So The Wife and I have lived in our new neighborhood for about six months now, and we're really glad we chose to buy here. And no, we didn't get an ARM or finance more than we can afford or anything like that; so you won't be paying our mortgage with your tax dollars anytime soon. One of the reasons we like it so much is because we live on a cul-de-sac, and we've made some really good friends with all the neighbors.

Anyways, so I'm walking out of the garage yesterday evening and B, the guy who lives across the street, waves me over. "Come on around back, M and E are over with the baby. We're just sitting on the porch." So I head over and he says, "Just give us a holler when you're about to come through the gate. M's dogs are over, and we'll have to hold them so they don't make a break for it." I hadn't yet met M's wife E, or the new baby; so I figured what the hey.

So I pause at the gate, get the go ahead, and walk through. Now, I'm carrying a beer and a folding chair, so my hands are fairly full. As I close the gate, they open the screen door on the porch, and the dogs come out as I go in. Of course, the dogs are excited because dogs generally get all excited around new people, and they're barking and jumping as we pass eachother. I hold out a palm to them as I'm walking through the screen door, and amidst the canine social niceties I get a solid bite on the ass.

Now, I've never been bitten by a dog, so I'm like. "Son of a ... (they had their kid with them, so I held back the urge to scream BLOODY MOTHERFUCKING BASTARD)! Your dog just bit my butt dude!" I put my chair down, and B's wife L is a nurse, so she's like "Go in the bathroom and have a look to make sure you're not bleeding." M grabs the dog that bit me and chastises him, while the little dog is still running around yelping and shit. I go off to the bathroom to survey the damage to one of humanity's Great Flawless Asses.

Thankfully there were no puncture wounds, but it did leave a raspberry about the size of a silver dollar. Almost as if I'd scraped it in a fall or something. So I go back outside, and of course M, E, B, and L are all as shocked as I am. The dog doesn't have a history of biting, and it's shots are all up to date and what not. So there we are, making awkward conversation and pretending that what just happened was neither hilarious nor painful. I slammed my beer as fast as possible just so I'd have an excuse to get the hell out of there.

I got home and called The Wife, who'd just left for her shift. Now, she's a nurse to; and as soon as I made the mistake of telling her about it, she got all hypochondriac on me. Generally, I dislike going to the doctor. However, I have discovered that for the sake of my marriage (and my own health) it is best to just take my medicine. I ended up going to the local urgent care last night for a tetanus booster and some advice on how to prevent infection. I also had a weird moment with the doc, when he asked me how the hell I got bit on the ass by a dog. The way he said it implied that he thought I was running around the dog park in a banana hammock, trying to lay with the beasts of the field or something. Anyways, he said soak in a bath for a while, wash it with some antibacterial soap, and keep an eye on it.

When I returned from the urgent care, I had a voicemail from M. He said he'd heard I went to have it looked at, and wanted to make sure everything was okay. Needless to say, it's kind of an awkward situation now. Firstly, I haven't been scared of a dog since I don't know when, and now I'm kind of scared of M's dog; and secondly because we don't really now each other that well. The dog didn't growl or posture in any way that made me feel like it was in an aggressive mood. I mean, I understand that animals are animals, and sometimes they bite; but now I'm all thrown off. Maybe it didn't like the color I was wearing. Maybe it was because it was held, then released as I came in; thus putting it in a defensive mindset. Hell, maybe it was just being friendly. I mean, I didn't have to pull myself away from it; the bite was more of a quick release type of nip than a chomp and hold.

I realize that some people would have probably reported the bite to animal control, but I didn't. The dog doesn't have a history, and B &L even kept the dogs for a week while M &E were away and had no problems. I mean, it would only add tension to an already awkward situation. Here I am, embarrassed that I got bit in the damn ass; but I could tell M & E were equally embarrassed that their dog acted like that. If I reported the bite, it would just give them a reason to let their embarrassment turn into resentment. I'd prefer not to have a relationship like that with neighbors, especially people who are as easy to like as M & E seem to be. I figure it'll be socially lame for a little while, but eventually it'll be a funny story.

I ain't going to be hanging around his damn dogs anytime soon though, and you can take that shit to the bank son!

Why is it that nearly all the Brits who make it onto TV shows are raging pricks.

Simon Cowell, a cunting condescender if there ever was one, pretty much makes money coming up with creative ways to tell people they'd be better off shoving that mic up their ass than singing into it.

I'm pretty sure that Gordon Ramsey is really just Simon Cowell in an apron. I mean, he makes money telling people they'd be better off shoving their cooking up their ass than eating it.

