. I made my way to the bathroom and started to go…only to discover the toilet seat cover was down. Call me unsivilzed if you want, but I live alone so I never bother putting the cover down. That’s why I didn’t bother to check before I went. In retrospect, I probably should’ve–but it was dark, I was tired, and we’re talking about three years of conditioning here. The sound immediately told me something was wrong so I put the brakes on and assessed the situation. The toilet seat cover was down and I missed like no man had . . . . .
The Olympics start this week…but does anyone really care? Do you know anybody who actually gets excited about the Olympics? I don’t know anyone who watches. Outside the big-name events (men’s basketball and Michael Phelps) I don’t know anyone who cares. I certainly don’t care. There’s no fun in watching someone run around a track. There’s only so many times I can watch a person swim in a pool (zero). There are very few mainstream events in our society that are as past their prime as the Olympics. I truly believe no one gives a crud…other than the athletes involved. If the world were to somehow skip an Olympics, do you think anyone would even notice? I don’t.
Recently I was sitting outside a very rich and classy hotel. It was one of those expensive joints–the kinda place where two nights cost more than I pay in month for rent. Normally I wouldn’t be caught dead near such an establishment, but an assignment for work put me at the hotel’s entrance for a few hours. Since my job isn’t challenging, I had little to do other than watch numerous cars come to the valet and wait to get parked. It . . . . .
I finally got around to seeing “The Dark Knight” this weekend and I noticed there was quite a lot of the dialogue I didn’t pick up. My initial fear is that I spent way too much time with headphones plugged into my ears and was now paying the price with a hearing loss (but I only listen to talk radio podcasts with the volume extremely low!). Immediately after the movie, The Girlfriend said how much she loved the movie. “The only thing I didn’t like was the score: it was too loud and it drummed out a lot of the dialogue.”
Thank goodness! I didn’t wanna say nothing at first because it would like admitting I’m starting to go deaf. But when she confirmed the same problem I had, it meant either we were losing our hearing or there was something seriously off with the audio ratios of the movie. Either way, I’m happy. If I’m gonna go deaf with someone, it might as well be the person I’m going to marry.
I was at the Wal-Mart recently when I heard a six-year old kid say to his mom “Can we buy it? It’s only $300.”
What kinda world is . . . . .
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 . . . . .
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 . . . . .
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 . . . . .
I know I’m not exactly the foremost expert on hipness and what’s in. I might still have t-shirts I wore in high school and drive a car built when “Saved By The Bell” was on the air. But I don’t go out of my way to prove how dated I am. There’s something that has caught my eye this election season. A lot of folks have presidential bumper stickers on their cars–and their certainly entitled to do so. I applaud folks who are actively aware in politics and don’t make their decisions based on an ad campaign. What I don’t understand are the folks sporting older bumper stickers.
At least once a month, I see a car with a Kerry/Edwards sticker on the back. There are folks out there who want people to vote “Dole ’96.” That’s all fine and good…if you want to the world to know you support losers. What’s the point in having a political bumper sticker from an election that’s already over? I know pretty much everyone hates George Bush–but campaigning for Al Gore in 2008 won’t really help.
Let it go people. Peel off those ancient bumper stickers. It’s not like we’re talking about catch . . . . .
My brother’s birthday was last week. He wanted me to come join him and some friends in LA at a bar around 9:30 at night. I had to decline. It has nothing to do with LA, booze, or even my brother. The real hold up is the 9:30 part.
I don’t know what happened to me or where the turning point came, but 9:30 at night feels so late. At 9:30 if I’m not sleepy, I’m thinking about being sleepy. Who goes out at 9:30? Nine-thirty should be coming home time. It should be the end of your evening–not the start.
I’ve gotten so old. It used to be 9:30 was a great time to go out. When I used to go to the movies with friends, I loved the post-11 p.m. showings. You could go out, have dinner, goof around, and then go see a movie. Now I dread shows after eight because I like to be home before ten. Having a fulltime job has a lot to do with it–but many folks party all night and still show up to work every morning. I’m just old.
A lesbian couple in Seattle made news this week because they were . . . . .
I never understood the joy of fishing. You sit there and nothing happens. As far as I can tell, it’s all luck. You give two guys the same bare, pole, and lake, there’s nothing either one of ’em can do to catch more fish. They throw their lines and hope something is dumb enough to bite.
Gas prices are skyrocketing and I have little sympathy for those who complain at the pump. America is a society where people really couldn’t care less about the price of gas. Sure, they’ll bitch and complain about how much it cost to fill-up. The evening news will cover numerous stories regarding the hardships people experience. You might even catch a person or two suggest they’ll drive less.
But the truth is actions speak louder than words. If Americans really wanted to do something about the price of gas, they’d take action against it. Look at the roads today–the streets are jam-packed with SVUs and other non-economical vehicles. American’s are obsessed with big cars and powerful engines. There’s a reason there’s more Suburbans on the road than Focuses–Americans love their big cars.
Rising fuel costs isn’t anything new. A decade ago, I remember when gas . . . . .
The gravitational pull that is my giant head pulled in a new object the other day while playing softball. I was walking back to the dugout when someone chucked a bat in my general direction. I didn’t see it–but I heard screams to look out. Instinctively, I crouched down and covered my head with my arms. The bat narrowly missed me, falling in between my legs, ricocheted off the ground, and hit me square in the manhood. I wish I could boast about the benefits of wearing a cup…unfortunately, I’ve never been the athletic support type.
Now the skeptic would say this is proof that my head isn’t that large and it doesn’t have its own gravitational pull. Instead of hitting me in the cranium, the bat fell short. But a softball bat is a heavy object. I believe the gravitational field of my head pulled the bat closer to me–but wasn’t strong enough to fully pull that bat into my head. Kinda like the way comets circle around the sun. Gravity is strong enough to alter the orbit–but not enough to pull the object in.
And that’s what it’s come down to: I’m comparing my head to celestial objects. . . . . .
|
|
