Thursday, December 22, 2005
The lunchlady referred to me as "this kid." That's right, we have two or three lunch ladies for our cafe(teria) who run the register and stock the styrofoam cups next to the soda fountain. They don't, however, have any jurisdiction over noise levels or leaving the cafe(teria) to use the bathroom. I've had no beef with any of them until now. Kid? You can't call me that. I'm a professional. The boundary between service industry and professional what-ever-it-is-that-I-do has just been violated. Defamed. Toed. Perhaps I'm too sensitive.
My boss gave me a watch for a xmas gift. Pretty sweet, right? I thought so...until I realized it was a woman's watch. No, I'm serious. It's for a woman. I'm a man. Perhaps my boss doesn't know that. Perhaps slashing his tires and defecating on his laptop will clear things up. Perhaps seeing my coin purse swaying to-and-fro while I squeeze stool onto his Thinkpad will serve as suitable notice of my masculinity.
Then again, being fired (and potentially prosecuted) this close to xmas wouldn't play well to the wife. I can hold a grudge until January.
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
After lunch I had to hit the downtown post office to retrieve a package needing a signature. At the counter was an interesting specimen. Male. About 40 years old. Five foot five. Bleach blonde 80's metal mullet...with the back side having a triangle (yes, three sided polygon) of reddish brown hair in the middle. Grey pinstripe suit from Goodwill. Grey shoes from your grandfather's closet. Black gloves with the fingers cut off.
As I waited in line, this fine fellow spends 10 minutes reviewing every stamp for sale in the branch. After holding a few up at arms length, our philatelic friend finally opts for the biplanes. Thinking my time had come, I nearly started moving when the collector says "Now I've got to pick out something for Mother." What? Who goes out to the downtown post office at 3 o'clock in the afternoon on a fucking weekday to collect stamps for mother? This guy. That's who. This guy.
Please don't ask why I have time at 3pm on a weekday to go to the downtown post office. It is my local branch though. Whatever.
Today's must have track is Shadowlands by Bruce Hornsby. It can be found on the soundtrack for Spike Lee's Bamboozled. Shockingly beautiful song. The overall tone consistently makes me think of fall nights in the West Village of NY. I've never lived there, but the narrow tree lined streets always come to mind. Such is the power of music.
I suppose it has more to do with the power of art. The trailer for RENT came on the other night and I could feel the tears forming in my eyes. Why? I've seen the show several times and the movie will be a near exact production (as far as I can tell). Something about the music, the story, the overall feeling of hope always gets me in the soft spot. The story of Jonathan Larson is part of it. He devotes something like 8 years of his life to write this show and try to put it on. Finally successful in getting a major production, he dies less than 24 hours before opening night. An aneurysm hits while heating up some water on the stove. Dead on the kitchen floor. He never sees the critical and commercial smash hit that his show would become. I can't tell if that's the ultimate demonstration of the Buddhist belief that life is suffering, or if it's the perfect proof of fate and order in the universe. My head spins when trying to reason through that one. That's what I want though. To create something immortal; something that brings people to their knees with hope and appreciation for life. Jonathan Larson lives forever. On stage, every night.
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
"You are not your job."
My new job, which will be another 'rat in the cubicle maze' kind of thing, was scheduled (please say this with a British accent: shed-eweled) to begin today 10/24. While I was not eager to get up before the sun and come home in the dark, I do need the money. And I'm ready to work hard for the money, so hard for it honey. Fate had other plans. Start date has been pushed off to the first of November. Looks like time to sell those DVD's after all.
"You are not your khakis."
I took my car for a state inspection. They promised it would be in the garage within 15 minutes. They lied. I stewed. The car finally goes in and I keep reading. Billy Service Advisor comes out to ask for the wheel lock key. Fuck me running. I don't have it--VW neglected to include it when selling the vehicle. I've known this for about 4k miles, and yes, I should have had it taken care of well before now but I'm lazy about things...even those things that could strand me on the side of the road with a flat tire right when some psychotic killer with a hook breaks out of a nearby mental hospital for the criminally insane. The inspection was nixed and I went outside while they pulled the car out of the garage. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes. Finally the door opens and the car is produced. The tech gets out and starts to walk away. I noticed the 8 x 10 red plastic sign hanging from my ignition that says "Loose Lug Nuts". Here's the exchange:
Me: (pointing at the red sign) Is this yours?
Tech: It's your car.
Me: No, the Loose Lug Nuts sign.
Me: This giant red thing that says Loose Lug Nuts.
Tech: That's not yours, we need that back.
Me: I know it's not mine. I don't want it. Are they loose?
Tech: Are what loose?
Me: The lug nuts.
Pause. Blank stare.
Apparently deeming this to be a done deal, he turns and retreats to the garage. I gently pull away, calling information for a personal injury attorney nearby.
"You are not a beautiful and unique snowflake."
This blog will be moving over to its own site in the very near future. You might ask why I would put in that kind of effort since nobody actually reads this. And you'd be right. But I want a bigger space to showcase photography, finger paintings, film projects in the works, and other things that I haven't even imagined yet. It's going to be great.
Here's a new feature that I'll start here: track of day.
Today's track is "My Doorbell" by The White Stripes from their album Get Behind Me Satan. I'm not a huge fan of the stripes, but this song always lifts my mood. It's got some Jackson 5 flavor with the guitar traded in for piano. End result: check it out.
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
1.) Walk in with a lit cigarette. It's not like I didn't figure out who you were by the NASCAR hat and the shirt with the arms conveniently missing, but this leaves no room for doubt.
2.) Put all six kids on one side of the booth so you can see the TV in the bar. Brandine can sit on your side though.
3.) Try to be the waiter's new best friend. Be loud, obnoxious, and most importantly...promise to take care of me before I've even gotten your fucking drink order.
4.) Have me specify which drinks have free refills and which do not.
5.) Two kids meals for six kids. "Brandine don't want nuthin but I'll have that $1.99 side salad with what kind of dressin' you like baby? Right, ranch. Gimme extra ranch."
6.) Continue the gregarious behavior. Laugh when I bring you two refills this time so as not to wear out my shoes by the time you leave through constantly refilling your Coke.
7.) Optional. Order the biggest thing on the menu, eat half, send the rest back.
8.) Less friendly now.
9.) Berate the manager over how awful the 24oz steak was and why didn't it come with any shrimp even though those cute little tails on the plate came from somewhere.
10.) Eat 90% of the free dessert even though your five kids and the other kid whose daddy you ain't, but you don't know that, look on with hungry eyes. And no, I can't feel the distance between you and I.
11.) Drop the severely discounted check. All happiness gone. In fact, you look like you're ready to throw me over the bar. Angrily try to compute the bill on your own, convinced there is some mistake, and then remember that you can barely add. Brandine does the math and realizes that the computer is, in fact, not ripping you off. Get angry with Brandine for taking my side. Throw down a $100 bill and demand change.
12.) Drop off change. An unlit cigarette is dangling from your mouth. You quickly grab a single and happily pronounce that it's for me. I don't even smile anymore. You wrangle your kids and common law wife out of the booth and light up the cigarette just inside the front door, much to everyone's displeasure.
Friday, September 23, 2005
Thursday, September 15, 2005
That said, this is the fucking truth. Political commentary at its finest. Where is Kanye?
"Vacation, all I ever wanna do..."
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
Is there a more abundant natural resource than sperm? Hell, each...um..."semen battallion" contains millions of soldiers, right? And most of them are alive and wagging their wavy little tails. Why can't we harness the power of all this collective tail wagging and cart our fat asses around?