What the hell, UK? The only Brits on TV who actually seem like enjoyable people are the guys from Top Gear. I mean, I would actually like to sit in a bar and get drunk with those guys.

Can you imagine what it would be like to get drunk with Simon Cowell? He'd end up getting into a bar brawl with someone over how their shoes look 'shtew-pid' or something. Unfortunately for him, he'd find that outside of American Idol, most people with 'shtew-pid' attire are big enough to kick his cockney ass. And Ramsey? The guy totally strikes me as a grade-a, skeevy letch. He'd probably get drunk and start sizing up anything in the bar with a warm snatch. You can't blame him though. I don't know if you noticed or not, but if you get a close look at his face, it looks like he's been dropping it in deep fryers. Fame is the only thing that's getting him laid, and he's just trying to ride the wave as long as possible.

Jenelle had an interesting morning, thanks to guy who decided that today was the day that he needed to kill his family and himself. She says, "I want to believe there is a Hell at times like these."

I have to say that Hell must exist in instances like these, if only in the mind of the shooter. I simply can't imagine the kind of torment one must be in to think that only way to bring it to an end is to murder your family and yourself.

I mean, I have regular panic attacks about the dumbest shit. I don't know why, but they always seem to revolve around things I personally have no control over (global stability, apocalypse, disaster). I become afraid, frantic to do something to avoid certain doom, to prevent the imminent destruction of everything I take for granted. Quite literally, I become attacked by panic; my mind set upon itself, fear scaling the walls of rationality; horror at the realization of my own powerlessness. But even in the grip of such an irrational tailspin, I've never concluded that the death of myself or anyone I hold dear would bring peace.

So does Hell exist? Well, something tortured him to the point that he had to commit a horrible, senseless crime. I suppose the answer has to be yes, but whether Hell is a result or a punishment remains a mystery.

I gotta say, I've come to understand that I belong in The South, particularly the Southeast, for many reasons. I love the weather, the people (or more appropriately, the lack thereof), and the cultural tapistry. I've lived in many places, but never in a place that felt so much like an integral part of a larger
'place' that stretches across so many states. I walk onto my porch and I could just as easily be in Umatilla, Hiltonia, or my own backyard.

Of course, it's not without its flaws. Like, say, Burmese Pythons. Firstly, the Southwest bit is pretty ridiculous. Burmese pythons are amphibious reptiles that need a constant source of water; and there doesn't seem to be any continuous geography like that in the Southwest.

The Southeast is another story altogether. As a matter of fact, there is already a wild breeding population in the Everglades. I'm sure we all remember the alligator vs. python pictures. That being said, I think if they moved any further north than Charleston, SC or maybe even where I'm at; the longer winter and lack of a consistent swampy wetland would drive them off.

Which is a bittersweet double-edged sword, because they would really help combat the rising population of another regional pest that we refer to as 'Yankee transplants'.

Sure, come visit, have some grits, maybe a little sweet tea; but for the love of God don't stay.

Still working this one out, so put your water wings on and swim at your own risk.

I had a wild one last night. Actually, late this morning. I was at a beachfront hotel/resort with extended family. My wife, brother, his wife, Dad, Mom (!?), uncles, aunts, cousins, grandparents. I was snorkeling with two of my cousins, while the rest of the family ate lunch on a nearby veranda. I also noticed that some good friends from highschool and their kids had joined the party, as well as an old girlfriend and her child. I remember feeling really good, because all of these people were here and getting along. So I got out of the water and walked to the counter to return my rental snorkle equipment. While standing there waiting for the receipt, I notice this huge explosion a couple hundred yards offshore. Me and the rental guy are all "Holy shit!", and then I notice that there's at least one battleship out there, and a giant cruiseliner - the latter of which is steaming directly for the hotel.

I immediately assume that the cruise ship means me no good will, so I start sprinting up the stairs to the front exit with the rental guy in hot pursuit. Some of the guests are doing the same, while some of them simply clap and continue to sip cocktails like they're being ambushed by a dinner theater or something. As I'm running out of the hotel, I hear a swell of panicked shrieks well up behind me, and I shout to my family to head out to the street, putting the hotel building between themselves and the approaching behemoth.

As I'm running across the front patio, I look behind me and see that the cruiseship actually looms taller than the hotel, as its bow smashes through the roof and upper stories of the building. I try to judge where the debris is going to fall, if I should keep running or let it fall in front of me and then just climb over it. I decide to make a mad dash for the street since everyone else already has a headstart on me.

