I’ve never eaten bear meat, though for some strange reason, I yearn to try it. I’ve no desire to kill a bear personally, but I would really like to try a bear steak.
Perhaps it’s because I get bored eating the same crap all the time. How many days of your life can you eat beef, pork, chicken, et. al.? Granted some people are vegetarians, but I won’t get started on that unnatural and misguided practice. Human teeth were meant for eating meat.
I’ve eaten a good share of rabbit in my day, which is a favorite of mine. I like ostrich. Quail, pheasant and squab—all fine alternatives to the mundane chicken, as are goose and duck. I’ve had alligator and rattlesnake, when the opportunity has come up, and I’m a big fan of venison as well.
I’m not sure that I’ve eaten a wild boar or not, but it’s certainly on my list. I’ve had buffalo burgers and enjoyed them. I’d like to try me some goat as well. I’ve hankered for moose on occasion, mainly out of curiosity. But for the most part I yearn for a nice thick bear chop.
So, the fiancé had her bridal shower this past weekend. I guess I wasn't super-duper excited or anything, because her sisters were coming to spend the weekend at our place, but I wasn't exactly put out either. It was going to give me a day or so of peace and quiet, not to mention the presents.
Contrary to what one might assume, the haul she pulled in was pretty good too. Some new glassware, a nice skillet, and a handful of various other kitchen implements. I'm a big fan of food and cooking, so I was happy. Of course, there was an ulterior motive. You see, I'm an unabashed fan of throwing things away. The opposite of a pack rat, but I don't know the term. At any rate, receiving new things means I get to divest myself of old things.
Now, lets be clear here. I don't just go around throwing crap away at random. But if it hasn't been used in a year, and I'm not party to some contract to keep it; it's going bye-bye. And, of course, with our current living space being steadily usurped by a pile of wedding paraphernalia that seems to have it's own agenda of Manifest Destiny; I'm primed for some serious purging. So when the old lady shows up with three armloads full of loot, I'm already filling boxes with old shit and setting them by the door.
"What are you doing?" she demands.
"Oh, just putting this stuff aside. Since we got all that new junk, I'm just going to get rid of our old stuff."
"But you can't just throw that away." She begins to gesture towards the pile of old shit. "People could use that."
"Ok, well, we'll take it down to goodwill." Then inspiration hits me; I am a genius. "Hey, didn't your sisters need some of this stuff? They're still in college, we should let them have their pick."
"We have to wait until the wedding though."
"But they're here now. Why don't we just let them take it back home with them?"
"Because dear, we're going to need our old stuff until the wedding."
"Yeah, I know. I'm not getting rid of everything, just the stuff we can replace with the items you received today."
"That doesn't matter, because we're not going to use the stuff we got today until after the wedding."
My head starts to hurt here, so you'll have to forgive me if the dialogue gets blurry.
"But. You already opened the gifts at the bridal shower. They were... bridal shower gifts. They're yours now. People don-"
"No! They're for the wedding, and what happens if we don't get married?"
"People don't give you a gift, let you unwrap it, and assume you won't use it. That why people who mail Christmas gifts put little tags on them that say 'Do not open until Christmas.'"
"That's different."
"No, this would be like someone giving you a birthday gift a few weeks before your birthday, letting you unwrap it, and then demanding that you not use it on your birthday. Bridal showers are different events from weddings, and the gifts received are different."
"No."
At this point I'm beside myself. My house is filling up with shit. It's in the guest bedroom, it's in my bedroom, my kitchen is filled with a bunch of old shit that needs to be gotten rid of, there were people here this weekend who were eagerly volunteering to carry the clutter away, and she still says no. I'm completely vexed. I mean, I've tried logic, I've even had discussions with the old lady and other females in which (might I add that I neither coached, goaded, or signaled to the female third party) the other females actually agreed that said unwrapped presents were now fair game. I just never get to do anything I want anymore. I'm convinced that she hates me, and derives some form of pleasure from my complete consternation. And I say 'form of pleasure' because I'm not quite sure that something so evil ever experiences what mere mortals describe as pleasure.
“I bought you a new pair of jeans,” she said.