You would never get stranded on the side of the highway when you can pull over and pump your own fuel. Critics might ask how this would benefit women; how do they get a fill up? I've got several methods you can employ that will guarantee enough 'gas' for that roadtrip to Aunt Luanne's. It would actually be easier for women. If a female pulls over to the side of the road, within seconds, fifteen men would pull over and race to be the first 'help' on the scene. Or, get a slutty friend and you'll always be on the road.
It might be harmful to public beauty to see every manner of asshole jacking off next to his gas tank along the side of the road, which is why we should tap into the animal sperm kingdom. It's an endlessly renewable resource. Seriously, invest now...because you don't want to miss out.
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
And what, exactly, does this say about her? It was a small bag, so she's extremely brand concsious, but doesn't have a lot of disposable income. Paying $195 for a tie, for her ex boyfriend, who can burn in hell, was a bit pricey, hence the need to get some extra mileage out of the bag. Bringing it to work is clearly a show for the other crotch sniffers hunting around for a NJ husband.
Seeing the bag would probably turn off all but the wealthiest potential mates, because if she's willing to spend (read: waste) that kind of money while she's making entry level income, imagine the damage she can do to your Amex once you're married. This does have the slightly positive effect, for her, of weeding out the less-than-flushed suitors. She may miss out on a happy match, but who the fuck wants that? Show me the money!
She is one of many young women in the New Jersey area who don't want a career, though she protests to her friends and family that she'll only be with a man who respects her intelligence and desire to be a professional. No, the calculated plan has been in motion since high school. Her mother bought her the Coach bags and stayed at home to raise (read: drink red wine all day) the kids, showing that a life of leisure is the right of all semi-attractive girls who know how to buy expensive clothes. On to a private new england college, the goal becomes more focused: a professional job amongst up and coming young men who need a wife to bear a child to shut up their mothers. So she struggles through accounting because the job placement rate is high and she'll be in an office of tie-wearing frat boys who want a wife who will stay home with the baby and stop asking so many questions about their constant late nights at work and mysterious hotel charges on the credit card statement. She'll have a huge wedding with 300 of her closest friends and enemies to show everyone that she was worth it and that's why she was anorexic for seven years, so she could find such a great frat boy and settle down. Pregnant within a year, she starts to lose her mind being trapped in her 3500 square feet of air conditioned suburban splendor so her mother comes over and teaches her how to drink red wine all day but still drive well enough to pick up hubby's dry cleaning without putting any dents into the Escalade. The baby cries a lot but at least it can't tell her to shut up or work seventeen days in a row and "sleep" at the office. She wonders what all the people at the office are up to and if Michelle is still such a bitch. She'll complain to her frat boy that she doesn't know him anymore but it'll blow over when he threatens to trade her Escalade for a Kia Sportage if she wants him to take an easier job and they can also move back to the townhouse but we all know how that would look to the other mothers on the block, tsk tsk. And life will go on like this, until she has her own daughter to dress up like an Asian hooker for Little Miss Beauty Pageants but of course she'll have to lose some weight if she's going to be the bestest five year old in Monmouth County so you didn't want any butter on that roll anyway, did you? And little miss lipstick whore will grow up into a bulemic and/or anorexic cheerleader with her mother carefully looking on from the stands, every now and then using her two index fingers to remind little miss lipstick whore to smile big for all the people who came to see her, forget about the football game. And little miss will head off to a private college in new england where she'll major in business so that she can get that entry level job at 33k a year and buy a Prada tie for her boyfriend who is probably cheating on her but he can burn in hell. Then she'll take the Prada shopping bag out from its spot on the side of the closet in her 1 bedroom condo that her father bought to give her a leg up and she'll carefully unfold that white shopping bag to make sure there are no tears or other visual clues to show that it might not be from this fall's line. The bag will make it to the suburban NJ office kitchen where a stranger will notice it and wonder who the fuck uses a prada bag, to carry a plum and tupperware container of baby carrots, as a lunch bag.
And life will go on.
Thursday, September 08, 2005
It's about Cold Stone Creamery and their policy of singing when you tip them. I couldn't agree more...
"The sad thing is that I don't think I can tip these guys anymore. I mean, I really want to - what with them giving me a delicious and over-sized ice cream treat - but I can't take that singing. And I feel like if I tried to tip the guy but said something like, "You don't have to sing", it would turn into some Larry David-esque episode with him calling me out on it and saying, "What? You don't like our cheerful singing?" and then a customer saying, "Yeah - what's wrong with you?" and then some hot chick saying, "He's just bitter because he's fat!" But unlike Larry David, I would grab a fucking chair and hit the bitch who called me fat and would scream "You fucking bitch! I will kill you and shit on your grave! I will shit on your fucking grave in front of your family and your pets! I was in People fucking magazine! Do you know who the fuck I am! I have a blog! I have a fucking blog!". I am sensitive about my weight. "
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
We were up in Jersey on a mini-vacation from NC. Being the discount travelers we are, we booked three nights in NYC at a hotel on Madison Avenue. This was back in the day when you could still get a great deal through Priceline. For $100 a night we got into the Hotel Wales, a very posh boutique on the UES.
I knew I was out my element before I made it in the door. How? Two doormen and a bellman unloading the limo at the curb. We felt it more economical to forgo the cab or limo, taking two trains from Penn Station and schlepping the ten blocks from the Lexington Ave subway station. First class.
Not feeling so debonair in my North Face climbing jacket, I braced myself for the potential snubbing. One of the doormen came over to open the door and welcome us. Nice. The lobby was awash in handsome wood trim and plush carpeting. We made our way to the front desk to explain that we were the degenerates who just raped their $375 room rate via Priceline.
Then it happened. I had to open my mouth and erase all doubt. To this day it remains unclear whether the front desk attendant did it to make us uncomfortable or simply because he was the consumate professional and followed his procedure to the T, regardless of the college students and their backpacks.
"Mr. Brooks, would you care for some sherry while you check in?"
"No, thank you, I just had some sherry on the subway."
This is why my wife loves me, and why the Hotel Wales cancelled its Priceline affiliation before we made it to the elevator.
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
At the grocery store I was in the aisle next to this high school kid wearing his Polo inside out so that the label could be read by all. This bothered me.
"What are you driving?"
"I've got a BMW three-"
"Shut the fuck up. Nobody cares what you drive. Nor do they care who made your fucking shirt, you fucking tool"
I really should have said this, but starting a fight with a 17 year old isn't going to help me land that dream job, now is it?
Thursday, August 25, 2005
This morning, at the Mobil on the Parkway (have to fill up today, prices change on Fridays), I'm parked next to a passenger van. The driver is wearing a yarmulke. So is the passenger. So are all the passengers. A few in the window were reading what I can only assume to be the Torah, since I don't read hebrew up close, let alone from fifteen feet. They might have been reading erotic bondage stories written in hebrew for all I know; I'm just the goyem. Regardless, it was something solemn.
Where does this involve me? Seeing these people using their commute time to read, pray, and reflect made me take a look at myself. After all, the driver and a few others were looking at me. I had the windows open, eating my frosted strawberry pop-tarts (now with more heathen), sunglasses on, shirt wrinkled and untucked, and the stereo pumping out Eric Clapton's "Cocaine" at 7:45 in the morning. I'm a grade-A cultural ambassador. Does anyone know the hebrew word for godless sinner? Hey, if the cloven hoof fits...
