It's impossible to fully grasp the destruction on the gulf coast right now. As my mom said in an email today, "New Orleans is in deep trouble!" Yes, yes it is. It will be uninhabitable for months. Surrounding parishes are destroyed and will need to be completely rebuilt. People are being herded like cattle from the Superdome to the Astrodome. Everybody is being evacuated, the upside of which is that the looting should stop. No water, no power, no AC, no highway, no flights. Similar messes in Mississippi and Alabama. Gas prices ratcheting up to $3.29 around the country. The toll on the environment will be devastating. And who knows what's even going to be left when they finally dry out? Jesus.
8.31.2005
Fade Into You – Mazzy Star
(for early-in-the-relationship, candles all over the room sex)
Whole Lotta Love – Led Zeppelin
(for sweaty groupie sex)
Electrical Storm – U2
(for 99% humidity, severe thunderstorm sex)
Crash – Dave Matthews
(for afternoon delight sex)
Hey Lover – LL Cool J
(for slow, figure-eight hip grinding sex)
Closer - NIN
(for playing around with handcuffs sex)
Possession – Sarah McLachlan
(for sex with your ex)
So Whatcha Want – Beastie Boys
(for frat boy sex)
The Best of What’s Around – Dave Matthews
(for drunk weeknight college sex)
Champagne Supernova – Oasis
(for pretentious hipster sex)
Temptation Waits – Garbage
(for blindfolded and tied to the bedposts sex)
Can I Take You Home Tonight – Boston
(for pulling over on the side of the road sex)
Wicked Game – Chris Isaak
(for beach sex)
Crazy on You - Heart
(for bathroom of the bar sex)
Magnet and Steel – Walter Egan
(for high and lazy sex)
Babe I’m Gonna Leave You – Led Zeppelin
(for slapping each other around sex)
Country Feedback – R.E.M.
(for post-fight make-up sex)
Crazy Love – Van Morrison
(for actually being in love sex)
In the Air Tonight – Phil Collins
(for outdoor sex)
Rag Doll – Aerosmith
(for three-or-more-way sex)
I Drove All Night – Cyndi Lauper
(for long-distance, haven't seen each other in forever sex)
Suck My Kiss – Red Hot Chili Peppers
(for acrobatic sex)
Hella Good - No Doubt
(for solo sex)
(for early-in-the-relationship, candles all over the room sex)
Whole Lotta Love – Led Zeppelin
(for sweaty groupie sex)
Electrical Storm – U2
(for 99% humidity, severe thunderstorm sex)
Crash – Dave Matthews
(for afternoon delight sex)
Hey Lover – LL Cool J
(for slow, figure-eight hip grinding sex)
Closer - NIN
(for playing around with handcuffs sex)
Possession – Sarah McLachlan
(for sex with your ex)
So Whatcha Want – Beastie Boys
(for frat boy sex)
The Best of What’s Around – Dave Matthews
(for drunk weeknight college sex)
Champagne Supernova – Oasis
(for pretentious hipster sex)
Temptation Waits – Garbage
(for blindfolded and tied to the bedposts sex)
Can I Take You Home Tonight – Boston
(for pulling over on the side of the road sex)
Wicked Game – Chris Isaak
(for beach sex)
Crazy on You - Heart
(for bathroom of the bar sex)
Magnet and Steel – Walter Egan
(for high and lazy sex)
Babe I’m Gonna Leave You – Led Zeppelin
(for slapping each other around sex)
Country Feedback – R.E.M.
(for post-fight make-up sex)
Crazy Love – Van Morrison
(for actually being in love sex)
In the Air Tonight – Phil Collins
(for outdoor sex)
Rag Doll – Aerosmith
(for three-or-more-way sex)
I Drove All Night – Cyndi Lauper
(for long-distance, haven't seen each other in forever sex)
Suck My Kiss – Red Hot Chili Peppers
(for acrobatic sex)
Hella Good - No Doubt
(for solo sex)
8.29.2005
I'm all fakakta this morning because the alarm didn't go off. I woke up on my own at 7:50. I'm supposed to be at work at 8:00. It was like a Dane Cook moment: "I'm LATE for the thing I HATE!" Fortunately nobody comes over and stabs me in the jaw if I roll in at at 8:30. And Joe was still able to shower and make it to work on time.
But I'm pissed about waking up late because I wanted to watch as much coverage of Hurricane Katrina's landfall as possible. I'm an inch-deep science geek when it comes to things like space and weather and plate tectonics, so the pairing of natural disasters and television is a beautiful one. That shit is scary and titillating and awe-inspiring. Human suffering is a sad and unfortunate by-product, but you have to marvel at nature's utterly ridiculous capacity for destruction. I do, anyway.