I had just walked in the door from work. When I come through the door after work I generally don’t like to bothered, after a perfunctory hello, for my fifteen minute adjustment period.
“Really? Why did you do that?”
I kept right on walking into the bedroom, knowing she’d follow, talking all the while. She was too excited not to, and that type of enthusiasm scares me.
“Don’t you want to see them?”
I was still standing at the dresser, emptying my pockets and trying to get out of my clothes.
“Of course.”
I knew at that point that I would not like the jeans. She was terribly excited about them and that could only mean one thing. They were something extraordinary, at least in comparison to my stand by Levi’s.
She opened a Nordstrom’s bag, a tell in itself, and unveiled the jeans. They were dark with pre-made wear spots on the fronts. They were cut funny, I could see that by the way she was holding them up. I’d seen these kinds of jeans before. Very contemporary. Worn by people much younger than myself. People I instinctively disliked.
“Well, try them on!”
She was waving them at me. Somehow, I was afraid of these jeans. Reluctantly I took them from her and looked at the brand. Lucky. I was pretty sure they only made jeans for chicks. Even if they did make jeans for men, I’m not the kind of guy to wear them. But I was standing there in my underwear holding them and she was giggling like a schoolgirl so I put them on.
I immediately felt ridiculous. They fit strangely around the waist. They fit strangely everywhere. I have a very large chip on my shoulder with anything connected to hip-hop and I had a feeling these things may be baggy enough to qualify. Regardless, they clearly didn’t fit.
“You look great! Wait—turn around…”
I turned. I felt her hands on my ass. She was squeezing.
“These are perfect!”
“They’re not perfect. They don’t fit and I don’t like them.”
“You just think they don’t fit. You should see your ass in these!”
“I like my Levis.”
“You have no shape in your Levis. You’re hiding that ass in the Levis. These jeans cup your ass! She kept grabbing my ass and squeezing, chasing me around the room.”
I took the jeans off.
“Listen, I really don’t think I can wear those. I’m not nineteen anymore. I feel like a dick wearing those things.”
She reluctantly put them back in the bag. I apologized for not being more receptive.
Three days later we’re driving somewhere and out of nowhere she said, “That shirt looks nice on you.”
“But you hate the jeans, right?”
I was wearing my beloved Levis.
“Is that all you got out of that entire episode? That I don’t like Levis?”
“Pretty much.”
“So all you took away from that was the negative? That I don’t like your Levis?”
“Well…”
“I buy you one pair of meterosexual jeans and you freak out. Totally missing the point. You're incredibly thick.”
###
This morning I looked on the Internet. Lucky does indeed make men’s jeans. And the prices are fucking obscene.
Okay, I finally found my superpower.
I’ve had it all my life but I took it for granted because I thought everybody had it.
I can take a look at someone or just spend a few seconds near someone and immediately know that they’re crazy.
My wife confirmed this superpower last night when she mentioned I was right; a recent acquaintance of ours is a little fucked up. She didn’t believe me at first, but it finally panned out, and in just the manner I suspected.
When I was young I could always tell when chicks were nuts. I’m not prejudiced against nutty chicks or crazy people in general. In fact, the best sex in the world is sex with a crazy chick. But I have a built in detector.
It’s the same with people who are a little slow. A couple of weeks ago I pointed out to a coworker that one of the new employees was an idiot.
“You say that about everybody.”
“But this time I’m not kidding. That dude walks around with his mouth open all day. He’s literally an idiot. I’m sure of it.”
My warning was ignored, and I didn’t care because I didn’t hire him. Several days later the coworker parked his ass on a corner of my desk.
“I think you’re right about Harris. Have you seen him answer the phone? Between the time he puts it to his ear and the time he says, “Hello,” there’s an abnormally long pause. Like five seconds or something. Every time.”
“Told you.”
He demonstrated by using his cell while I walked down to the guys cube and feigned interest in his project. The phone rang, he picked it up, put it to his ear and I started counting. It was, like, four-Mississippi before he fucking said hello. I should have starting counting again because when he got no response it was at least another four seconds before he said, ”Hello,” a second time. And by then I was laughing too hard to hang around.