*I have never tried cocaine, nor do I endorse the psychotic lifestyle that goes with it. The picture is the best visual I could find to depict that feeling, and it was a tough selection process.
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
Many or most of you may wonder why the hell a young couple such as ourselves would move to an industrial graveyard of a city like Buffalo; a place once described as the first North American ghost city. Between the ages of 18 and 24, I would ask the same question. After high school I hightailed it out of Buffalo to the farthest school that offered me a full scholarship: Houston. I only spent a year there before leaving to knock around North Carolina and Florida before settling back down and finishing my oh-so-valuable film degree. We were faced with several decisions about where to live after university. LA was ruled out as being too far and too much of a risk. My film career ambitions weren't connected enough to warrant the cross country risk (I only knew 3-5 people there 'in the business').
Eager to return to the liberal northeast, we packed up the Jetta and landed in Jersey...my wife's native land. It's been fun here, but really fucking expensive. After Karen's debacle with her ex employers have left her out of work since early July, we were getting crushed by the high rent and my seemingly endless commute. Her resume is all over the garden state without a nibble. Don't you think a UNC graduate warrants an interview? I certainly do.
My wife and I met in 99, and one of the first things we discovered was our Buffalo connection. She had extended family and both her parents were born there. My entire clan is based in the area. She was, however, very quick to say that she would never live in Buffalo. Never. Too cold, too gray. I couldn't have agreed more; why would I ever go back? Wouldn't that be a defeat?
Perhaps its my maturity (ha) or my desire to own a piece of real estate before I'm 45, but Buffalo is looking mighty fine. The city is experiencing a rebirth; the Elmwood/Richmond/Delaware Park areas are becoming hot places to live again, yet real estate prices are still the lowest of any major city. The winters are still long, yes, and the long term employment outlook is still shaky. However, there is a thriving cultural scene and most of the amenities for young professionals with a couple dollars of disposable income to enjoy.
It comes down to the money. We're getting an expensive apartment, yet it is 1/2 of our rent here in Jersey. There is little to no traffic and aside from gasoline, the cost of living is generally much lower than here. Car insurance goes down by several hundred dollars. If we make the same that we make here, which is looking all but guaranteed, we'll have almost 2k a month to spend or even save (gasp!). It just makes sense.
Who knows what will happen. Perhaps my writing prowess will get noticed and I'll be whisked into a bi-coastal existence, flying to LA every other week to cash big checks--I mean, to be validated as an artist(e). That might suck; I hate flying. It's not that I'm afraid of air travel, it's that I find the process to be excruciatingly tedious and difficult. I'm simply incapable of arriving two hours early for anything.
Okay, let's recap: moving to Buffalo is a good thing. Typical city involved in your typical daydream. It's a great community in the midst of a renaissance. Cost of living puts a ton of extra cash back into my pocket, which means we might be able to do the traveling that we always talk about.
Four more weeks in the cube, then truckin' up to Buffalo. I been thinking you got to mellow slow...
Saturday, August 20, 2005
Yes, while I've been taking Mr. Young's advice and rocking in the free world, he has decided that his new album insert should be printed on my rare Nepalese paper. To make this happen, his people have been buying up any and all of it they can find. This leaves small business owners such as myself facing a severe shortage (and I would guess upcoming price hike) in the rare paper market.
Damn the free market!
Friday, August 19, 2005
Palestinians- Stop bombing people. Do you want to be taken seriously as a state? Then stop blowing shit up in Israel. It only strengthens their resolve.
Israelis- Shut up. I'm obviously not sympathetic for the simple reason that I don't respect Zionism. In fact, I think it's a big fucking problem. This land was given to you by God? If your grandfather built a house here, or you were most upset about leaving a community that you love, I could sympathize. A little. I might even argue on your side for property rights that help define the modern social contract. But saying that you deserve to live there because your god gave it you? Shut the fuck up. Because my god gave me the red Ferrari F430 Spyder at the dealership. Seriously, he told me. But you don't see me wrapping it in razor wire and defending it with my life, do you?
It comes down to this: anything given to you by your god, especially things that someone else currently owns, doesn't really count. If god disagrees, let him/her/it come down and enforce his/her/its holy property laws.
As long as I'm getting it out on the table, Zionism is pretty ballsy. And stupid. I'd be fine if that entire area sunk into the ocean; they could all fight over the holy fishing rights. What amazes me is American Jews who uproot their children and move them into a war zone. Isn't a parent obligated to keep their child as far out of harm's way as possible? Instead, you're infecting their head with Zionistic fever and a near-militant belief in their religion. Hasn't there been enough bloodshed in the name of god?
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
approximatly 24,250 times. This is based on an average of 2.5 times per day, which is probably a very conservative guess. Somewhat related, I have never gone Upper Deck nor have I done a Mr. Chicken. Don't ask.
Can you add to this list? Hit the comments with your best and I'll add them to the list, giving full credit of course.
Monday, August 08, 2005
College girl #1: Ooh, bubble tea. I've never tried that. I see signs for it everywhere.
College girl #2: I think it's chai tea but with little balls of tapioca.
College girl #1: Like tapioca pudding kind of tapioca?
College girl #2: No, like...they're bigger. They're blobs and they're kind of black.
College girl #1: No way.
College girl #2: Yes way. Someone at school dumped their leftover bubble tea in the toilet on the first floor of my building, and they didn't flush.
College girl #1: So that's how you knew the balls, the blobs, were black?
College girl #2: Well, yeah. It looked like an octopus had a miscarriage.
--44th between 7th & 8th
Guy: So people ask me, "What am I?", and I say, "Firstly, I'm a person and an American." It's such a contextual paradox. I just can't explain it.
Guy: I just said I can't explain it, it's a contextual paradox.
A crazy man mutters to a girl walking by. She ignores him and keeps walking.
Crazy man: God kill all the lesbians. God please kill all the lesbians. Kill the lesbians. God please kill all the lesbians!
Woman on bench: Yeah, I'm sure it's because she is a lesbian, and had has nothing to do with the fact that he has three combs stuck in his afro and smells like a dead goat.
--Columbus Circle station
Drunk guy #1: Hey, how come we never banged our neighbor?
Drunk guy #2: Because she's 17 years old!
Drunk guy #1: OK, then why didn't we bang her mom?
Drunk guy #2: Because we're faggots!
Drunk guy #1: OK, then why haven't we banged each other?
Woman: Excuse me, I left my passport in the ladies' room.
Stewardess guy: I'm sorry, madam, you'll have to wait until we make our way down the aisle.
Woman: But I need to get my passport.
Stewardess guy: I understand that, but we cannot move this cart back far enough. We should be through in a few minutes.
Woman: But it's in the bathroom! What if someone takes it?
Stewardess guy: If it's not in the bathroom when you get there, let one of us know and we'll make an announcement.
Woman: No, I can't wait for that to happen, I have to go and get my passport now.
Stewardess guy: I understand, but as I've explained to you before, you must wait. Please return to your seat.
Woman: Oh, you're very nice. You know, in the United States, people don't behave like that.
Stewardess guy: In the Netherlands people don't dress like that.
