Thursday, December 31, 2009



Sigh...anyway, I painstakingly created this little diagram to show a direct path, and indirect path, but the computer/Blogger thinks I'm too big a 'tard to properly format a paragraph/sentence and keeps trying to format my diagram into a coherent sentence (which it's NOT MEANT TO BE!!!) and thus screwing up my work, and lessening the hysterical impact of my blog. I deactivated the formatting and its supposedly 'wysiwyg' but its NOT. me, the diagram was amusing. THANK YOU BLOGGER EVIL OVERLORDS OF CONFORMITY!!!!! Bleh...I'm going to bed.....

Wednesday, December 30, 2009

Parking Lot Physics

Whilst returning a pair of slippers at my neighborhood shopping complex and driving through the parking lot, I came up with a new theory regarding the laws of physics that dictate movements within the traffic lanes of the parking lot. I know what you are thinking, "But John! The laws of physics are immutable and apply everywhere within the known Universe!" Um, no...they don't. Parking lots are like the interior of a black hole...the laws of physics, and the math that explains physics, break down. Let me explain:

Simple geometry, as well as your basic gravitational pull, dictate that the natural order of things is to move in a direct path, unless that thing is influenced by another thing. To simplify, let's say people walking across a parking lot are attempting to access a building, say, for instance, Macy's. This crude graph will illustrate what the known principles of physics (coupled with the lust for a post-Christmas sale item) say their direction of travel SHOULD look like (the asterisks are the pedestrians in this diagram):

X@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@X X@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@X
X@@ TRAFFIC LANE BETWEEN PARKING STALLS AND MACYS @@@@X X@@@@@@@@@@@@ BUILDING @@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@X X @@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@X
X @@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@X
X @@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@X
MACYS@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@PARKINGSTALLS X@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@X X***********************************************************************X
X@@@(pedestrians taking logical, direct path, i.e. 'straight line' )@@@@@@X

OK, again, that is what it SHOULD have looked like according to the known laws of the Universe. However, since there is a new law of the physical Universe that controls the movements of pedestrians within shopping center parking lots, their actual path of travel looked like this:

X @@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@X
X @@@@@@@@@@@ BUILDING @@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@ X
X @@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@X X@@@@@*@@@@@@@@*@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@ X
X@@@*@@*@@@@@*@@*@@@*@*@@@@@@*@*@@@@@@@*X X@@*@@@@**@@@*@@@*****@@@*@@@@*@@@*@@@@@*@X

Through the magical properties of this new law, a walk of about fifty feet can be stretched into a half-mile journey. I'm calling this new law 'Human Universal Ambling' or 'H.U.A.' for short. Another name for this could be 'Active Sauntering Slowly While Involving Product Exchange' or 'A.S.S.W.I.P.E.' for short. We'll call it the Total ASSWIPE effect of parking lots or the HUA parking lot phenomena. And today, I had a magnificent display of it as I sat in my idling vehicle while people, under the direct combined influence of 'HUA' and being an 'ASSWIPE', took 15 minutes to cross the parking lot vehicle lane as I burned precious gasoline and fouled the atmosphere with my non-moving vehicles noxious fumes as I waited for them to pass by (yes, yes, I momentarily fantasized about mashing the gas pedal and wedging their twisted, bleeding bodies under my tires and radiator, but my employer, and society as a whole, frowns on vehicular homicide. There 'ya go...the 'man' sucking the fun out of usual).

Anyways, I have no idea what can be done about this, as any universal law, like gravity, cannot be overcome...just like death, taxes, and herpes.


I have come to the conclusion I may be something of an least when it comes to my family. Let me explain...

I went out to dinner with Brian (best friend of about 23 years) tonight, and my sister, who is just about the best sister I could ask for, and certainly the best aunt my two daughters could ever DREAM of, came over and hung out with my girls for the few hours I was out. She does this free of charge, of her own free will, and without complaint. I am a lucky guy. In fact, she even cooked dinner for them (she is now apparently trying to instill an even harder to please palate in them: she made paninis with fresh, locally produced mozzarella, fresh basil, fresh baguette, and drizzled with olive oil...they loved them. Yeah, I can whip that up any old time. Thanks sis!). So, I am the luckiest single dad in the world, right? Right. Buuuuuuuuut.......