And I’m not making fun of the mentally challenged. This guy was hired at a fairly high level. I’m always shocked about that. For the most part, anyone with tuition money can manage a four year degree, no matter how fucking stupid they are. Then, as if by magic, they show up at some company and somehow interview their way into a decent job.
I guess they’ve never come up against Jim.
Anyhow, if you’ve got a suspected nut or a halfwit in the workplace, I can pick them out for you.
Look, you ever just know something? I mean, when you're in the middle of maybe turning a corner and you decide to stop, because you think someone's coming the other way around the corner; and then BAM sure enough, someone comes around the corner? Or maybe you're playing the shell game with that street crook down on 21st and Nun; you pick a cup just because you know, and bam; you beat the house? Surely, there are some things, sometimes, that each of us all know. We just know 'em. The thing that I 'just know', is that I'm going to live a long damn life. I mean, 90+ years. I've always known this, ever since I was a kid. I can't explain it, but since I've got a blog, I'm gonna try.
Update3: The lost entry from Flikka is up. Also finally awarded the participation points for this bear.
Update2: Second batch is up.
Update: First batch of answers in the extended entry.
I've got nuthin' so I'm stealing this from Tiffany:
Ask me 4 questions. Any 4; no matter how personal, private or random. I have to answer them honestly* and I have to answer them all**.
And just to make things lively I'll toss a point to each participant.
* Caveat: If I see the funny, I'm taking it.
** Caveat: Unless the answer requires breaking a confidence in which case I'll make up an answer in your voice to humorous effect.
I’ve been indisposed. When I don’t blog I’m not a happy man. This is my therapy, and when I don’t get my therapy I get anxiety in one form or another.
I went to an actual shrink for about four months once. It was many, many years ago and my stress level was through the roof and all I really wanted was a prescription to take the edge off on especially bad days. The price to pay was I had to sit there and go through the process of being analyzed.
If I knew then what I know now, that basically, any time you walk in to see your family practitioner for anything from carpal tunnel to bleeding ears the first thing they say is that it’s probably stress related and hand you a script.
Anyway, for a few months I went the Tony Soprano route with a real live shrink. It was awkward. I’m not the greatest communicator when it comes to meaningful discourse. I kept asking if I could mail it in, but she was having none of that. So I sat there and endured for a while, acting pretty much like Tony Soprano does with Dr. Melfi, minus the mob shit and the insults.
I always felt like she was trying very hard to outwit me. A lot of leading the witness type stuff. And all I really wanted was my script. It’s not like I was an addict; at the time I had a very stressful job and once or perhaps twice a week I needed a respite. A respite that didn’t come with a hangover.
So like an asshole I sat across from this woman, who was particularly unattractive, and tried not to do wacky shit, like keep cracking my knuckles or jiggling my leg constantly. On one level I was terrified of this woman. She sat there writing her notes, writing her notes, writing her notes. And I half expected her to suggest shock treatments or tell me I had some kind of fucked up personality disorder. I was always just a little bit afraid that maybe I was nuts. I was always expecting to hear, “I think you’ll be better off living in this facility out in Burbank.”
And let me tell you, struggling for forty-five minutes in front of shrink, desperately trying not to be yourself is more fucking stressful than any job.
“Tell me, what do you think is the basis of your anxiety?”
I suppose I could have just said that I was responsible for a lot of people and a lot of money and that my boss was insane, but it just seemed too mundane. I always went with the drama.
“Life is stressful. Buying a loaf of bread is stressful. Getting a haircut is stressful. Finding a parking spot in your fucking parking lot is stressful.”
“So, you feel that finding a parking spot can be stressful? Or buying a loaf of bread?”
“Fuckin’ A.”
“But there must be an underlying cause. Don’t you suspect there’s an underlying cause to your anxiety?”
And as this went on I kept thinking to myself, Don’t crack your knuckles! Don’t jiggle your leg! Don’t act crazy and you’ll be out of here soon!
I would always begin a reply with, “Logic dictates…”
It would drive her nuts. She would repeatedly try to drill into my thick skull that logic had no place in any of this. That phobias were exempt from logic. “Totally exempt!” she would cry. She was right about that of course, even a dullard like myself could get past the obvious.