--KLM Flight to JFK
Friday, August 05, 2005
Here's the list:
123 OUT OF 124 HIGH SCHOOL STUDENTS AGREE: VIVA ARUBA!
MARY WAS ONLY A VIRGIN IF YOU DON'T COUNT ANAL
MY MEXICAN WORKS FOR LESS THAN YOUR MEXICAN
RAPE IS NO LAUGHING MATTER(unless you're raping a clown)
ARREST BLACK BABIES BEFORE THEY BECOME CRIMINALS
MACE JUST MAKES ME HORNIER
YOUR SISTER IS HOT BUT YOUR MOM DOES THAT THING WITH HER TONGUE
PUT MY WILLY WONKA IN YOUR CHOCOLATE FACTORY
YOU CAN'T HAVE MANSLAUGHTER WITHOUT LAUGHTER
MICHAEL JACKSON DID NOT MOLEST THOSE CHILDREN: HE MADE LOVE TO THEM
I SUPPORT WHATEVER'S TRENDY
I ONLY SUPPORT GAY MARRIAGE IF BOTH CHICKS ARE HOT
I'D RATHER BE FIGHTING THE MAN
I STILL THINK LINDSAY AND NICOLE ARE FAT
WHY DID THE GAYS HAVE TO RUIN THE RAINBOW FOR EVERYBODY ELSE?
Thursday, August 04, 2005
Like any fire extinguisher, there is a pin that goes through the handle to prevent premature expulsion of the white foam if someone touches the handle by accident. What amuses me: the pins preventing the handle action are zip tied to the handles.
Yes, you read correctly, to prevent losing the pins, they were zip tied to the mechanism that, in an emergency, they desperately need to detach from.
Moral of the story: if there's going to be a fire, carry a fucking knife with you to hack at the zip ties while you and your Pentium II go up in flames.
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
"We Told last week at 1.20 to WATCH and now its $2.35 and
we think it goes to $4.00 on expected news this week..."
Slow down big fella, what's the rush? You sound like an out of breath five year old with ADD. But, I'm listening.
Harbin Pingchuan Pharmaceutical: (PGCN)Current Price: $2.35
***We told you there was going to be a BIG move on THURSDAY, FRIDAY, MONDAY, AND TUESDAYand we think WEDNESDAY COULD BE HUGH !!!!!!
Hmm, Chinese pharmaceutical company-wait, Hugh? Who the hell is that? I thought you were talking to me. You must be talking to me, I'm the only one here. And those asterisks are definitely a plus. Nothing gets my investment bone itchin' like excessive punctuation.
NEWS RELEASE:PGCN MAKES HUGH MOVE, UP A AMAZING $1.15 - IN 5 DAYS OF TRADING !!!
***WE URGE YOU TO PUT PGCN ON YOUR RADAR FOR WEDNESDAY AUGUST 3, 2005***
Mmmm, more asterisks and exclamation points, keep talking. Talk slower. And your disregard for proper grammar has me reaching for the checkbook. But this Hugh fellow has me weirded out.
****REASON TO WATCH PGCN****
Make no mistake: Our mission at SmallCap-Investors is to claw our way through the thousands of underperforming companies out there to find the golden needle in thehaystack the micro-cap DIAMOND that can make you rich. More often than not, the stockswe profile show a significant increase in stock price and sometimes in days, not months or years.
Do this often enough, and your portfolio can double, even TRIPLE in value.
Triple? Damn, that's even more than double. Who do I make the check to?
The publisher of this newsletter does not represent that the information contained in this message states all material facts or does not omit a material fact necessary to make the statements therein notmisleading.
Huh? So you don't not say that you're not forgetting to not include something that might not make this something I'd rather not invest in? Is that it?
None of the material within this report shall be construed as any kind of investment advice or solicitation.
What was all that Hugh moves on my radar talk about?
Many of these companies are on the verge of bankruptcy. You can lose all your money by investing in this ST0CK.
A minute ago we were talking about tripling my portfolio. Now they're on the verge of bankruptcy? Wow, the market sure moves fast. It's a good thing I've got you boys working for me and not the other guy.
The publisher of this newsletter is contracted to receive six hundred thousand free trading shares from a third party, not an officer, director or affiliate shareholder for the circulation of this report. Be aware of an inherent conflict of interest resulting from such compensation due to the fact that this is a paid advertisement and is not without bias. The party that paid us has a position in the ST0CK they will sell at anytime without notice. This could have a negative impact on the price of the ST0CK, causing you to lose money.
Hold the phone. I may not understand all the in's and out's of globalization, but I think I see what's going on here. I think I'll invest the money where my family has done business for generations: the track.
Now, the body fat is at a staggering 15%, with the waist unable to wear the 32's, and the 33's are getting uncomfortable. My jeans are tighter, and work pants seem snugger around the middle. I'm definitely at the age where a lot of guys start to pack on the pounds. Some do it in college, some do it now, others hold off into their 30's and 40's. I think 26 is too early for me. My bulletproof metabolism has failed me. Or perhaps I have failed it?
Being a rather trim guy, gaining a little weight shouldn't have been an issue. However, I've gained all of those 18 pounds on my stomach and sides. What the fuck? I look like a Somalian refugee with a distended, bloated stomach. All I need now is a couple flies to follow me around and land on my eyeballs. Am I going to Hell? Yes. Will I get VIP seating there? Probably. Will I need to get two seats to accommodate my gut? We'll see.
I ate a lot for the first two months here. Snack after snack. I was bored; what was I going to do? When the weight gain started, I cut out the snacking and made a real effort to eat fruit for breakfast and stop eating meatball subs for lunch. Didn't work. The problem must be my new, sedentary nature. How do I combat this?
I know, get off my ass and go running, or play tennis again, or basketball. I get little to no exercise. This is my problem. This must change. I may need to get up earlier to make time for the new plan...but that's a stretch. I'm not a fan of getting up, especially when the words early or earlier or pre-dawn come into the mix. But times are tough, and if I want to drop this ungainly fat and return to my 7% body fat I will need a significant change.
To start, I'm going to chronicle what I eat at work. Knowing that the world can see what/how I eat will perhaps help. Also, any and all physical activity shall be documented as proof of my commitment to looking better. Maybe I should lift some weights...we'll see. If I feel like gaining mass I'll do so after bring the fat back into control. Then I can up my calorie (protein) intake for the sake of bulk.
So please, feel free to stop by and heckle or shame me. Public humiliation is a powerful motivator. I'll post my intake, activity, weight, and body fat on a daily or near daily basis.
08/03 - 169 lbs. 15.1% body fat. No activity yet.
7 oz lemonade
1/2 slice of buffalo chicken pizza (good start, no?)
1 Granny Smith apple
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
Friday traffic was a headache, getting stuck on the Cross Bronx for about an hour. Total trip took about 4.5 hours, including a desperate meal stop at a deserted diner off I95. Checked into the hotel and just hung out as it was late and we were both wiped out by the week.
Saturday morning we got up and made our way over to Mystic, CT. Very cool little town, even though it's inundated with tourists and their screaming progeny. Had lunch at a rooftop mexican place before doing some mild shopping. Walked around town a bit and headed over to the highly rated aquarium(we're both suckers for zoos and aquariums). Went back to the hotel to rest and clean up a bit for dinner and the concert.
Fearing a time crunch, we ate at Bulkeley's in New London, in the patio section of course. Nice weather, great company; we hustled to get over to Connecticut College for the 8:00 show time. Here's where the trouble started. The campus was deserted, like 28 Days Later deserted, only without the zombies. Thinking that everybody else had parked on the other side of the auditorium, I left the car running and ran over to the building to make sure everything was cool. Alas, the concert had been cancelled. Actually, the summer concert series had been cancelled due to bankruptcy. To make things even worse, a note taped to the door gave a number to call to start the legal process of a refund. Legal process? What? I want my money back now. But seeing how desolate the building was (yet the door was unlocked, hmmm), I tried to think of the best way to break this news to my very excited-for-the-show wife waiting in the car. In front of this building was the world's biggest gong. Well, it was more like a giant Buddhist bell, replete with swinging log to ring it. Feeling ripped off, I picked up a large mallet underneath the gong/bell and gave it a very solid crack. This didn't make me feel any better.