Even though I feel awful for the people who will be impacted, major televised weather events still do it for me: the doomsday predictions by helmet-haired anchors, coverage of pre-event preparations (flashlights and bottled water flying off store shelves, highways jammed in one direction due to mandatory evacations), the exhaustive repetition of every new visual, soundbyte and morsel of data, the radar maps and projections and consulting of federal agency experts. And the networks really do their job at those times... I'm locked in, flipping channels, absorbing the same information fifty different ways, adrenaline zipping through my bloodstream like an F1 racecar.
Hurricanes, tornadoes, nor'easters, blizzards, ice storms, whatever it is, I'm there, I'm watching it. I even glue myself to the TV in the winter when they're predicting a routine snowstorm; they always create this stir like we're in some sort of unprecedented danger. Stay indoors! Be prepared to wake up to the presence of a strange and potentially deadly white substance coating outdoor surfaces! Take appropriate precautions! If the area where I live is in the ring with the highest totals, I feel a surge of "YES. We're gonna get SLAMMED." Because if you're going to get snow, why not get the MOST snow and then your town gets on the news because like, a tree fell and dented a car roof.
The best, of course, are the dramatic reports by windblown, be-slickered meteorological field reporters during the actual event. The wind is howling and they're being pelted with sideways precipitation, all to show us a few plows going by, or a breached seawall with a few vessels playing bumper boats. The best is when the cameraman cleans the lens during a live broadcast, huge fingers or the sleeve of a sweatshirt smearing the view. It kills me that they go out there and do that, and that I get to sit at home and watch. Even now I'm fantasizing about how later on I'm going to go to the gym and watch the Weather Channel as I pound the treadmill. I'm probably going to do 2 hours on that thing. Then I'm going to go home and watch MORE.
But I'm pissed about waking up late because I wanted to watch as much coverage of Hurricane Katrina's landfall as possible. I'm an inch-deep science geek when it comes to things like space and weather and plate tectonics, so the pairing of natural disasters and television is a beautiful one. That shit is scary and titillating and awe-inspiring. Human suffering is a sad and unfortunate by-product, but you have to marvel at nature's utterly ridiculous capacity for destruction. I do, anyway.
Even though I feel awful for the people who will be impacted, major televised weather events still do it for me: the doomsday predictions by helmet-haired anchors, coverage of pre-event preparations (flashlights and bottled water flying off store shelves, highways jammed in one direction due to mandatory evacations), the exhaustive repetition of every new visual, soundbyte and morsel of data, the radar maps and projections and consulting of federal agency experts. And the networks really do their job at those times... I'm locked in, flipping channels, absorbing the same information fifty different ways, adrenaline zipping through my bloodstream like an F1 racecar.
Hurricanes, tornadoes, nor'easters, blizzards, ice storms, whatever it is, I'm there, I'm watching it. I even glue myself to the TV in the winter when they're predicting a routine snowstorm; they always create this stir like we're in some sort of unprecedented danger. Stay indoors! Be prepared to wake up to the presence of a strange and potentially deadly white substance coating outdoor surfaces! Take appropriate precautions! If the area where I live is in the ring with the highest totals, I feel a surge of "YES. We're gonna get SLAMMED." Because if you're going to get snow, why not get the MOST snow and then your town gets on the news because like, a tree fell and dented a car roof.
The best, of course, are the dramatic reports by windblown, be-slickered meteorological field reporters during the actual event. The wind is howling and they're being pelted with sideways precipitation, all to show us a few plows going by, or a breached seawall with a few vessels playing bumper boats. The best is when the cameraman cleans the lens during a live broadcast, huge fingers or the sleeve of a sweatshirt smearing the view. It kills me that they go out there and do that, and that I get to sit at home and watch. Even now I'm fantasizing about how later on I'm going to go to the gym and watch the Weather Channel as I pound the treadmill. I'm probably going to do 2 hours on that thing. Then I'm going to go home and watch MORE.
8.25.2005
Usually when I come home Joe is settled in his chair, idly watching Seinfeld and concentrating on the laptop screen. Today he wasn't. When I walked in, tired and sweaty from the gym, I could hear music. I went down the hall and saw the bathroom light on, the vacuum inside. The music was coming from the shower radio.
I went in to see what was up. Joe was there, on his hands and knees, scrubbing the grimy bathtub. "Wow, you're doing this?!" I exclaimed.
He turned and smiled. "Since you were in your funk, I wanted to do something nice for you," he said. "Go in the bedroom, there's something there too." I went in and found flowers on the bed, wrapped in green Winston's tissue.
"You did this for me??" I asked about ten times.
"I love you," he said. "I knew it would make you happy if this was done."
You don't have to clean the tub or buy me flowers to make me happy, sweetie, but thank you for both. You're the best husband in the world.
8.24.2005
It's almost the end of summer and I find myself in a rut. How the hell did that happen? Fuck that! Fuck ruts. I've been letting stress get to me, slacking at the gym, eating like I'm on permanent vacation, and sleeping poorly. The house needs to be scrubbed and vacuumed and dusted and I haven't felt like doing it. I need to donate a shitload of clothes to charity because they are crowding me out of my closets and drawers. I need to make my mom's birthday gift from fucking last year. I need to silence the pissy inner monologue yammering in my head.