I come home, and find the kitchen in...let's just say 'less than my usual standards'. OK, no big deal...I'll just tidy up. Then I glance at the counter, and what do I see? Bread crumbs like a Canadian blizzard just swept through my kitchen. And they are EVERYWHERE. I mean, it's really impressive. I ponder how this baguette was sliced in order to produce such an impressive array of crumbs: did they use a chain saw? Maybe they held the baguette up to the jaws of a rabid wolverine? Or perhaps they created slices through the skillful use of explosives? Or did they simply start punching and kicking it until the desired amount of slices fell off? Truth be told, anything was possible (although I'm thinking rabid wolverine). And that is when it struck me: I was being a total ingrate. I had trustworthy, FREE childcare that even made my kids dinner, and here I was obsessing over the bread crumb situation. I mean, really John? REALLY? Well...........yeah actually. You should have seen it! Had you dumped a three foot French loaf into a wood chipper and aimed it at my kitchen counter, you STILL WOULDN"T have achieved the 'crumb per square inch' (my new kitchen mathematical acronym: CSI) coverage my sister and daughters achieved. And yet, as I sit and type this, it occurs to me I'm a bit of a dick for even caring........................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................but you really, really, really, really, REALLY should have seen the crumbs. Really.

Sunday, December 27, 2009

Laundry fixes everything

Wrote a blog, decided it was a fucking downer, and deleted it. Be happy I saved you from reading some self indulgent bullshit.

Wrote a second blog, and deleted that as well. Same reason. You're welcome.

Wrote a third blog and actually laughed ( myself no less) at its pseudo hipster proselytizing about the human condition and the darkness that surrounds us. I actually thought to myself "Jesus Christ John...don't be an asshole."

So, with that, I'm giving up on the blog thing, and I think I'll go do some laundry, go to the gym, and make some banana bread (with white chocolate and toasted walnuts...yum!).

Thursday, December 10, 2009

Things I've Been Pondering

-You know that Visa commercial where the couple is talking about all the wonderful things they can do with their rewards points? The man (of the apparently married couple) rhapsodizes poetic about all the cool trips they can take together, the wonderful fancy meals and dancing they can do together, etc. His scenarios are INCLUSIVE. He's thinking of HER as well as himself. At the end of the commercial the woman informs the man that they in fact WILL NOT be doing any of those wonderful couple activities because she, the woman, has already spent the entire sum (which based on the man's apparently ridiculous fantasies of expensive mutual overseas travel and assumption his self centered shrew of a wife wouldn't blow the sum entirely upon herself...which I guess after ten years of marriage it has yet to dawn on this rube what a bitch his wife is), which must have been, at minimum, in the neighborhood of five grand...MINIMUM. And what has this lovely spent the money on? Why a haute couture dress for herself of course. I mean, just because they're married and supposedly partners in this thing we call life, apparently she felt perfectly justified in spending their hard earned cash exclusively on herself because it made her feel "pretty". And isn't that a small price to pay for her happiness? She then shows off the dress to him and does a little pirouette for him. He then gives a little smile like "Awwww...that's my girl!"

My question is this: why aren't more people HORRIBLY OFFENDED by this commercial??? It makes women look like self absorbed, vacuous, narcissistic tramps, and men look like co-dependent, indulging, castrated PUSSIES. I saw that commercial and my first thought was this:"I don't condone domestic violence, but in this scenario....." I mean, really? Were supposed to find this CUTE? Are you shitting me??? This commercial is a microcosm of EVERYTHING THAT IS WRONG WITH RELATIONSHIPS. You ladies should hate this commercial too because it DOES NOT flatter your ability to be feeling, caring, nurturing, empathetic.....well, actual fucking human beings. And guys? You should hate it too because it paints us as willing to tolerate pretty much anything because we lack backbone (i.e. BALLS), self confidence, and a sense of self when dealing with our significant others because we don't know how NOT TO BE dominated by women. I guess the part of the commercial we missed was when after she shows him the dress she informs him shes been fucking the pool boy for the last six months, and if he dares divorce her, she'll take half his if he knows what's good for him he'll just keep buying her dresses like a good little boy. Sigh...pathetic and offensive.