Back in the car, I gave her the quick and dirty truth. She didn't buy it. Convinced I was just yanking her chain, it took at least four times to make her believe that we weren't seeing a concert that night. Bummed, we drove over to a movie theater to fill the hole in our night. Again, we got screwed. All four screens in this quad-plex of a theater had just began their showings. Fuck it. Thoroughly beaten by the forces at work, we did what any normal couple should do: we went back to the Holiday Inn* and had great sex.
Sunday was gray and overcast so we took advantage by hiring a kayak for the afternoon. We strapped on the vests and leisurely paddled out from the cove, exploring the islands and inlets. Many times we would simply let ourselves float across the black water under the gray sky. Incredibly tranquil. About 90 minutes out of port, the sun decides to come raging back to life. Uh oh. I hadn't put on any sunscreen. My shorts and t-shirt were no protection and I felt the heat giving me a slow roast almost instantly. We turned the boat around and started paddling. Unfortunately for me, my efficient paddling had brought us quite far out. Now, feeling the pain, I dug in even harder and pushed myself to get that kayak back into the shade. Despite making good time back, I got scorched. My knees, from the kneecap to the line where my shorts ended, are lobster red. My neck, arms, and shins got pretty toasted, but not nearly as bad as the knees.
After putting in, we cleaned up and went to Mystic Pizza for a late lunch. It wasn't quite as quaint as I remember from the movie. In fact, they've made it a tourist attraction with a chain-restaurant type dining room. Pictures of Julia Roberts and other movie bits are splattered over the walls. Despite the change, it was still a really tasty pizza (Buffalo chicken) and great conversation. We hit the highway directly from there in order to hopefully avert some of the weekend traffic.
To my despair, we found the heart of the back-to-the-city traffic. Coupled with my increasingly bad sunburn and complete loss of my arms and shoulders (I'm still feeling the effects of my mad paddlin'), my mood spiraled down. In fact, I caused a pretty major fight somewhere on the Cross Bronx when I took something my wife said a little too personally. The drive sucked. Today, two days later, I still have a lot of pain walking.
Since this is the beginning of year 2, it's appropriate that I write down a few resolutions.
1. I will communicate better with the wife.
2. I will do something about this commute.
3. I will finish projects that I start.
4. I will decide what I want to be when I grow up.
5. I will lose this desk weight (or this desk) that I've picked up.
6. I will send the Netflix back in a reasonable time frame.
7. I will spend less time reading other blogs and more time on my own.
8. I will not make another boring list for another year.
*Holiday Inn sucks. I can't wait til we can afford proper hotels again.
|You are a Self-Discoverer|
You're not religious, but you've created your own kind of spirituality.
Introspective and thoughtful, you tend to look inward for the divine.
You are distrusting of all forms of organized religion.
You especially dislike religious gurus and leaders, who you feel are charlatans.
Friday, July 29, 2005
One year already...rather shocking. Do you want to see our year by the numbers? Do you? Do you know who you're dealing with? Right.
2- Places we moved
5 -Jobs we've had between us
2 -Times our AC has given out
1 - Proper vacations (Vegas!)
2 -Debts fully paid off
6 -New debts taken on
46 -Inches of the new TV (see above)
2 -VW Jetta's purchased (I'm getting sick of them)
453 -Times we thought of leaving Jersey
350k - Cost of a decent starter house here
That's all I can muster right now...I have stuff to take care of before hitting the dusty trail. I'll be back Monday with more details and maybe pictures. You can live without me until then. Who am I kidding, nobody reads this. But isn't that the point? Am I writing this to journal my life or entertain strangers with voyeuristic tendencies? This can wait til Monday.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
First are the Eastern European guys who work at the hedge fund. Other people in their office dress like Gordon Gecko, they prefer the vintage flannel shirt and a Nordic beard. Odd, but just fine. What bothers me is that they gather in the communal kitchen to chat during lunch. They talk in rushed, muted tones. If I walk in, or even go by the doorway, they clam up and glare at me as if I were some corporate spy trying to eavesdrop on their discussion of feasible cold fusion. This honestly wouldn't bother me if it weren't for the fact that they jabber in some Eastern European Slavic language to which I am utterly clueless. Perhaps if they were speaking high school French or Spanish I could glean the slightest inkling of their diabolical agenda.
Tuesday the 26th, 12:44 PM. Target 1 asked Target 2 if he had seen his suitcases. Target 2 replied by asking for directions to the biblioteque. End transmission.
The other character is The Ginch: a cross between Dr. Strangelove and Wallace Shawn from the Princess Bride. He is short, which already flares my prejudice that short people have an agenda, wears glasses that darken with bright light, and holds his cigarettes in a most peculiar, Strangelove-like fashion. The fact that The Ginch seems to snarl with his thin upper lip doesn't help matters. He doesn't actually do anything to me; it's merely that seeing him gives me the "maybe I shouldn't have cut through this dark alley to save three minutes walking back to the car" kind of feeling.
Totally unrelated: I channeled my immature fascination with automobiles into its own blog. Confessions of a Car Slut. Link is on the left hand nav bar as well.
Monday, July 25, 2005
Just after lifting the car and removing the wheels for the above mentioned rotation, one of the workers arrives with lunch. Say goodbye to returning to work on time. I watched helplessly through the glass as my car was left suspended in mid air without wheels. They ate, and ate some more, and I paced the waiting area. No use stressing over it. In the end, they finally finished their Taco Bell and attached my wheels, over an hour since I arrived. Bastards.
The waiting did give me occasion to witness a great intellectual conversation.
Customer: That's me.
Employee: You got like a hunnerd twenny thousand miles.
Employee: Yeah, you want the high mileage?
Customer: High mileage what?
Employee: High mileage oil for high mileage cars.
Customer: What's it do?
Employee: It helps high mileage cars. It's thick.
Customer: How much is it?
Employee: Forty one ninety-nine.
Customer: Is that more than the regular?
Employee: Regular is thirty (dollars) ninety-nine.
Customer: So it's only two dollars more?
Employee: (Rolls his eyes) Nah, bro. It's like seven or eight dollars more.
This happened, almost exactly like this. He was serious, too. Seven or eight...
Friday, July 22, 2005
I've reached the crossroads of my life and it's crippled me. Not only can I not make the big decision, I can't seem to make any decisions. Perhaps if I choose nothing, then whatever happens can't be my fault. Innocent by abstinence.
I don't have to tell you how foolish this is. Not making choices doesn't stop time, no one offers a time-out, and that's apparently what I'm trying to do: bring it down.
I'm realizing how quickly life can run between your fingers. We're here for a disgustingly short amount of time, and I'm terrified of making choices that will waste a single minute. The irony, of course, is that I've wasted more than a few months in this holding pattern; too weak to step forward.
You'll point out that I got married, wasn't that a big step? It was an immense step, yet many times easier. It was right, I felt it. My instinct practically screamed that I needed to be her husband, and have her as my wife. Was that even a choice? Choice implies options. There were no options; I would have been miserable without her.
Now I'm making her miserable, and that won't stand. She sees the pain on my face, she sees the internal conflict that is bringing me down. She begins to wonder if I've lost confidence in her as well. I haven't.