Looking behind me again, I can see the cruise ship backing up with a grinding metal growl. The screaming begins to swell again, as people realize this can only mean a second kamikaze run. I reach the median of the main street, maybe 100 yards from the hotel, which is about 100 yards from the beach, and begin to sweep the scattering crowd for familiar faces. I see my brother, yell at him, then see Mom, Dad, and my aunt and uncle running together. We collect ourselves into a group, and try to figure out what to do next. My brother and I are frantically trying to figure out where our wives are, wondering if maybe they're together, when I wake up. Sweating.

I had the strange sensation when I woke up that I wanted to stay in the dream. I guess to find out where my wife was. Odd.

My Mother told me,
'for she passed away,
said 'Son when I'm gone, don't forget to pray'.
'Cuz there'll be hard times.

Alright, I won't do it anymore. She never was one for fanfare. She wouldn't appreciate it; matter of fact she'd feel downright uncomfortable about the whole goddamn deal. All these people harrassing themselves about something they can't change. They'd be better off just rolling with it and letting the whole damn deal be. But I won't deny that I'm so pissed. Mom, as much as you know I love to tell stories, I never thought the best ones would leave such a sour taste in my mouth.

So, in your memory, and in the only way I can figure how; I celebrate the one and only anniversary. I love ya, I miss ya; always will. But I won't piss myself away over your passing, no matter how much I want to. I know; 'I've got my own life, I'll have my own kids...' You were always that way. Why did you have to be that way. So much better than the rest of us. But I will, for you. I'll raise my kids and tell them about their parents, and their grandparents; and one day. Oh one day. They'll do something and it will remind me of you.

Why couldn't your legacy...
But you were the most...
It's so...
Dammit, you would say that!

The Wife and I closed on our new house last month. I had heard that kind of thing was stressful, but boy did I underestimate the situation. Every day there was some kind of crisis: lost social security cards, inspection punch lists, then the moving began.

Now that we're in, there's a seemingly endless list of projects to take care of. Unfortunately, it sounds like the kind of stuff that will only end in the kind of hijinks a guy like me always gets caught in. So if I ever have any spare time between painting, hanging shelving, tiling backsplashes, and cleaning up all the resulting messes; there might be some new posts here at some point in the future.

So I'm watching Pearl Jam on Storytellers tonight, and it's good. Kind of like visiting an old friend. Until Vedder starts pontificating his egotistical ass off. Jesus Christ, give me a break Eddie. How did this melodramic emo dork make it this far in life without slitting his wrists over all the flies that have died every day of his life?

Seriously, someone in the audience posed the question to him "How do you feel about the fans who have different ideologies than yours?" I paraphrase the question, but the answer is word for word: "Fuck 'em." Vedder then goes on to say that THIS decade is the worst ever; which I find hilarious. Of course this is the worst decade ever, because if you're not here, how could it possibly be a pivotal moment in history? I mean, the good lord wouldn't leave us to our own against the Great Satan without sending us...Eddie Vedder? Piss off. And he goes on to say that we're all going to be a part of the culmination of a revolution, that the fans who have different viewpoints should do research and gain knowledge, basically just get right with the lord. Such egotistical bullshit. We're the band, we're the artists, we're the ones who feel more than anyone else, and we're the ones trying to bring you into the fold. What the hell Vedder? Did you join a church or what? You get ordained cardinal of the First United Church of Bushmongering?

It wouldn't piss me off so much if they hadn't turned into such a bunch of pandering frauds. In the early 90's it really was about being different, about how being a nonconformist can be an expression of creativity. Now he gets up there and refers to himself, and by proxy his band, as the font of knowledge in which those who differ should baptize themselves.

Then I noticed that one of the guys in the front row is bald. And I don't mean "I shave my head" bald, I mean "I'm so old my hair is falling out of my old ass noggin" bald. Dude. These guys are just trying to target the largest segment of the population with the most expendable income - retiring baby boomers.

Suck my farts Pearl Jam. You friggin copouts. We should have known.

I just wrote an awesome post, and the intarweb farted and dropped the entire thing into the techno abyss.

Glenn Reynolds can take his Army of Davids and march it right up his big orange Volunteer State ass. Technolgy is crap! Who's with me!

Real estate agents: Client advocates to be trusted with securing a good deal for you, or money-grubbing bumblefucks who should be kept on a short leash and fed info on a need-to-know basis?

I have no idea, that's why I'm asking you; the educated commentariat.