So, I'm sufficiently pissed off about the state of things. I'm ready to climb out of the rut, dust myself off, and give it the double bird. I want to ask "But how?" except that I already know how. This isn't a "Where is my life going?" rut. I don't need to change my job or my living situation or my hair. This is a "How the hell did I get so lazy?" rut. All I need is to suck it up. Scrub the bathtub. Go through the clothes. Work out. Go to bed earlier. Get up earlier. Use my time more wisely. Let go of shit.
For the rest of this week I'm going to focus on positive thinking and committing to good habits: drinking water, wearing makeup, lifting weights, giving compliments, eating vegetables, whatever it takes to make me feel good. Next week I want to make a point of getting up earlier than usual... the days will go a lot smoother if I'm actually awake and alert when I leave the house. So many days I wake up tired, go to work sullen, spend the hours passively, go home feeling like the day was a waste, get up and do it again the next morning. What kind of way is that to live?
I know you all know what I'm talking about. Any of you in ruts? We've got to get out of them, for fuck's sake! We're lucky as hell to be young and healthy and free. Let's go get drunk.
So, I'm sufficiently pissed off about the state of things. I'm ready to climb out of the rut, dust myself off, and give it the double bird. I want to ask "But how?" except that I already know how. This isn't a "Where is my life going?" rut. I don't need to change my job or my living situation or my hair. This is a "How the hell did I get so lazy?" rut. All I need is to suck it up. Scrub the bathtub. Go through the clothes. Work out. Go to bed earlier. Get up earlier. Use my time more wisely. Let go of shit.
For the rest of this week I'm going to focus on positive thinking and committing to good habits: drinking water, wearing makeup, lifting weights, giving compliments, eating vegetables, whatever it takes to make me feel good. Next week I want to make a point of getting up earlier than usual... the days will go a lot smoother if I'm actually awake and alert when I leave the house. So many days I wake up tired, go to work sullen, spend the hours passively, go home feeling like the day was a waste, get up and do it again the next morning. What kind of way is that to live?
I know you all know what I'm talking about. Any of you in ruts? We've got to get out of them, for fuck's sake! We're lucky as hell to be young and healthy and free. Let's go get drunk.
8.22.2005
Ha, it's a good thing I got my Mark Bellhorn entry in since he's been designated for assignment. Farewell, Smellhorn, may you live to strike out looking another day.
This weekend was unusual. It started out with our attending a hastily planned wedding (no comment for the protection of all involved). After that we resumed our original plans, which were to escape up north. Since we got a late start, we arrived late in the afternoon after sitting in traffic listening to Dane Cook and watching the tempreature drop twenty degrees. We checked into our rustic little motel, went to dinner at a place that had a half hour wait as opposed to the hour and a half wait at the place we usually go, and saw the 40 Year Old Virgin at the Most Pathetic Movie Theater in the Free World.
To give you a sense of place, the Most Pathetic Movie Theater in the Free World was inside the Most Pathetic Mall in the Free World. This mall had been decaying since whenever it was built, and every available surface was brown: walls, floor, ceiling, benches, etc. I did not want to touch anything at this mall. In fact, it is a stretch to call it a mall at all because "mall" implies a busy mercantile establishment and this mall was comprised of just four craptacular stores (JC Penney, Payless, Waldenbooks and Fashion Bug), a kiosk advertising inground swimming pools, a Chinese restaurant called Panda Garden, and the theater.
But even though the mall was scary and the theater was pathetic and the screen was small and the floor was sticky and there was a funny smell and I may never be able to separate those details from my memories of seeing the movie, it was still funny as hell. Go see it if you want to laugh your ass off. Don't be scared by Steve Carell's weird-looking nipples and belly button during the waxing scene, but while we're on the subject, what the hell is going on with that? Was he involved in some sort of torso erasure accident and needed to have them surgically reconstructed?
Yesterday we drove down through the lakes region, hitting some of our usual stops, and we stopped for lunch. The waitress seemed vaguely familiar, like someone who could have looked like someone I used to know, nothing I would have obsessed over, but she asked me who I was and it turns out we went to school together. She is married to the brother of a girl in our class who bit me in second grade. We talked about who we still kept in touch with and about the people who never left town, including this girl who was the popularity queen of junior high who still lives with her parents. Apparently someone is trying to put together a 10-year reunion. I didn't ask where or when though, because fuck that.
Last night we watched the series finale of Six Feet Under. I could barely talk after it was over. That show was genius, can I just say? I think back on its five seasons and it was consistently emotional, jarring, comforting, entertaining... everything a show should be. It may be the best television show ever made. I'll miss looking forward to new episodes on Sunday nights but I undertstand that they had to end it, had to go out on the ultimate high note, in order to preserve the show as a body of art, a story that began and ended in a way that was natural, fucked up, and appropriate.