The pain in my gut is real. Doctors don't know what to say. Despite repeated assurances that it is merely stress, I have to wonder. Did I do this to myself? The choices are endless.
Do we stay? Do we move? Do we go to school? Do we start a career? I don't know...the answers aren't clear, and they're not getting clearer anytime soon. Either way, I have an amazing friend and lover sitting on this bench seat with me and she's getting restless. It's time to put this thing in drive.
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
"Thanks to the Columbus City Council, 65,000 people will not be coming to your wonderful Greater Columbus Convention Center in 2007," Wayne LaPierre, the rifle association's executive vice president, said in a news conference here. "The only thing the City Council can expect out of their decision is the gratitude of those businesses in the city we go to instead."
Take your stupid fucking guns back to Tallahassee or Atlanta or Dallas. Why is it so wrong for a city to decide that it doesn't want the criminals to be carrying heavier artillery than its police force?
The NRA is stupid, stupid, stupid. Where's my kevlar vest?
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
A blind Black man with a Star of David is holding court.
Black man: The Pope is a faggot. They molested my kids. I want to go to church, but I can't because they molested my kids...now all White people are faggots.
Hispanic guy #1: How come they have kids?
Black man: Silence, you will wait until I have finished speaking...can't no one hit the ball like Hank Aaron. That's why we all in prison and they trying to kill us, but we will kill them. Can't nobody sing like Luther Vandross.
Hispanic guy #1: But--
Black man: Wait until I have finished...now the Hispanic people, like Dominicans and Cubans are also the true Jews, and the lost tribes of Israel...now you may address me.
Hispanic guy #2: What about Black Puerto Ricans, are they from the lost tribe?
Black man: I can't stand Black Puerto Ricans!
--West Farms bus stop, The Bronx
Yuppie: If we just let them kill the Jews we wouldn't have this problem. Then we could buy oil for $6 a barrel.
Hobo: Excuse me, sir? You dropped some change.
Man: What? Where?
Hobo: Bam! In my cup!
--4th Avenue & 7th Street
Little girl: ...but Mom!
Mom: Say it one more time, motherfucker!
--Pathmark, Cherry Street
Girl #1: So when I was in Italy, I went to France.
Girl #2: What did you do there?
Girl #1: I went to the Leaning Tower of Pisa.
Girl #2: Still Italy.
Girl #1: Really?
Girl #2: Yeah. So what did you do in France?
Girl #1: I guess I didn't go to France, then...
--Toys R Us, Times Square
Crazy guy: And what do gay people do with the money they save on child support? The parade! They pay for the parade.
--53rd Street station
Guy on cell: No, I'm waiting for the ferry...No, not him; the boat that goes into the city.
--Staten Island Ferry Terminal, Staten Island
That said, let's move forward. I can't talk about any of our job situations, except to say that Karen' stress level has gone into the red. Not good.
Those who know, know that we have something interesting in the works. We are currently doing the groundwork, so the timeframe is yet to be determined.
My current dissatisfaction with my life has brought me back to Green Day, of all things. I didn't identify with all the angst and pissed off energy of Dookie when it came out but I did like the music. Now, stuck in traffic every day, I really understand and enjoy the frustration that lurks below the catchy punk-pop hooks. I like listening to it very loud. It helps.
As most people will identify themselves as a good driver, most will say that they are music lovers. Perhaps it's growing up, perhaps it's my new jaded nature, but 98% of music isn't doing it for me anymore. I'm just not a music lover. There are a few artists that I still have great respect for and will pay to see. Most music passes me with little to no impact...it's not interesting.
One of the most interesting music experiences came while working at the Hard Rock Cafe on summer. About once a day, Elton John's "Tiny Dancer" would come on the screens and speakers. No matter how chaotic the guests and staff were prior, the first notes of the piano would inspire a rapid calming action. The servers slowed down, guests relaxed immensely, and everyone seemed to be in agreement...if only for a few minutes. Most people would sing along and watch the video which included clips from Cameron Crowe's "Almost Famous". Every time. It was creepy yet wonderful.
I'm going to scroll through the iPod for Tiny Dancer...maybe it will get me through the morning.
Sunday, July 10, 2005
9:00 - Dentist appointment. Five cavities? What the hell is that?
10:30 - 1:00 - Soup kitchen in Newark.
1:00 - 1:30 - Race back to Red Bank, fight the fucking shore traffic.
1:30 - 2:30 - Frantically clean house before guests arrive.
2:30 - 6:30 - Entertain guests at home, then at restaurant, then at home again.
6:30 - 9:00 - Talk business with our business partners. Hammer out the marketing strategy; still need to spend some time on the pricing.
9:00 - 10:00 - Stare blankly.
10:00 - present - Look at houses for sale while updating the photo galleries. Check them out if you are so inclined. www.pbase.com/brooksy
Now it is time for bed; we have plans for tomorrow to meet up with other friends. I also need to spend some time with Dreamweaver. Teaching myself from the book is a bit time intensive...and I promised this site would go live at the end of the month. I'm brilliant.
Friday, July 01, 2005
A Black kid and his Hispanic girlfriend are arguing on the train. The kid is holding her in the seat and she is trying to rip off his shirt. The entire car is watching, as if it were a car wreck.
Hispanic girl: You're always showing off!
Black kid: What?
Hispanic girl: Get off me!
Black kid: Stop it!
Hispanic girl: Get off me!
Black passenger guy: Man, why's it always gotta be our people pulling this shit? You never see White people pulling this shit. You never see Chinese people pulling this shit. Man!
Girl #1: They named their kid Lotus?
Girl #2: That's kind of cool.
Girl #1: How?
Girl #2: Well, it's got good connotations, you know? I mean, you'd never meet a bitch named Lotus.
Girl #1: Yeah, but...weren't they, like, a plague?
--John Fluevog, Mulberry Street
Guy #1: Hey man, how you been?
Guy #2: Good, man.
Guy #1: What you been up to?
Guy #2: ...Sorry man, just spaced out.
Guy #1: That's cool, I am coked out of my mind right now anyway.
-Karen's father will be in town tonight, and possibly tomorrow. I keep forgetting about this because I forget about most things. It's my defense mechanism against the onslaught of repetitive weeks. This way I can be refreshingly surprised by the smallest of events.
-There is a Carta meeting this weekend. As 25% stakeholder, I'm expected to be there with ideas. And basketball shoes.
-I realized, again, that I would love to stay in Red Bank. It's really a nice change from the Generica of most places. There is no Taco Bell or McDonald's in town, and the nearest Chili's/Applebees/Friday's/Outback is several miles away. The only chain on Broad St is a subdued Starbucks, new Coldstone Creamery, and easily missed Restoration Hardware. To buy a house here will require finding a stack of bearer bonds taped to the bottom of my couch. Didn't find any yesterday. I'll check again tonight.
-Managed to put some good pages down last night in between defending myself against a brutal attack on the VA boards. And no, that's not a basketball reference.
-Could I write a book? Yes. Would it be good? Maybe? Do I want to? Ask again later...
-Things that I'm considering, in random order:
*writing a book (didn't see that one coming?)
*going to law school after all
*being a teacher (summers to write)
*staying up all weekend to finish this script
*opening PS to finish those photos for a gallery show
*taking more pictures to adequately fill said show
*playing more poker for money
*risking financial ruin to shoot my own feature next summer
*never making a list like this again
*starting an indie film review zine (hate that word, zine)
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
-I probably need an attitude adjustment, at least that's what I've been told in the past. Not since the early 90's, but the situation is similar enough.