Michigan who?

During last night's episode of Last Comic Standing, John Reep touched on something that resounds with a lot of people - take the stupid Bluetooth earbud off your head if you're not actually on the phone. His comment was "You look like a tool." I think it's a behavior that deserves, due to its prevalence, a bit more attnetion.

I've never understood it myself, why people do this. It makes about as much sense as taking your steering wheel with you after you park your car. I wondered if maybe it was a status thing, like, "Check me out, I've got a Bluetooth thingie." That theory doesn't hold up though, when you consider the cost of an earbud. What're they, like 50 bucks?

You know what I think it is? I think most people are just plain old morons, and for some reason it makes them feel neato to wear the earbud. Maybe it makes them feel futuristic, like a character in a sci-fi novel; which is about as sad as people who dress up for the Renaissance Fair. Or maybe it makes them feel important, like "People are constantly ringin' my bling, yo. I gots to keep my Bluetoof on G"; which is sadder still, because they're not actually talking on it.

The fact of the matter is, the only time you need to use the stupid thing is if you're on the phone while already doing something with both hands, like making dinner, driving, or beating someone about the head and neck with a Big Bertha Titanium 454. Unfortunately, people use the earbud for no apparent reason all the damn time. They're not even all that convenient when you do have to use them (the volume is lower, they drain your battery, etc), so why the hell would you sit there and use it if your stupid phone is right there in your pocket?

The main takeaway here is that wearing an idle Bluetooth has become a universal signifier; it's the modern equivalent of a dunce cap.

Have any of you finished the last Harry Potter book?

I read it this weekend, and finished last night at the godawful early hours of this morning.

All throughout reading these books, I've noticed that they make fine parables for the current war on terrorism/Islamofascism. I'd be willing to bet, though, that the author's intention (much like Tolkien, I'd imagine) was not to create such a parallel. But I just can't help but see it. Does anyone else? Just figured I'd ask...

Recently, I started bringing some CD's to work so I could listen to tunes in the office. We hired a new analyst a few weeks back, and she heard the music coming from my office the other day. I think it was some Mississippi Delta stuff or some other old southern blues bastardization of gospel music. "OOOOHHhh! That's nice!" Her exuberance was somewhat off-putting.

The next day, I said to her "Hey, I just wanted to let you know that I'm not shutting my door to be rude or anything; I just wouldn't want my music to bother anyone." I figured if no one heard it, they wouldn't be bothering me telling me what they thought of it. I already know it's good, that's why I'm listening to it, please don't interrupt me with your opinion or that epileptic, pathetic, middle-aged cracker ass-shaking of yours.

"Oh, no problem at all. Especially if you keep playing that jazz stuff you had yesterday!"

Jazz my ass. I smoldered a bit on the inside. Who the hell confuses blues rock with jazz? I kept my mouth shut on the grounds that saying a word would make me look like a music snob, or at least just a prick. Can't have people knowing I'm a prick, no sir. I smile weakly at her and pretend I'm busy.

This morning she comes in and gushes, "You like jazz right?"
"Yeah." I try not to imagine what kind of musical selection or conversation is going to follow because I might laugh. Or cry.
"Have you heard the new John Mayer CD?" I fight the tears welling up inside me. "It's so great! I mean, it's all jazz!" The tears begin to give way to disappointment. "I'll have to bring it in, or maybe I can just burn a copy on my computer!" She sounds so excited. Excited like a retard.

I seriously considered telling her that John Mayer isn't jazz, that I'm utterly perplexed at how she came to such a distinction; that he is in fact just shallow, corny, pop pablum formulated to appeal to a specific audience of juveniles who view the world as a simple place with simple problems and equally simple solutions; that jazz is anything but that; and if she brings in a copy of that CD (which I'd graciously have to listen to all the way through at least once, to avoid the prick problem above) it'll just give me a goddamned headache. But I decide that maybe acting like a complete psycho is not a good idea, so I give some kind of non-committal "Heh" or something.

I suppose the real shame is I hear that he's a good musician; and I just can't get past the lyrics. It's like chocolate covered poo. You're all, "Look there's something covered in chocolate! Yay!" Then you bite into it and find yourself somewhat disgusted, probably nauseated, and feeling like "Why would someone do such a cruel thing like that? Why?"

My glasses were getting a little worn recently, so I decided it was time to suck it up and deal with the hassle.

I like the frames I have, but the lenses were getting pretty badly scratched up. Besides, I don't have prescription sunglasses, and I was really looking forward to getting some transitional lenses so I could check out chicks at the beach.