This weekend was unusual. It started out with our attending a hastily planned wedding (no comment for the protection of all involved). After that we resumed our original plans, which were to escape up north. Since we got a late start, we arrived late in the afternoon after sitting in traffic listening to Dane Cook and watching the tempreature drop twenty degrees. We checked into our rustic little motel, went to dinner at a place that had a half hour wait as opposed to the hour and a half wait at the place we usually go, and saw the 40 Year Old Virgin at the Most Pathetic Movie Theater in the Free World.
To give you a sense of place, the Most Pathetic Movie Theater in the Free World was inside the Most Pathetic Mall in the Free World. This mall had been decaying since whenever it was built, and every available surface was brown: walls, floor, ceiling, benches, etc. I did not want to touch anything at this mall. In fact, it is a stretch to call it a mall at all because "mall" implies a busy mercantile establishment and this mall was comprised of just four craptacular stores (JC Penney, Payless, Waldenbooks and Fashion Bug), a kiosk advertising inground swimming pools, a Chinese restaurant called Panda Garden, and the theater.
But even though the mall was scary and the theater was pathetic and the screen was small and the floor was sticky and there was a funny smell and I may never be able to separate those details from my memories of seeing the movie, it was still funny as hell. Go see it if you want to laugh your ass off. Don't be scared by Steve Carell's weird-looking nipples and belly button during the waxing scene, but while we're on the subject, what the hell is going on with that? Was he involved in some sort of torso erasure accident and needed to have them surgically reconstructed?
Yesterday we drove down through the lakes region, hitting some of our usual stops, and we stopped for lunch. The waitress seemed vaguely familiar, like someone who could have looked like someone I used to know, nothing I would have obsessed over, but she asked me who I was and it turns out we went to school together. She is married to the brother of a girl in our class who bit me in second grade. We talked about who we still kept in touch with and about the people who never left town, including this girl who was the popularity queen of junior high who still lives with her parents. Apparently someone is trying to put together a 10-year reunion. I didn't ask where or when though, because fuck that.
Last night we watched the series finale of Six Feet Under. I could barely talk after it was over. That show was genius, can I just say? I think back on its five seasons and it was consistently emotional, jarring, comforting, entertaining... everything a show should be. It may be the best television show ever made. I'll miss looking forward to new episodes on Sunday nights but I undertstand that they had to end it, had to go out on the ultimate high note, in order to preserve the show as a body of art, a story that began and ended in a way that was natural, fucked up, and appropriate.
8.19.2005
Taking a cue from Red, this entry is comprised of a list of songs that mean something to me from high school and college, loosely organized, no explanations:
High School
Lounge Act - Nirvana
I See - Letters to Cleo
Monkey Gone to Heaven - The Pixies
State of Love and Trust - Pearl Jam
Mr. Jones - Counting Crows
Sassafras Roots - Green Day
Black Velvet - Alannah Myles
Under the Bridge - Red Hot Chili Peppers
Hey Jealousy - Gin Blossoms
Latex Dominatrix - Tuscadero
Tennessee - Arrested Development
Only in Dreams - Weezer
Interstate Love Song - Stone Temple Pilots
Add it Up - Violent Femmes
Cherub Rock - Smashing Pumpkins
In the Blood - Better Than Ezra
Come Undone - Duran Duran
Prove Yourself - Radiohead
Homebrew - 311
Jennifer's Body - Hole
Pass the Mic - Beastie Boys
Dumb - Nirvana
Underdogs of Nipomo - Archers of Loaf
Would? - Alice in Chains
Driver 8 - REM
College
The New Pollution - Beck
Dancing Nancies - Dave Matthews Band
Junkhead - Alice in Chains
Don't Stay Home - 311
Pillar of Davidson - Live
Ready or Not - The Fugees
The Freshmen - Verve Pipe
Circle of Friends - Edie Brickell & the New Bohemians
Loungin' - LL Cool J
Hurricane - Lisa Loeb
The Boxer - Simon & Garfunkel
Get it Together - Beastie Boys
Pensacola - Joan Osborne
American Jesus - Bad Religion
The Bends - Radiohead
Mona Lisa - Guster
River of Deceit - Mad Season
Goldfinger - Ash
What's the Story (Morning Glory) - Oasis
Smoke - Ben Folds Five
High School
Lounge Act - Nirvana
I See - Letters to Cleo
Monkey Gone to Heaven - The Pixies
State of Love and Trust - Pearl Jam
Mr. Jones - Counting Crows
Sassafras Roots - Green Day
Black Velvet - Alannah Myles
Under the Bridge - Red Hot Chili Peppers
Hey Jealousy - Gin Blossoms
Latex Dominatrix - Tuscadero
Tennessee - Arrested Development
Only in Dreams - Weezer
Interstate Love Song - Stone Temple Pilots
Add it Up - Violent Femmes
Cherub Rock - Smashing Pumpkins
In the Blood - Better Than Ezra
Come Undone - Duran Duran
Prove Yourself - Radiohead
Homebrew - 311
Jennifer's Body - Hole
Pass the Mic - Beastie Boys