-Some people don't have to go through this...
-Just returned from lunch at Subway. After I got my sandwich and sat down, they quickly ran out of all bread except honey oat and wheat. A woman came in and looked at the bread selection.
"I'll have a footlong chicken bacon melt on Italian," she said.
"I'm sorry, we only have honey oat and wheat left," replied the courteous sandwich artist.
"Honey oat wheat?"
"No, honey oat or wheat."
"Do you have hearty Italian?"
"No, we only have honey oat or wheat."
"Do you have anything else?"
This is quite true. The sound of my eyes rolling probably echoed for blocks.
-I may have scared a few people in the building today. Everyday, I have an apple for breakfast. Due to my unfortunate childhood accident (so cold...), I am unable to bite into an apple with my front teeth. Naturally, I cut it into wedges before leaving for work.
Today, running later than normal, I didn't have time for such luxuries. Still wanting my apple, I grabbed the only clean tool out of the block: an 8 inch filet knife. Wrapped it with the granny smith and rushed to drop the wife at the train station. Got to work, cut my apple, ate it. Perfecto.
In between 8 and lunch, I started losing my mind and wishing for a meteor to fall from the gods and end my work day. Under much stress, I left for lunch carrying the knife (better to leave it in the car). In my slightly distracted state, I made it all the way to the parking lot before realizing that I had a serial killer's grip on the handle. From a wide enough angle, my scowl and deadly weapon probably looked good enough to call the cops over. I wasn't going to murder anyone, it just appeared that way. I swear.
Monday, June 27, 2005
Most people tend to romanticize the past and I am no exception. Last summer was a whirlwind of planning and travel for the wedding and honeymoon. There isn't a question in my mind; I would trade anything to go back.
-Before that was 2003, a summer Karen and I spent in the tiny spare room of my mother's house in Buffalo. No air conditioning, barely enough room for two of us on the bed. I loved it. She worked at a local restaurant, I worked at the Hard Rock Cafe. We spent warm nights in the city with friends, ate our favorite foods, and I proposed to her on the marble steps of Albright-Knox. A summer of magic.
-In 2002 Karen lived with her mother and with friends in New Jersey. I went to Buffalo and worked at the Hard Rock. Getting there was a 30 minute drive along the Niagara River under a beautiful summer sky. The work was hard and money adequate. This was before my friends had 'real' jobs; we spent so many mornings at the $8 golf course and so many late nights at Matt's apartment, playing video games and hanging out. One night, at Holly's Parkside house, we got pulled into a late night game of croquet in Delaware Park. We went over and under the wrought iron fence to utilize the well manicured croquet and bocce lawns. Under the lights and through the dew we swung mallets until park security showed up. A few minutes of making nice and we get off with a warning, and he didn't throw us out. The best night of that summer was my impulsive drive to NJ to see my future wife. I showed up, unannounced, to spend two days with her and her friends. The following school year proved to be the absolute low point of my life and relationship, yet that late night burn over to the Jersey state will always stick out on the highlight reel of life.
-Now, summer of 2005. I don't recognize my own life. I have Karen, and that's the most important thing, but neither of us are happy with how things are working out. You say it's our first year working, and the dues need to be paid. Yes, but what is the reward? More money and more work? Perhaps I need to look at the fine print again. She's miserable, I'm out of energy. How do you add kids to this mix?
-I sit here, watching the minutes of my lunch hour tick down to zero and I can't help staring at the rain soaked window. In my former life I wouldn't hesitate to venture into the warm drops and hit golf balls. "The rain gets harder, making the 250 yard marker hard to read. Water rolls from my forehead to my nose, pauses for a moment before plummeting to the green turf between my feet. I keep my head down, adjust my grip for the water and pull the driver back, slowly at first. At the apex, I switch directions and pull the club along its path, never taking my eyes off the ball. The rain thunders down as the club head connects with the ball, launching it into the distance where it will fight vainly against the falling water to maintain its loft. I tee up another ball, soaked." Now, if you could see this in my head, you'd hear a song by the Shins and much of my action would be in dramatic slow motion, including several insert shots of rain drops splashing against the club head and turf mat. I could shoot this in a day, and it would be really fucking good, because I am that good. And I'm doing what with my life?
-I won't do any of this. My Polo shirt and Nautica khakis would be soaked; I'd have to sit in my cube like this...and the soundtrack to that part of my day wouldn't have nearly the dramatic effect. And is life about anything other than dramatic effect? That's all we want, to know that someone else feels the same thing that we do; that maybe for a moment we can be something other than alone.
-I forgot to mention this tidbit from the Yankee's game: outside the bleacher entrance (we had real seats, thank you very much), I nearly bumped into a gang of orthodox jewish teenage boys. And they were leaning against the wall and smoking. Does this strike anyone else as hypocritical? You can't eat pork, can't keep meat and milk in the same room, can't flush toilets on holidays, yet sucking down the cancerous tar of North Carolina's finest is kosher? On that logic I would expect to see a group of nuns shooting dice against the outside of Madison Square Garden.
-We took my dad to New York for a quick tour of the city on Saturday afternoon. Did the usual circuit of chinatown, city hall, tribeca, downtown, the village, midtown, upper east side, and central park. Once again I fell madly in love with the West Village and swore that I would live there for some period of my life, even if it's short. Stopped to see Russell and his new abode on W 61st. Small by real standards, but somewhat above average for what he's paying and location. Small problem with the hallways though; at 3-4 feet wide, moving in furniture would be a real bitch. Then again, moving furniture up to the fourth floor without an elevator might suck just as bad. Even though it was upper 90's in the shade, the day was a success.
-Now it's time to swallow my sanity and get through the day. It's like nails on a fucking chalkboard.
Friday, June 24, 2005
-There were four guys sitting behind us that didn't shut up. Thankfully they were 30-something contractors from Lawn G'Island and it was hilarious to hear them bicker. Definitely the kind of stuff you can't make up.
The guy on the aisle was named Blubber, because he was huge. So big that he had to have the aisle on one side and an empty seat on the other. Yankee Stadium seats aren't the most accommodating, so this guy might find himself paying for two tickets next time. Can you imagine dropping a couple hundred bucks on World Series tickets and having to sit next some guy already using half your seat?
The stadium vendors quickly realized that these guys were a gold mine. They didn't pass on a single thing, except for the guy selling soda. Thirty dollar rounds of beer, $5 Crackerjack, $6 peanuts, $4 hot dogs, more beer...it didn't matter. They must have dropped $150 on snacks. You could have sold them anything:
"Timeshares, get your timeshares."
"Yo, we'll take four."
"Human kidneys, human kidneys, who wants a kidney."
"Hey pal, two each over here."
"Angel dust, get positively destroyed on Angel Dust."
"Buddy, up here, set us up with a taste."
Blubber was by far the most vocal and my only regret is that I didn't have anything to record them with. Here are my favorite bits (that I can remember):
"Look at that, the (girl in the) pink hat. Yo, I bet that bitch has a stinky box."
(Discussing a major league pitcher their friend knows) "He got divorced and the bitch took him for a fuckin' ride. But you should see the whore he's got now. Fuckin' incredible."
"What, you seen this bitch?"
"I seen her picture."
(Discussing a friend named Underwear, who apparently came into some money) "And you know that light blue Pontiac? He paid for that. You know Dawn Fratangelo? He bought her car and put teeth in her head. Right into her fuckin' jaw."