During a break in the middle of my day, I walked across the street to my optometrist's office. It's a local shop, and I've been going there for years since they're so close to my office. After talking with the lady about what I was looking for, we ended up striking a really good deal. I was able to get a package deal if I got the transitional lens and this anti-glare/scratch-resistant coating. I wasn't planning on getting an extra coating since the transitional lenses already said they were scratch resistant, but for the price it didn't make sense to turn it down. I got the whole thing at about 27% off and felt like I was doing pretty damn good; especially since we hadn't crested my insurance cap for eyewear.

"Well then, let me take those frames to the back and trace them for the new lenses."
I had no idea what this entailed, but it seemed logical to me. "Okie dokie," I said to the nice lady who just saved me some dough.

About two minutes later she comes back, sits down at our little table, holds the frames out to me and says, "Did you know these are about to break?" She teeters one of the ear peices back and forth, and sure enough; that sucker is held on by about three molecules of metal - right past the hinge near the front of the frame.

Immediately I can tell this dumbass is trying to take me for a ride. If my glasses were in that state during my walk over to the optometrists or at the point I took them off my head and gave them to her, they would have fallen apart in my hands. It is obivous to anyone sitting at the table who has a preschool diploma that this bitch just broke my shit trying to get the lens out of it. Having had glasses all my life, I am aware that when the optometrist takes your glasses away from you, they are in no way responsible for them if they break. Sounds like bullshit, I know, but it's true. I take mine in for the occasional tweak, and they always tell me that if they break them, they're not at fault. I look back at this dumbfuck with a blank look on my face.

"We might need to order new frames," she says as if it's not patently obvious.
Being a cheap bastard, I know that my frames were inexpensive. "Well, can you order that same frame?"

She calls someone on the phone, yadda-yadda, and says to me, "Okay, here's the deal." My asshole puckers, because I know I'm about to get it. "This frame, in the color you wear, is on backorder. However, they have a brown gunmetal color available." I wonder to myself what the hell kind of color brown gunmetal is. Bronze? Metallic Turd? "So what I'm going to do is overnight the brown gunmetal, we'll call you when it's in and put your current lenses in those. That way you have something to wear. Then, when your lenses get in we'll put them in the brown frames, and switch them into your new frames when they come off backorder." I look at her, then my frames, back to her; and try not to say the word 'Fuck.' "Sound good?"

I think for a moment, lean in and say, "It sounds like a story I once heard. A parable, if you will. See, one day this guy was just going about his routine when he felt some discomfort, and discovered there was a broomstick in his ass. He thought to himself 'My word, this is quite irritating'; so he sought professional help to get the broom removed from his ass. Tragically, during the procedure (indeed, almost near the very end!); this trained professional ended up breaking the broom handle off in the man's ass. He wanted to scream, but he was too astounded at the technical ineptitude of the trained professional. Then the person whom he sought help from proposed something that made the man want to cry and kill at the same time. The person said, 'How about you come back tomorrow, we'll pull the broken-off peice out, stick a thicker broomstick in your ass because that's all we've got right now, then when we get a thinner broomstick in we'll swap the thick one out, then when we've got the tools we need, we'll remove the broomstick altogether. But the tools are on backorder and we don't know when that will be. Oh, and you'll be paying for all this too.' " I lean back, without breaking eye contact, and settle into my chair. It was all very Hannibal Lecter: direct, violent, but spoken in an even tone.

She offered to pay for most of the new frames, gave me a steeper discount on the lenses; and I walked out of that place getting the frames and lenses (with all the options I wanted) for just over $100. I'm still a little miffed because I have to jump through all the hoops, but this cheap bastard has never heard of a deal like that. Goddamn right too, because I've got to wear glasses with tape on them for a day or so.

Fuck.

How is it that a word could mean one thing and it's opposite at the same time? Take the word 'cleave' which has two definitions; the more obvious of which is to cut or split. However, it also has another meaning - to adhere or cling.

This sets up all kinds of confusing situations, and eventually renders the word itself absolutely meaningless and unuseable:
A good writer should cleave himself of ambiguity, and cleave to the pursuit of words that cleave themselves from the mediocre mainstream vocabulary.
See. No one could ever agree or disagree with the above statement, because it's virtually impossible to tell exactly what that statement is. And it sounds retarded.