-Speaking of commercials...what's with the new one for Levi's jeans? There's this weird post apocalyptic feel to it, theres a bunch of shirtless teens doing what looks like outdoor gymnastics under a nuclear holocaust of a sky, and there's some Depression era voice over with a guy droning on about "You sinewy bodied pioneers sharpen your axes and spades for we cannot tarry here...oh you pioneers" WHAT...THE...FUCK? Can somebody explain to me a) what the fuck that was about b) how in the hell it applies to jeans and c) don't these advertisers realize that the typical brain dead, X-Box addled, pot infused, hormonally imbalanced teenager they're marketing their product to has no clue what in the hell a word like "tarry" means? They'd be better off with an advertisement showing a heavily tattooed guy rolling around in their jeans in an MMA ring who after choking out an CGI animated alien lifted from a scene in Halo, runs over to a Japanese sports motorcycle and jumps it over a flaming pit of crocodiles before landing in a swimming pool of Vegas strippers swimming in KY Jelly who then does a shot of Jager and screams "MOTHER FUCKIN' LEVI'S MOTHER FUCKER!!!!!!!!! WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!" He then flashes some sort of white boy wanna be gang sign thing as the heavy metal music is cued up. Now THAT (unfortunately) would make more sense to the youth of America and sell some jeans.

-What in the hell happened to cinnamon gum? I loved cinnamon Trident, Big Red (insert joke here), etc. Now I can't find it anywhere. I'm thinking they're hiding it with the dark chocolate Reeses Peanut Butter Cups (which I STILL have not located...although somebody did finally provide me with some, to which I again say, thank you!). We have 93 different flavors of spearmint/peppermint/wintergreen/winterfresh etc., and exotic flavors like "Mandarin-melon-badger rectum-biscuit and gravy-ice with a juicy fresh burst center", but no cinnamon...and I must ask, is "badger rectum ice" really more popular than cinnamon? Or am I just that out of touch? You're right...don't answer that.

OK, I had other stuff to rant about, but at the moment, I have forgotten them and am solely thinking of having a cup of Mexican hot chocolate...of which, I have decided, I will get up and make right now (I think it fills the cinnamon void I am feeling). Plus its raining right now and I want to just sit and listen to it.

Good night.

Wednesday, December 2, 2009

All the worlds a douche bag...

I used to have this idea that douche bags were few and far between, and the ones that existed were easily spotted. For me, the obvious douche bag was that Ivy League educated, east coast, blue blooded investment banker with a squash racquet up his ass. The pin striped dickhead who votes for Jesus with one hand as he steals the coins out of your pocket with the other. You know, THAT GUY. And he (and she) is. A douche bag that is. But while watching TV the other night (not right now mind you, because my TV is in the shop...I had no idea how empty my life was without my 46 inch HDTV until it was gone...kind of like that lover you didn't appreciate until they were no longer around. Then again, we ARE talking about my TV here...and while human interaction is nice, it doesn't bring me 200+ channels of useless entertainment ranging from shows about the wonders of the cosmos to a screen full of full frontal nudity with little or no plot line. In fact, I propose a theory I'll call the "entertainment inverse nudity sqaure law" ((or EINSL)) which goes something like this: the higher the content of nakedness in any form of video entertainment, the logic/reality/probability behind the plot line is reduced by its square root. This explains why nobody you know has ever received a BJ from a nurse while in the hospital, despite what the Playboy Channel would have us believe. But I digress...) I realized that douche bags are everywhere.