In the end it was a pointless exercise. It was much more stressful dealing with this horrible woman than it was to just care less about upward mobility. I’ll never forget that woman’s haircut and her frump-wear. And waiting in the outer office, pretending to look at old magazines while I was really sizing up the real crazies, trying to catch a good look without getting caught.
One day I just never went back. There was no further correspondence, so I suppose I was never “turned in to the authorities” as some kind of nut. In fact, I suspect she was rather glad to be rid of me.
With the doubling in size of our company comes a corresponding increase in the workload for those of us in the Project Management and Quality Assurance department. Fortunately we are taking measures to grow our department to meet the needs. Unfortunately that means I'm back in the interviewer seat for a large chunk of my exceptionally scarce time. As a public service to job seekers and an attempt to make my life easier, I present Jim's Rules of the Interview:
First, the resume:
1. Proof your resume. Proof it again. Hand it to your spouse / significant other / mom / nearby hobo (hobos will work for beer so it's very cheap) and have them proof it. There should be exactly zero spelling errors on your resume. When you are applying for a position with heavy documentation duties there is even less tolerance than that.2. Don't mix cases. "Proofed corporate news documentation and implemented a redaction policy" is good. "Performed systems evaluation tests and modifying active test plans" is bad.
3. I have a limited time slot to conduct the actual interview. There are questions I have to ask and questions that I want to ask. The ones I have to ask are the same as the ones every other interviewer has to ask. Answer those on the resume. Tell me why you left IBM. Tell me why you want to leave Sprint. Pull your major accomplishments and essential qualifications out and put them right at the start of your resume. Put a one-line description of what the companies you worked at actually do. Nobody except you and the other four people who work there know what "Synergy Systems, LLC" is or does.
Everyone I know has some type of natural talent except for me.
My sister is a damned fine artist and has been since she was a kid. I, on the other hand, can’t draw a proper stick figure. I’m outdone by Neanderthal cave painters.
Some people can sing. Some people have a natural talent for math. I know people who can fix things—literally anything—because they’re mechanically inclined.
I know people who have the gift of spatial reasoning, and are so naturally good at chess that my years of study mean absolutely nothing. They thrash me at will.
Sculptors, painters, dancers, natural athletes…the list is endless.
And I’m still looking for my talent at what some of you might refer to as ‘an advanced age.’
It’s annoying and mysterious. It’s also the catalyst for plenty of fights at my house. I address this issue with my wife from time to time because it really does bug me.
“You’re just fishing for compliments.”
“No. No, I’m not. I have no natural talents. Everybody is supposed to have some natural talent.”
“You’re an incredible musician! You can play anything you want, so stop the bullshit.”
“That doesn’t count. I have to work for that. That’s not some gift from God, I busted my balls for hours every day of my childhood. I played until my fucking fingers bled, so don’t bring it up again.”
“Counts.”
“Does not.”
And the fight continues. I’m not talking about practicing something and getting good at it. I’m talking about natural gifts. Do they exist? Obviously. Does everyone have one? I’m not so sure.
Do you have one?
Okay, let's clear the air here: The guy accidentally shot his hunting buddy. Big fuckin' deal! Could happen to anyone; especially if your the sixty five year old survivor of four heart attacks and your hunting buddy is seventy eight. I mean, let's get real here, neither of these guys could see well enough to shoot, nor could they hear or move well enough to get out of the way. Can you imagine being a secret service agent on this trip? "Hey 007, your assignment is to accompany the Vice-President and the only man on this Earth who probably has less business being out in the woods than he does. Oh, and they'll be carrying around loaded shotguns. Presumably shooting them. Might want to bring your vest."
Seriously though, I don't understand why it's such a big deal. If I went hunting with a friend of mine, and got sprayed with a little birdshot, I mean; as long as everyone survives it's a funny goddamn story. "Hey Tom, 'member that time you tried to blow my fucking face off? You shoot like a schoolgirl!"
I’ve never given Denmark much thought. They seem innocuous enough. I get the Scandinavian and the Low Countries mixed up. Are they the folks with the windmills? Doesn’t matter. Anyway, they’ve got Saladin and his lot marching on them like the fucking Third Reich over these cartoons.