If you take this a step further and use the word 'uncleave', it opens up a veritable literary wormhole of sorts. Since the word is its own opposite, it's impossible to tell which form of uncleave is being used - the one that means uncut or the one that means unstuck. Silicet:
"I thought you told me you cleaved that."
"Well, that's because I did cleave it."
"I can plainly see that it is most certainly uncleaved."
"That's exactly what I'm saying."
"No, you said cleaved."
"Don't be an ass. It's as cleaved as uncleaved can be."
"Listen to me goddammit. That is not cleaved, and if you want to argue about it, we can go outside and I'll cleave you."
"Now that just doesn't make any sense. How bout you go outside and cleave yourself, mothercleaver."

Essentially, a word that is its own opposite can't possibly have any meaning at all, except in context; and context, being merely the perception of the reader, can fluctuate not only among readers, but among readings by the same reader given any number of external and internal events.

I guess what I'm trying to say is, this is bullshit and somebody better do something about it. Pronto.

We don't leave until Thursday, but I can barely contain myself. I simply can't imagine having to wait another 48 hours to be on vacation.

I reserved my car today. Each time I go to Vegas, I rent a dream car. For a guy like me, Vegas wouldn't be Vegas if I didn't spend some time behind the wheel of a decent car. Decent meaning:
1) The car must be a coupe, hard top or 'vert is irrelevant.
2) The car must be a sports car, not a Mustang, Camaro, Seabring, Solara, or any of the other useless but oxymoronically ubiquitous designs.
3) The car must be rare. Something you don't see everyday, and definitely something you can't rent at your local Rent-A-Wreck.

My choice this time came down to two finalists, a Shelby Cobra and a Lotus Elise. I ended up going with the Lotus for a couple reasons. Firstly, I feel it's going to handle better through Red Rock Canyon better than the Cobra might. The front engine design and overall power to weight ratio of the Shelby is going to make it a little squirrely in the turns. Not to mention it's probably not going to have the balance the Lotus will. So Lotus it is!

Definitely sprung for the extra insurance coverage too.

Dear Neighbors-
Hi! We're the young couple that just moved in down the street. You know, the ugly house. The rental with the patchy lawn and the wrinkled asphalt driveway.

Look, I know what you're going to say; but there's no way in Satan's searing Hell that I'm getting my paper-pushing ass out in the 90-degree heat to walk around behind a fertilizer spreader. Sorry. Besides, it's not like it's killing the property values around here. Don't get me wrong, if it was my own place I'd be out there doing it, because it probably bugs me almost as much as it bugs you. But let's be honest, this place is too goddamned ugly for anyone to actually buy. That's why it's a rental.

Thanks!
The Ugly House People

P.S. Thanks to the folks at 2907 for the pallets! Yeah, we snagged 'em from your garbage pile because they make great fuel for the fire pit in the backyard. If anyone else ever has any, feel free to give us a holler and we'll come pick them up!

I was just at the grocery store and I saw a famous guy. An actor, to be specific. Except I don't know his name.

It's similar to having a song in your head, but not knowing the name of it; except worse, because I can't offer anything up that would describe him to anyone. I'll try though.

He's a medium build guy, short curly hair that's dark, with just a few tinges of gray maybe. He's probably between 40 and 50. He's got square facial features. Not angled like Dolf Lundgren, but maybe more of a Harvey Keitel. The bottom of his face, the jawline and chin; seem wider than the rest of his face. And just a tad younger than harvey.

I can't remember a single movie he's in, but I don't remember seeing him ever smile. He's got a raspy voice, not too gravelly, just kind of a whiskey sort of tone. I've got this flash memory of him being some gritty kind of character who projects a lot of anger. Not crazy, energetic anger; but kind of simmering powerful anger. Can't remember what movie or a scene I saw that in or anything; but he was definitely so pissed he was kind of sweating a little. God, this is horrible isn't it?

Heading back to Vegas the middle of this month. My cousin and some other folks are all turning 30 and they wanted to do it out there. It's going to be good times.

They all want to go eat at one of these fancy tapas bars on Saturday night. Hey, I enjoy great food as much as the next guy; but I don't give a rats ass about exotic garnish and funny-shaped plates. And furthermore, why the hell would someone go to a restraunt that sells you food that other people can eat of your plate? I guess as long as the sangria is flowing we won't have any problems. But I'm not sure, because I've never had sangria. I'm hoping this fruity joint sells PBR or something just in case.

My favorite hole in the wall joint in Vegas is this place called the Stage Door. It's this total dump on Flamingo, nestled in the shadow of the Flamingo Hotel and Casino. You can get a beer and a hotdog for $2.