Dumb - Nirvana
Underdogs of Nipomo - Archers of Loaf
Would? - Alice in Chains
Driver 8 - REM
College
The New Pollution - Beck
Dancing Nancies - Dave Matthews Band
Junkhead - Alice in Chains
Don't Stay Home - 311
Pillar of Davidson - Live
Ready or Not - The Fugees
The Freshmen - Verve Pipe
Circle of Friends - Edie Brickell & the New Bohemians
Loungin' - LL Cool J
Hurricane - Lisa Loeb
The Boxer - Simon & Garfunkel
Get it Together - Beastie Boys
Pensacola - Joan Osborne
American Jesus - Bad Religion
The Bends - Radiohead
Mona Lisa - Guster
River of Deceit - Mad Season
Goldfinger - Ash
What's the Story (Morning Glory) - Oasis
Smoke - Ben Folds Five
8.18.2005
Ah, okay, this is absurd. At work, we ship stuff via The Third Big Shipper Whose Colors Are Red And Yellow. It's a totally autonomous process: complete the online form, print the waybill, leave the package for the mail guy. We have to order our own supplies individually. It's online, they're free, yay. Yesterday I shot out a request for envelopes. Today? Mail guy comes and delivers a package that is light as a feather. I open it. There's a crudely photocopied slip of paper inside informing me that the envelopes are out of stock and they will place them on emergency order.
I'm completely baffled as to why they wouldn't convey that to me via email. All these online services and somehow it makes sense to waste money and trees to send me an ugly piece of paper in a plastic pack? The only thing that would have made it more absurd is if they had sent me the notice in the type of envelope I ordered that they don't have.
My god I'm bored today!
I'm completely baffled as to why they wouldn't convey that to me via email. All these online services and somehow it makes sense to waste money and trees to send me an ugly piece of paper in a plastic pack? The only thing that would have made it more absurd is if they had sent me the notice in the type of envelope I ordered that they don't have.
My god I'm bored today!
There are two weird street signs I pass along my anaesthetizing commute, and it's no surprise that even though I've been driving that same route almost every weekday for the past 1 year, 5 months and 1 day, I just noticed one of them today. It says ROAD LEFT. What the hell does that mean? It's a normal sign, yellow, diamond-shaped, whatever, so the DPW or whoever put it there for some purpose, but what? Did the road take off for a while, to have a coffee and a smoke? Is it to alert you that there's a road coming up on the left? There's always a road coming up, we don't need advance notice. Christ, don't give me anything to think about when it's 7:30 a.m. and I am barely conscious enough to process the fact that 93.7 Mike FM just played Ratt and James Taylor back to back.
The other sign is on the way home. I idly think, "What does that mean?" but then I have to immediately turn my attention to the hazard just ahead. The hazard is a policeman whose job it is to periodically halt traffic and allow people turn left out of an office park. It almost causes a pileup every time because nobody behind the first person can see the cop in the road, only the green light just beyond. I can't tell you how many near-misses I've witnessed. And it's a downhill slope which makes it worse. Anyway, the sign says NO JAKE BRAKING. Ooookay, I promise I won't. I finally looked that shit up this morning because I knew I was bored enough to blog about it, and if you care, jake braking is an alternative way for 18-wheelers to slow down on hills without burning out their regular brakes.
When I was young, a sign appeared down the street from my house that said CAUTION DEAF CHILD. I grew up in a nice suburban neighborhood, on a street where everybody knew each other, and nobody knew who the deaf child was. There wasn't one. It was weird. And the sign is still there 20 years later, so the deaf kid who never existed in the first place isn't even a kid anymore.
They're definitely wasting a lot of money on superfluous signs. Do BLIND DRIVEWAY signs actually make anyone slow down? Do NO OUTLET signs give you pause? The only signs I like are the stop signs that have "Bush" spray-painted underneath. Someone in my area is making that their mission, because I've seen a few. Thank you, anonymous left-wing tagger, for making a sign that actually means something.
The other sign is on the way home. I idly think, "What does that mean?" but then I have to immediately turn my attention to the hazard just ahead. The hazard is a policeman whose job it is to periodically halt traffic and allow people turn left out of an office park. It almost causes a pileup every time because nobody behind the first person can see the cop in the road, only the green light just beyond. I can't tell you how many near-misses I've witnessed. And it's a downhill slope which makes it worse. Anyway, the sign says NO JAKE BRAKING. Ooookay, I promise I won't. I finally looked that shit up this morning because I knew I was bored enough to blog about it, and if you care, jake braking is an alternative way for 18-wheelers to slow down on hills without burning out their regular brakes.