And if that’s not enough, now they’ve got Muslim agitators all over the globe stirring up more violence. It pains me to say this, but at least the hippies weren’t violent. Maybe if these guys hit the hookah a little more often we’d have less bellyaching from them.
I rarely post politics and I’m not starting now, but it’s painfully obvious to the sane people of the world that as a global collective we need to stop wiping the asses of these fucking extremists. Pretty soon it’s going to be “Step on a crack, break Mohammed’s back,” and they’ll be rioting and burning every time someone doesn’t say Mother, may I before they get on an eastbound freeway.
There is no reasoning with extremists.
Now maybe the rest of the world will wake up and see what’s coming down the pike in the long run—because it’s coming. Mark my words, there will be a day in the not-so-distant future where countries will be standing in line to be our allies.
Ancient History
First of all, who was Valentine? Nobody really knows. The Roman Catholic Church lists three St. Valentines, all of whom were martyred.
There’s a lot of legends and I guess if I gave a shit I could list some, but for the sake of brevity let’s keep the story moving. In ancient Rome, some fertility ritual or another took place around February 15th. They’d slaughter a goat and a dog and then dip strips of their hides into the blood. That’s when the fun began.
Then boys would run around the city slapping girls with the bloody hide in order to make them more fertile. Between that and all the drinking from lead pots it’s no wonder the Roman empire collapsed, but that’s another story.
I’m losing interest in this post, but if you want to have yourself a real Valentines celebration this year you’re probably going to jail for animal cruelty so it may be a good idea to just stick with a card and some flowers.
Modern History
Guys purchase gaudy lingerie and give it to their girlfriends. I don’t know what they’re thinking, but they do this. I’ve had conversations with guys over this before and there’s no getting through to them.
“That’s a gift for you dumbass. You’re supposed get a gift for them. No ulterior motives. You know…something romantic. What you’ve got there looks like a very cheaply made undergarment for an 1870s era prostitute.”
“No way, Dude. She’s going to be into this.”
I don’t know why people don’t listen.
Over at this fine establishment they’re voting on which blogger is the king of poop stories. Hell, I cut my teeth on poop blogging. So for old time’s sake, here’s one of the all time great poop stories.
And just for the record, when you shit yourself in a foreign country, it’s much more intense. It’s a long post—hang in there, it’s worth it.
It's true. It happened on Wednesday. I was leveraging around for a scratch and put a bit too much pressure on it. I felt it bend a bit awkwardly but didn't think anything serious had happened.
When I whipped it out yesterday morning I saw the damage. The tip was bent over at a 15% angle. I straightened it out but there must be something wonky in the area where the tip and the shaft meet. As soon as I start using it the damn thing bends over again.
This is very distressing for me. I use the hell out of it - multiple times a day, sometimes for hours at a time. I like a precision instrument. Even if I'm just messing around with it I expect it to perform perfectly. Now my aim is all off and I don't even like using it anymore.
Lovely Wife bought me some "replacement units" a while back. I can use one of those to take care of critical tasks but it's just not the same. They don't have the smooth feel of my original equipment and (not to brag) they're smaller. They don't fit very well in the receptacle either, if you get my meaning.
Speaking of original equipment, that poses some problems all by itself. I'm not saying that mine is one of a kind but I guarantee they aren't making any like it any more. Trust me, I've Googled it. (Interesting images in that search, by the way.) I've been sending messages to the creator to see if there's any way to get mine repaired or replaced with equivalent equipment but I never got an answer back.
So, anybody know where I can get a replacement stylus for a Dell Axim 4 PDA?
Turns out more people watched the American Idol auditions last night than the Grammy awards.
I have little use for either show, but the Grammy’s annoy the shit out of me, much like the Oscars. I can’t understand America’s fascination with these self-indulgent bullshit festivals.
I have almost no respect for today’s music world. These hogs have been at the trough for a long goddamned time. Where’s the talent? Ah, don’t even get me started.