Go down to the end of the block at Flamingo and Koval and there's Ellis Island. Less divey, but they've got an outdoor barbecue and $7 dinner plates that could feed a small family. They give you like half a chicken and four sides. It's ridiculous. I suggest the ribs.

There's a tond of other places, but I'd hate to give away any real treasures.

So recently the company I work for signed a contract for a large purchase. We spent just under one year shopping vendors, whittling down our top choices, and then negotiating with each one. This afternoon I sat down with 2 other guys from my company and the sales rep for the company we decided to go with. The first thing I notice about the sales rep (and something that has always bugged me about him) was his goddamned dirty fucking fingernails.

Listen asshole, if we're going to make a six million dollar purchase with you, clean your god forsaken fingernails! What the hell is wrong with you? This dipshit is taking home comission on six mils and he doesn't even bother to take a goddamned shower before he shows up? What the ever loving hell is up with that? Fuckin' ell! I make a fraction of what this toady bastard hauls in every year and even I can manage to keep myself clean!

We buy capital fuckin' assets from Pigpen. I'm on the wrong side of the business.

So The Wife came home last Tuesday night dry-heaving and pissing about some serious abdominal pain, "I think I have appendicitis," she groaned. I mean, women can really bitch about the stupidest shit sometimes, and me being your typical sensitive but super-intelligent male; I was like, "You probably just need to fart really bad."
"Just go get my old nursing text and read the part about appendicitis!"
So I read her some shit about abdominal pain in the right lower quadrant, and god knows what else. She's convinced she's going to fucking die; and I'm sitting there calculating the odds that tonight is the night my perfectly healthy counterpart gets stricken with some acute but deadly syndrome. I beg her to shut the fuck up and sleep on it.

Okay, so I have to negotiate this for several minutes, plead, and finally beg for her to come to bed and we'll reconoiter in the AM.

Eventually she went to sleep (thank God, this cracker has to get up early, know what I'm sayin'?). Anyways, she calls me the next morning at about 11am, on the verge of tears, talking about abdominal pain. Now, she's finishing nursing school in about ten days, and she had a test that evening. We rationalized that there was no point in going to see the PMD or an Urgent care center because they wouldn't have the diagnostic capability to tell use if she actually had appendicitis. She goes to the Emergency Department.

Which is nice, because I work at the hospital and I could come check on her every so often. You know, between building the $200 million capital budget that was due the next day. Just a little thing I had going on, and The Wife wants to piss and moan about a fucking fart she can't get rid of.

I want a new car. Not that there's a single thing wrong with my current car (quite the contrary), I just kind of get bitten by this bug every so often.

It all started when my buddy got one of these '07 twin-turbo Beamer coupes. He's crazier about cars than I am, and they had to bring this thing over on a boat direct from Germany. He paid 52 g's for the car and he's already got 12 more in mods planned. Seriously, I don't think I'll ever be rich enough and stupid enough to buy a BMW; but I have to amdmit that thing is retarded.

And then there's the weird trend. A lot of the enthusiasts I hang out with who drive the same model car I do, have all sold their cars and bought an S2000. Like ten or fifteen people I know have done this. I think they're great cars, but I don't see myself taking my kids to school in one.

A nice ancillary twist is that The Wife probably needs a new car before I could ever honestly propose that I get one. Her car has close to 100,000 miles on it and isn't very comfortable (though it's been more cost-effective than my own).

But none of this stops me from dreaming about the TL Type-S, the STi, the EVO, or others. I just can't help it.

If I was a real ass, I'd tell my wife she could drive my car, and I'd get a new car; but she's not dumb. Dammit. Then I wonder if we traded in her car and mine; we could get her something with a low payment and I could drive our beater truck for a year or two. I could save money driving the paid-for beater, and in a while I'd be able to buy something nice at a low payment too. It'd be kind of hard to let go of my car though, but if I knew there was something better waiting for me, it would be worth it.

I keep thinking that saving for retirement is probably not a good idea. In all seriousness; the chances seem high that nuclear holocaust, world war, and/or collapse of the global economy will occur before I ever have the opportunity to see the maturation of such a fund. Honestly, I think I'd be better keeping my spare cash under a fucking mattress if that's the case, because doing so would make me the richest dude on the block.

Everyone else would've lost their ass in the ensuing chaos, stock market crash, etc.; and I'd be the only one with real money. I wouldn't use that money to pilot my way to the top of the miserable heap that humanity had become, though. Doing so would only make me a target, and I don't own any guns or feel like hiring security. I'd take my cash savings, and move the hell out to the country. Buy a big plot of land, raise crops to feed my family. Oddly enough, that sounds really relaxing.