I was watching this live music thing with Katy Perry. I know, "Why in the hell were you watching that drivel?" Well, I used to think she was kinda hot. I don't know anything about her music, or her as a person. I had just seen pictures of her, and she had this retro thing going on and I thought "kinda hot". So, whilst channel surfing, I caught her in an "unplugged performance" and watched it for about five minutes. Talk about a buzz kill. Have you ever really looked at artsy fartsy people and thought "you're trying too hard...and coming across as kind of a douche bag." Well, while watching Katy and her band, that was my reaction. Her bassist wore his hair in a manner that stated "I just rolled out of bed and didn't have time to comb it I was in such a hurry", but upon further inspection you could see the gel and styling in it that ACTUALLY stated "It took me three hours with a stylist to get my hair to look like I just rolled out of bed and couldn't bother combing it". Douche bag poseur. Another was tatted up to the point of ridiculousness. Now, tats are fine. I know lots of people with them, and cannot remember the last woman I've met who didn't at least have one (no joke...I can't remember when). But a tattoo, in my opinion, should mean something other that TRYING to look cool. This guy was trying to look all menacing and hard core. Menacing? Hard core? Are you fucking kidding me? You're a musician for KATY PERRY of "I Kissed A Girl" and "You're So Gay" fame for Christs sake!!! The "hardest core" thing you deal with is whether your hotel room stocked your Evian spring water as you requested as opposed to, horror of horrors and god forbid, something non-imported. At the very least, your tattoo should mean something important to you, but when you have thirty-six tattoos, I'm thinking you've exceeded what's considered "special" and are now just a raging douche bag poseur. And Katy herself was trying to come across as funny and deep, but just sounded like yet another self absorbed tart obsessed with her own celebrity....DOUCHE BAG.

So, what did I take away from this? What I took away from it was that douche bags are not limited to our rich and powerful people of influence. That was me being a closed minded....well, douche bag...for being such a class hating dweeb. Douche bags are all over, and are also thick in the so called arts and culture scene (which, had I thought about it for two seconds, is a real "no duh" idea). Point being I guess is rather simple...appreciate the non-douche bags in your life. They are to be cherished, because the douche bags of the world are multiplying across all social strata at an alarming rate, and soon, will completely take over the earth. I fear not the coming Apocalypse, or Muslim/religious fundamentalists, or high fructose corn syrup, trans fats, and carbs. No, none of these keep me up at night. It's the ever increasing prevalence of the raging, narcissistic, self absorbed, douche bag that worries me.