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
-It's later, and it took me 110 minutes to drive home. Fantastic. What did I do with Kevorkian's number? It was here somewhere...
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
-I sat Gunfighter at lunch today. Subway can be a dangerous place. Confused? Good, class is about to begin for those who don't know. The rest of you can take five or skip to the next bullet point.
When you enter a room and are faced with a wide variety of potential seating areas, you are making unconscious choices that say a lot about your personality. Imagine a high school cafeteria with one main door. You enter holding your PBJ and Snapple. Where do you sit?
If you sit in the seat closest to, and facing the door, you are a greeter. Not like Wal-Mart, but close. You want people to see you and you want to see everyone who enters. If you sit in the same seat, facing away from the door, you are a monitor (see: lunch lady). It's more important for you to see what's going than for people to see you on their way in. You are inquisitive, or maybe even a nosy shit.
If you sit in the dead center of the room, regardless of direction, you are desperate for contact. You probably can't shut up and have to be the literal center of attention.
If you take a seat in the farthest 1/3 of the room, facing the door, you are practicing gunfighter style. You see who's come in and where they go; you are ready for anything. A variation is sitting in the farthest corner from the door. This is called true gunfighter. You are a bad mo'fo' encouraging some ill shit. If someone has a grudge, you are clearly in a vulnerable position and an attack is likely.
The last position is when you take a seat farthest from the door, facing a wall or corner. You don't want to look at anyone, but you want them to look at you. This is referred to as "God is Dead", named for a friend of mine with a penchant for depressing German philosophy. You are not someone to be trifled with.
-Now I have to go...I shouldn't admit this, but I'm going to watch the Hilton reality show. Why do I fall for this crap?
Monday, June 20, 2005
So what's the alternative? Leave at 6 in the morning and come home at 7. In bed by 10. That's three hours to spend between your wife and kids. You can make a lot of money though, take care of the ones you love. Seems like I'm chasing my own tail.
I should have gone to law school and became a suburban divorce lawyer. 40-50 hours a week, decent living, and enough balance that my kids will recognize me.
Where the hell is this post going?
Sunday, June 19, 2005
-Had a great Saturday. Slept in fairly long for a change. We're supposed to head over to Kevin and Jenny's at 2 to show them the samples. Problem is that we still haven't received one of the main ingredients in the mail. Mail comes, no package from Utah. Filthy stinking mormons. With an hour til departure, I find myself driving up and down the shore to search the craft retailers for the missing item. No luck, show must go on.
-We hang out and do our usual shooting-of-the-shit and some snacking. Jenny made a delicious cheese and bean and some other stuff type dip. And wings, and pizza bagels. And not only am I getting husky (fat), I'm totally destroying my no-dairy trial diet. Sorry doc.
-After dinner we go to play basketball. Kevin and I are shooting terribly and the wives won't stop teasing us about it. Unfair. Neither of us have played since last year. Have a heart. We start playing one on one...and he's beating me. All four games were close, but I only won one of them. Nish nish. He couldn't stop my outside shot but I couldn't stop his drive. My complete lack of endurance and the aforementioned delicious dip's insistence on an encore performance slowed my defensive step. Hey, this is streetball, nobody plays D.
-The doc had me on a no-dairy diet and I broke it. I need a 'you're getting flubbly diet'. I'm not overweight on the whole; I just have too much of my weight centered around my middle. Only ten pounds off my fighting weight...I can lose it.
-The link to my pictures has changed. Look to the left side of the screen if you need to. There are some new ones including my first effort into digital BW.
-Aight, let's all pretend that I don't have to go back to work tomorrow. Maybe if we all believe hard enough it will come true.
Friday, June 17, 2005
I don't like Ferrai F430's, except in black.
We'll see what happens.
Today's vocab word:
1. Extremely inferior; very bad
2. Unequivocally detestable
3. Deserving a curse
The traffic on my daily commute is execrable.
Yes, I'm blogstipated. I'll try to spend some time updating when I get a chance.
I only like baseball if I'm at the park, and I hate when I get anything sticky on my hands while driving. I'm afraid it will spread to the steering wheel and I can't live with that.
Thursday, June 16, 2005
Let's assume they last cleaned it in June of 2004. And that might be perfectly okay. The water cooler has gotten progressively dirtier every day since then. Which brings me to the real problem; I'm drinking the dirtiest water possible. The water will never be dirtier than just before it is cleaned. Do you follow?
Friday, June 10, 2005
-Spent a total of three hours on the phone with Sallie Mae. They promised me a chunky cash rebate on my student loans. Now they say I didn't choose the correct email notification preferences and I'm now disqualified. My reaction? "I'm being screwed out of a thousand dollars because I didn't want your spam? Fine, spam me. I'll give you my email, my mother's email, and my grandmother's email. I'll even give you Jesus Christ's personal email (Google mail), just give me my money. Send us all newsletters and ads for products that you think we might be interested in; fuck it, you can send me viruses. Send gay porn, I don't care. But send my fucking money!"
-Watched Ocean's 12. Not as fun as the first, but well done in its own way. The story is alright, not as fresh as the first, and the locations are great. Vincent Cassell is, as always, a badass. The biggest thing lacking was the enthusiasm of the actors. It just didn't have the same spark. Are they world weary? Is it like when Saved By The Bell goes to the beach for the summer?
-Word of the day:
subsume (v) 1: contain or include; "This new system subsumes the old one"
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
Exhausted...I need a week in the Mediterranean to unwind, to really find my center.
While I'm thinking about it, I need some feedback. Both my wife and sister declared that dropping the deuce in a public bathroom is unacceptable under any terms. I think it is a somewhat necessary evil. Perhaps I'm too much of a regular guy but I can't modify my bodily functions to wait for 6:30pm and home-court advantage. There, I've said it. I drop the deuce at work. It's unavoidable. Why should I be declared an untouchable for such a human condition?
The confusion is that both these women in my life use the public commode for #1, but shun part deux. They are already sitting down...so where is the decency disconnect that makes the second stop so taboo? It should be worse for me; I can get in and out without having to touch anything but myself, and I will personally attest to my own sanitation. In my eyes, touching a public doorknob is dirtier than taking a leak.
Now, I was unreasonably terrified of throwing up in any place other than my bathroom. That goes for school, work, rest stop, mosque, Dunkin' Donuts, etc. That was my big hangup. No chunder. No sir.
I quickly make some calls to the landlord about the AC situation and they promise to get someone out today. Around four I get a text message that Jamie's 1:00 flight is still delayed...and she's been on the plane the whole time. They kept taxiing around the airport, returning for fuel, then taxiing some more. I feel quite bad for her.
On the drive home she calls to say that I should come to Philadelphia to pick her up; the flight is canceled. To make things better, Continental made the preemptive announcement that they won't be buying hotel rooms for anyone. The prospect of sleeping in the Philly airport wasn't too enticing. Eventually she gets Continental to buy her a ticket on a direct US Airways flight to Charlotte and things look alright. That flight got delayed a few times but her communiques ended around 8 so it seems to be okay.
Before that I had to pick up the dry cleaning and go to a follw up at the doctor's office (shpilkes in my genecktecessoink). After my errands I crash land at home to recover.
I enjoy Hell's Kitchen and two episodes of Entourage while Karen and I bask in our newly fixed AC. It appears that someone or something cut the control wire on our AC unit. Suspicions are immediately cast upon the downstairs neighbor; unfortunately I don't think she would be that evil. It would be a great character quirk, but it's far-fetched.
The investigation shall commence post haste.