Except for the whole 'civilization plummeting into chaos', 'collapse of global economy', 'nations reduced to warring tribal factions' thing. I just figure if I get far enough into Kansas I'll be alright, because people will forget the midwest even exists.

It's that line of thinking upon which we've based our decision to start a garden in the backyard. Okay, well it wasn't that line of thinking, but I like to imagine it was. We want to grow muskmelons, watermelons, cucumbers, tomatoes, squash/zucchini, peppers, spinach, lettuce, broccoli, carrots, herbs, and an attempt at Muscodine grapes. Yeah, I know. But we both grew up in families that had large gardens, and I come from a decently long line of farmers. I'm not kidding, when I was a kid, we had a 12x30 in the backyard of our suburban home, and my grandfather had one in the front yard of his suburban home that dwarfed ours.

I don't have the nuts to put ours in the front, I'd probably get attacked by these yuppies that live in my neighborhood. Hey, I thought yuppies had died off too; but let me tell you, those motherfuckers are alive and well. Remember the rant from a couple days ago? Friggin' the exact same scenario happend on Saturday night. It's not very often I call 'em blind; and I have to admit I was a little disappointed that things turned out the way they did.

We had some friends over for the night, and we all sat on the porch enjoying the nice weather and the fire burning in the backyard. Apparently, my neighbors were having a little soiree of their own, as we could hear groups of people coming to their back porch for the occasional smoke. Eventually the man of the house hops the fence (which is to say, he damn near busted his drunken ass trying to get through the hedge, climb the fence, and make it to the other side; a fairly quick, graceful motion while sober but a rather palsied and clumsy operation for him), to come over and introduce himself. This is the truth, he fucking walks into my backyard wearing a pair of black, flatfront slacks, shiny black leather shoes, a belt (seriously, who the hell wears a belt on the weekend??), and this collared, button-down shirt that looked like it was made out of satin or something. "Yeah, we're just drinkin' a shitload of wine [I fight to keep from rolling my eyes], hangin' out." He introduces himself as a mortgage lender/writer, hangs for a few minutes, shooting the breeze, and then says, "You guys should totally buy this place." He was a nice enough guy, just totally vacuous. It's fucking Saturday night, 11pm, you're hammered, and you still can't avoid trying to make the sale. How terribly depressing.

It could have been worse though, he could have been a total prick. He was friendly enough, which I must say I'm thankful for. I could be living next to someone more like myself, which would either result in mutual (but unspoken) disregard or monthly fisticuffs.

Firstly, this site reached it's 10,000th comment tonight. May we all wonder at the tidal wave of comment spam; and those of us in hats, tip them to the new revolution. Well, that and the fact that the 10,000th comment probably belonged to me. Becuase I'm a whore.

There's one bus driver on my route from the commuter lot to my stop who insists on playing contemporary Christian tunes. Jesus freaks don't neccesarily bother me or anything; it's just that their music...well, it sucks.

It was this dude softly singing, in this moderately high (and decidedly wimpy) tone; backed up by some generic soft rock-ish band. Not surprising. Being a resident of the Bible Belt, I've been exposed to a decent range (to use the term loosely) of contemporary Christian music; and it's all the same. Musically non-descript and (ironically) devoid of inspiration; this genre is similar to pop in that it's not created out of a love for music or artistic expression. That's what makes it so bland. I've heard a few good bands, but they only sounded good because they were imitating the sound of a more mainstream artist/band.

However, since I was locked inside a moving vehicle this morning, silently enduring the sounds of mediocrity; I decided to listen to the words. I almost burst out laughing. Here's this singer, in near falsetto, repeating the following chorus:
God Cooooome, God Cooooome, God Cooooome...
I smirked on the inside, and continued to listened to the verses.
...I can feel you inside of me...
Wait. Do what?
...Fill me up with your warmth...
Oh come on. I hope I wasn't laughing out loud at this point; because I was either listening to a seriously warped closet case elicit his cry for help, or this band was purposefully trying to mess with people's minds.

The moaning lyrics, about being touched by the spirit/bathed in white/etc with regular returns to the choral plea for God to cooooome; continued nearly the entire ride. Funny, yes. But also disturbing. I mean, I kept picturing people singing along with this kind of stuff, like; what's going through your head when you sing the words "I can feel you inside of me, fill me up with your spirit"? Seriously, if Christina Aguilera was singing that song, the MPAA o