When I was young, a sign appeared down the street from my house that said CAUTION DEAF CHILD. I grew up in a nice suburban neighborhood, on a street where everybody knew each other, and nobody knew who the deaf child was. There wasn't one. It was weird. And the sign is still there 20 years later, so the deaf kid who never existed in the first place isn't even a kid anymore.
They're definitely wasting a lot of money on superfluous signs. Do BLIND DRIVEWAY signs actually make anyone slow down? Do NO OUTLET signs give you pause? The only signs I like are the stop signs that have "Bush" spray-painted underneath. Someone in my area is making that their mission, because I've seen a few. Thank you, anonymous left-wing tagger, for making a sign that actually means something.
8.16.2005
I deal in truths, people, and this is one: Mark Bellhorn is the man. Seriously, he is an even bigger cult hero than Bill Murray. Your instinct is to say I'm full of shit, right? No, really, go look! Google his ass. People like him--check that, women like him. He's sexy, apparently.
I'm trying hard to figure out what it is. I adopted Bellhorn ages ago, dobbing him with the nickname Smellhorn, marveling at his greasy hair, counting his strikeouts and walks on a giant abacus, and double-dog-daring him to actually make contact. And I understand that, as females, we have the dual pleasure of being able to love the game as well as the good-looking men who play it. But of all the ballplayers out there, that veritable smorgasbord of bulging biceps and firm asses and rock hard thighs... Bellhorn?
I have a theory, of course. Bellhorn attracts a certain kind of woman who is either single with cats or with a man whom she feels doesn't understand her needs. Mark Bellhorn would make a Good Boyfriend. Because Bellhorn... he isn't merely quiet, he's sensitive, he's deep, he's sympathetic, maybe he writes verse and drinks Zinfandel. He's not comatose at the plate, he's zen, he's patient, he's selective. He waits for his perfect pitch just like he waits for the perfect woman to love him. He doesn't want to go to the bar with the guys... he wants to stay home and play Scrabble. He's not a jock; he plays the game for transcendent reasons, to clear his head and to absorb important lessons about winning and losing. He takes his time in bed and makes sure his woman enjoys it. He takes her shopping at stores she wants to shop at. There are a lot of females who want to get on his $2,750,000 salary but he sees right through it. He's waiting. And Bellhorn's girl? She doesn't have to be perfect, you see, because he's looking for someone who is beautiful on the inside.
I mean, isn't that what it is? Because what else could it be?
In other Red Sox related news, Curt Schilling has replaced John Edward as the biggest douche in the universe. Also, Joe and I came across a Which Red Sox Player Are You? quiz while doing our highly scientific Bellhorn research last night. For the record, I am Jason Varitek. I was very nearly Kevin Millar, but Varitek won the tie-breaking question. Joe is Theo Epstein, which was inevitable because "I am Jewish" skewed the results.
Who are you? Take the quiz: http://quizfarm.com/test.php?q_id=4637
I'm trying hard to figure out what it is. I adopted Bellhorn ages ago, dobbing him with the nickname Smellhorn, marveling at his greasy hair, counting his strikeouts and walks on a giant abacus, and double-dog-daring him to actually make contact. And I understand that, as females, we have the dual pleasure of being able to love the game as well as the good-looking men who play it. But of all the ballplayers out there, that veritable smorgasbord of bulging biceps and firm asses and rock hard thighs... Bellhorn?
I have a theory, of course. Bellhorn attracts a certain kind of woman who is either single with cats or with a man whom she feels doesn't understand her needs. Mark Bellhorn would make a Good Boyfriend. Because Bellhorn... he isn't merely quiet, he's sensitive, he's deep, he's sympathetic, maybe he writes verse and drinks Zinfandel. He's not comatose at the plate, he's zen, he's patient, he's selective. He waits for his perfect pitch just like he waits for the perfect woman to love him. He doesn't want to go to the bar with the guys... he wants to stay home and play Scrabble. He's not a jock; he plays the game for transcendent reasons, to clear his head and to absorb important lessons about winning and losing. He takes his time in bed and makes sure his woman enjoys it. He takes her shopping at stores she wants to shop at. There are a lot of females who want to get on his $2,750,000 salary but he sees right through it. He's waiting. And Bellhorn's girl? She doesn't have to be perfect, you see, because he's looking for someone who is beautiful on the inside.
I mean, isn't that what it is? Because what else could it be?
In other Red Sox related news, Curt Schilling has replaced John Edward as the biggest douche in the universe. Also, Joe and I came across a Which Red Sox Player Are You? quiz while doing our highly scientific Bellhorn research last night. For the record, I am Jason Varitek. I was very nearly Kevin Millar, but Varitek won the tie-breaking question. Joe is Theo Epstein, which was inevitable because "I am Jewish" skewed the results.