Anyway, American Idol swept the ratings and in doing so, poked a finger in the eyes of U2, Madonna and I imagine a great many rappers and breathy boy band style crooners. I wouldn’t know because I hold the whole music industry in contempt. I haven’t purchased a CD or song recorded in the last five years. And I still buy a shitload of music every week.
I’m absolutely thrilled that viewers would rather watch people embarrass and humiliate themselves on TV than tune in to watch more of these overblown windbags talk about how wonderful they all are as a collective.
Every year the Oscar nominations come out, and without fail, I haven’t seen any of the films. I rarely leave my compound for any reason, but going to the movies is actually painful. I dislike other people and movie theaters put me in too close a contact with the masses. The fucking Herefords, grazing and plodding along with no self-awareness, eating giant buckets of popcorn coated with who knows what, talking on cell phones and cluttering up the general landscape of my life.
In addition, most people have no manners and my aggravation level skyrockets when I’m forced into close quarters with Neanderthals. When I watch a movie I concentrate. I like to become absorbed in the film. The cinematography, the music, the editing—if done well create a separate world for me that I enjoy very much. I hang on every word or dialog. I relax and forget my troubles.
And I can’t do that when some jerkoff is pressing his feet into the back of my chair. Or while some halfwit is talking because he’s too much of a dullard to follow a basic plot line. Without fail some people are late and then you have to watch them walking around in front of you trying to find a seat. How can I concentrate or relax with all that shit going on?
Even the new places where I can sit on a couch and drink green bottles are a hassle when people start talking near you. I just can’t do it.
Am I missing something? I imagine I am. A big screen is certainly better than a small one and I realize the dramatic enhancement. Many people seem to enjoy seeing a movie in a room full of other people. I don’t know, I read somewhere recently that people feel they’re sharing the movie as a group and that some sort of feeling of togetherness comes from it, or makes the event more special for them. Personally, I can’t imagine being that needy.
If a movie isn’t available on DVD I haven’t seen it.
It's not about elegance, fairy tales, and releasing doves. It's about having fun. And that, that's easy baby. If you can't throw a fun wedding, you either invited the wrong people or threw the wrong wedding.
When in doubt, it looks wonderful. You couldn't have imagined anything more perfect. Even if you know nothing about flower arrangements, it's great; and you know what? You're glad to be a part of the decision-making.
Always, always, always remember the exact time of your wedding. Even though, as the groom, you're going to be at the church hours a(fucking)head of time, and there's no possible way in Satan's Holy Hell that you'd miss the wedding; always remember what time it starts. If you forget, you'd be better to call a guest and ask them to read you their invitation than asking the bride. She will mount your head over the fireplace.
So I’ve got this wedding invitation. I’ve never met the bride or the groom in person, but you could say we’ve been corresponding for some time. Because the groom is fucking Shank. Our Shank. The Shank that blogs right here on this wonderful, mostly bio-rhythmic site. Most people don’t realize that Shank and I go way back.
I’m torn, really. The guest list is very tight, so it’s certainly an honor. Let’s weigh the pros and cons.
Cons:
Not much face time with shank. Let’s face it, it’s his wedding day, and even an asshole like me realizes that it’s full of family obligations. I’d have to pay for plane tickets for myself and my wife, though I could just fuck them on a gift and call it even. I wouldn’t know anyone at the wedding, including the groom.
Pros:
I could fuck with people big time. Shank himself suggested I go around telling people I’m his astrologer. If he’s got no objection to that I’m sure I could push it a lot further, implying illegal activities, homosexuality, owed money and plenty of other good stuff.
I could go around saying that I’m, “Here to get what’s coming to me,” and simply walk away.
I’ve been known to have business cards printed up for all kinds of wacky shit before, including Private Investigator, Commode Salesman, etc. The possibilities are really endless. And I’ll be drunk and inciting others to get slammed as well. I could casually insult old people, stand up and make incredulous toasts and use excessively foul language.
I could slap people on the back obnoxiously and tell them about my third testicle. I could goose the old broads. I could rent and wear a ridiculous white tie and tails outfit. I could wet my crotch with water and walk around looking as if I’ve leaked pee on myself. I could “cut in” when old people are dancing.
Think of the material I could get at an affair like this.
I think I’m going to check my schedule.