Who are you? Take the quiz: http://quizfarm.com/test.php?q_id=4637
8.09.2005
You know how you look back at your old yearbook and there's all this stuff under your picture, initials and events and inside jokes all written in code and shit, and you can't remember what half of it means anymore? Here's that about this weekend, and there are only 3 of us who can decipher it:
Crap why are 93 and 95 and 128 all the same road? Here's my brief yet pointed message... POINTED?! "There's the guy... oh it's a lady!" WAFFLE CONE. FrooT buzz. Kristen, are you okay? Joe the restaurant manager: "I'll fix it. I'm fixing it right now." Who is that guy singing Roy Orbison like Elvis? Double Love. Juvenile delinquents and beatniks and reefer, oh my! Quoth the ape, "Ding!" Elf riders on the storm. Too tired to go upstairs? Take an elf rider! "Do you write 'See me'?" Reel Leverage... reel funny. Carbo's? I thought it was Cabo's! "I roam the bum." Kelsey + Trent 4eva! BJ - LYLAS! Never forget SJ, LJ, JD. Love ya!
Crap why are 93 and 95 and 128 all the same road? Here's my brief yet pointed message... POINTED?! "There's the guy... oh it's a lady!" WAFFLE CONE. FrooT buzz. Kristen, are you okay? Joe the restaurant manager: "I'll fix it. I'm fixing it right now." Who is that guy singing Roy Orbison like Elvis? Double Love. Juvenile delinquents and beatniks and reefer, oh my! Quoth the ape, "Ding!" Elf riders on the storm. Too tired to go upstairs? Take an elf rider! "Do you write 'See me'?" Reel Leverage... reel funny. Carbo's? I thought it was Cabo's! "I roam the bum." Kelsey + Trent 4eva! BJ - LYLAS! Never forget SJ, LJ, JD. Love ya!
8.04.2005
There's a gorgeous cemetery that I passed today on my way to get an oil change and a car wash. It looks like an enchanted forest, all lush grass and mature evergreens, and all the grave markers are flat to the ground, nothing sticking up except for a miniature flag here and a flower arrangement there. As I was driving by, I offhandedly wondered if it was haunted. Then it occured to me that a ghost that would haunt a cemetery, hanging around its own grave, would have to be a pretty narcisscistic phantom.
Then again, maybe it's like a spirit party out there, ghosts getting together to hang out and flirt, making fun of the mortals. Especially in family plots, you know? Picture all your old relatives sitting around the table like on holidays, bitching to each other about how Aunt Edna never shuts up and how cousin Charlie is still a cheap bastard even in the hereafter.
My great-grandmother believed that in heaven, everybody was 35. And she thought that when you died, you showed up at the table of a really good card game. If that's true, my family is going to be up there playing Pokeno and screaming over one another about who's going to win Cover All.
But the biggest question is... is it ever going to be me? Because it sure as crap isn't ever me in this world.
Then again, maybe it's like a spirit party out there, ghosts getting together to hang out and flirt, making fun of the mortals. Especially in family plots, you know? Picture all your old relatives sitting around the table like on holidays, bitching to each other about how Aunt Edna never shuts up and how cousin Charlie is still a cheap bastard even in the hereafter.
My great-grandmother believed that in heaven, everybody was 35. And she thought that when you died, you showed up at the table of a really good card game. If that's true, my family is going to be up there playing Pokeno and screaming over one another about who's going to win Cover All.
But the biggest question is... is it ever going to be me? Because it sure as crap isn't ever me in this world.
8.03.2005
Here it comes, the most subjective assertion in history: "I am a good driver." If you think you're a good driver, just know it, okay? But don't bother saying it, because nobody else thinks so. If at your wedding they had asked, "If there is anyone present who feels that this man or woman should not be issued a driver's license in this or any other state, speak now or forever hold your peace," half the church would be waving their arms and going "OOH-OOH-OOH!" like Horshack.
Do I think I'm a good driver? Yes. In spite of the fact that I give my friends heart attacks? Yes. Even though I have been known to jump lanes, play games with other cars, tailgate, cross the yellow line to avoid buses, pass on single-lane roads, etc.? Yes. I know not everyone agrees, and I respect that; I'd much rather drive than be driven, and I get nervous when others are driving as well, whether they're risk-takers or not. Giving up control is tough.
Why do I think I'm a good driver, then? Well, a lot of it is due to the fact that I learned to drive in Boston and honed my skill in New York (of course, the rub is that this is exactly why people are afraid to drive with me). There's not much else out there, challenge-wise. I can successfully box out a NYC cabbie on the Brooklyn Bridge on-ramp. I can parallel park in a space that, mathematically, is 3.5 inches shorter than my car. I can back a U-Haul up a street lined with cars on both sides without so much as clipping a mirror. I'm not reckless; I'm confident, alert, and I try to anticipate what other drivers are going to do, like my mom drilled into my head way back when.
The other reason I think I'm a good driver is because my main objective is to get the fuck out of people's way. I try, I tell you, but it's very difficult because there are millions of people (who also think they're good drivers) who I swear are out there with the objective if getting in as many people's way as possible. You know these drivers... they are the ones you always seem to end up behind, the ones who:
Do I think I'm a good driver? Yes. In spite of the fact that I give my friends heart attacks? Yes. Even though I have been known to jump lanes, play games with other cars, tailgate, cross the yellow line to avoid buses, pass on single-lane roads, etc.? Yes. I know not everyone agrees, and I respect that; I'd much rather drive than be driven, and I get nervous when others are driving as well, whether they're risk-takers or not. Giving up control is tough.
Why do I think I'm a good driver, then? Well, a lot of it is due to the fact that I learned to drive in Boston and honed my skill in New York (of course, the rub is that this is exactly why people are afraid to drive with me). There's not much else out there, challenge-wise. I can successfully box out a NYC cabbie on the Brooklyn Bridge on-ramp. I can parallel park in a space that, mathematically, is 3.5 inches shorter than my car. I can back a U-Haul up a street lined with cars on both sides without so much as clipping a mirror. I'm not reckless; I'm confident, alert, and I try to anticipate what other drivers are going to do, like my mom drilled into my head way back when.
The other reason I think I'm a good driver is because my main objective is to get the fuck out of people's way. I try, I tell you, but it's very difficult because there are millions of people (who also think they're good drivers) who I swear are out there with the objective if getting in as many people's way as possible. You know these drivers... they are the ones you always seem to end up behind, the ones who:
- can't commit to one lane
- chronically go 5 miles or more below the speed limit
- back out of their driveway and then sit there in reverse so you almost barrel into them because they should have been going forward by now
- look for change under the seats and shit during red lights and you know they're not going to notice when it turns green and then, of course, they don't
- don't realize that we have right on red in Massachusetts
- go ten miles an hour when they're trying to find an address rather than risk passing it and having to turn around
- are so afraid to turn left they they will only go when there are no cars within a three-block radius
- stop and back up on a busy road if they miss a turn
- wave everyone ahead of them, even when it's no longer reasonable to do so
- signal left on a busy road without also moving to the leftmost edge of the lane, thus preventing others from getting around and continuing straight
- use the left- or right-turn-only lane to get ahead and then try to sneak into the middle lane at the last second
- et cetera, ad infinitum
8.02.2005
For some reason we always seem to go grocery shopping on Monday evenings, after work and the gym. It works for our schedules but I end up walking around the store starving my ass off. It's 8:30 by the time we get home, 8:45 by the time we put everything away, and 9:00 before we eat anything.
Last night I didn't feel like cooking so I just had grape tomatoes, hummus, and pita bread. Hint: Ken's Italian dressing drizzled into hummus gives it a yummy tangy kick. The original Italian... none of that zesty shit.
Tonight I'm making a salad inspired by something my sister saw on 30 Minute Meals: (more) grape tomatoes, chunks of avocado, European seedless cucumber, artichoke hearts, and cubes of cheese mixed with Good Seasons dressing and a little lemon juice. Will go well with grilled teriyaki tips, yes?
Last night we had a crazy thunderstorm. It started around midnight and lasted well over an hour. The windows were rattling and stuff was vibrating on the walls. I was half-awake, reflexively twitching whenever there was an especially loud crack. I wish I'd woken up all the way and watched it because the lightning was supposedly spectacular. I remember being half asleep, counting the seconds between the lightening and the thunder and thinking, "It must be here" because they were both constant, constant, constant. It's funny how kids are afraid of the thunder because it's loud, like when Daddy has too many Rheingolds; silly kids, it's the searing blade of electricity you really need to worry about.
Last night I didn't feel like cooking so I just had grape tomatoes, hummus, and pita bread. Hint: Ken's Italian dressing drizzled into hummus gives it a yummy tangy kick. The original Italian... none of that zesty shit.
Tonight I'm making a salad inspired by something my sister saw on 30 Minute Meals: (more) grape tomatoes, chunks of avocado, European seedless cucumber, artichoke hearts, and cubes of cheese mixed with Good Seasons dressing and a little lemon juice. Will go well with grilled teriyaki tips, yes?
Last night we had a crazy thunderstorm. It started around midnight and lasted well over an hour. The windows were rattling and stuff was vibrating on the walls. I was half-awake, reflexively twitching whenever there was an especially loud crack. I wish I'd woken up all the way and watched it because the lightning was supposedly spectacular. I remember being half asleep, counting the seconds between the lightening and the thunder and thinking, "It must be here" because they were both constant, constant, constant. It's funny how kids are afraid of the thunder because it's loud, like when Daddy has too many Rheingolds; silly kids, it's the searing blade of electricity you really need to worry about.