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

Time Killer

Well, as usual, it's late, I'm doing laundry, and watching a Nova episode on "dreams". Such is my life. I guess I'm writing this purely as a stream of consciousness thing in order to kill time, so, I can't imagine I'll have much to say. So, I'll just blather along here...
First of all, I'm cold. Hands are freezing! What the hell??? This is odd because I'm usually quite warm. Ask any woman I've ever dated. They may not sing my praises about what a nifty guy I was, but they will all admit I was a great source of prodigious body heat on a cold evening, and most were only too happy to stick cold feet into me, crawl up under my arm and wiggle into the crook of my rib cage, or stick cold arms up my shirt in order to rob me of my thermal goodness. And now, my hands, and feet, are getting cold, and my nose is running. Hmmmm...well, surely erectile dysfunction and prostate issues are just around the corner as well. Time marches on and age descends. Huzzah.
My fancy schmansy wide screen TV has little white spots all over the screen. It has something to do with a faulty chip. The TV is out of warranty, so you'd think I'm screwed, right? Wrong. Samsung, much to my utter AMAZEMENT, is going to pay for the fix. Yeah...exactly, I almost crapped my pants too. Who woulda thunk it? Then again, your TV shouldn't crap out after three years, right? Remember that old 24 inch color set your parents had...for about 500 years?????? I'm on my second hi-def set in last four years that has had issues. I'm getting the impression these new hi-def TV's are really just disposable pieces of crap we're actually renting, rather than buying. Still...thank you Samsung.
Update from "dream" episode I'm watching. They're screwing with the brains of cats and mice. Did you know your muscles freeze when you're dreaming? Its what keeps you still. Well, these scientists shorted out the part of the brain responsible for that in a cat, and when it fell asleep and started dreaming, it started running around and appeared to be stalking imaginary prey, even though it was dead asleep. FREAKY! Can you imagine if they did that to a human? Think of the weird shit you sometimes dream about, and then ACTUALLY acting it out...SCARY.
I decided to do the cooking for Thanksgiving this year. I'm brining a turkey (always wanted too), going to make my kick ass mashed potatoes (gotta mix in lots of butter, sour cream, and some cheese to make it full of artery clogging goodness), a cheesey green bean casserole from scratch (no canned mushroom soup here baby), plus some other things (like stuffing), etc. It's going to be a total food orgy...although there will only be three of us here half the day (me, mom and sis), and then my two daughters later in the evening. Still, I like to cook, and I am pretty good at it. I like to get in the kitchen (stay outta my way!) and just get in the zone and let my mind work out all of life's problems as I slice and dice. It's kind of therapeutic. But, I get frustrated when people invade my distracts me and takes away from any enjoyment I get out of it. I like to cook alone, and this seems to upset people. Why is that? When folks cook for me I don't barge into their kitchen and insist on helping, and then treat them like an asshole if they refuse. I ask if they'd like help, and if they say "no", I'm happy to sit and watch TV (or whatever). But for some reason when I say "No, I've got it...but thanks" people get all pissy. This baffles would think people would be happy having someone shovel food at them as they sit on their ass. I know I am. Hell, I cook and EVEN do the dishes....again, by myself. Bonus, right? So what's the issue?
OK, dream episode scientist guy is hypothesizing that dreams are preparation for real life. His idea is a nightmare is a run-through and practice for a real life crisis you may have to deal with. I dunno...if I dreamed I had sex with a refrigerator (I'm just sayin'), of what value is that? Then again, maybe it just means I am a food lover! hahahaha OK, moving on...
My bed is hellaciously comfortable. Seriously. You should all try it...I'm not joking. This morning, and this is no joke, I was laying in it and all warm with my down comforters and freshly laundered sheets and thinking "I feel sorry for folks not in my bed. They are truly missing out...and I feel sad for them...then again, life's a bitch, and they'll just have to deal." Anyway, I haven't spent much time in it lately as I've been out of town quite a bit, but it was like the embrace of a long lost lover whose touch you've missed, but haven't forgotten, and instantly recognize. This morning was our passionate reunion, and I nearly shed a tear of happiness and joy. OK, I'm joking...but the thing is pretty fucking comfortable.
Jesus Christ, how long does it takes clothes to dry?????? Ugh.....
OK, according to the late night ABC World News, the Brits are building a 1,000 MPH super car powered by the engine of a supersonic fighter jet. Wouldn't that be cool? At that speed I could be to work in about 42 seconds...which would naturally allow me to sleep in later. I want one.
The female newscaster on this show has really white teeth, obviously bleached. Plus, shes Indian, so they jump out even more (due to the duskier complexion). Everybodys teeth are just SO WHITE now its freaky. True, white teeth are nice, and mine could be a little better after a lifetime of coffee, tea, colas, the occasional drunken cigarette...but still. These day-glow chompers people have now as a result of cosmetic bleaching is the equivalent of the boob job...obviously artificial, and just TOO MUCH. I'm sure there are "natural looking" boob jobs and natural "teeth whitening" jobs out there, but as usual, most folks dive right in with the freaky overkill. There's just something weird about a 35 year old smiling and their teeth are snow white and 50 shades lighter than a six year old. Where does the vanity end? Thats doesn't. After all, the world already has gone to anal bleaching. Hmmmm....I guess next is having your blood dyed a prettier shade of crimson and your urine filtered a second time by an implanted artificial third kidney prior to going to the bathroom so it gives society the impression youre properly hydrated at all times, whether you are or not, should somebody see your pee (horror of horrors...its just too yellow!).
Oh, hear that buzzer? My laundrys done!!!!!!!!!! Good night!

Sunday, November 15, 2009

A trip to the grocery store

One would think a quick shopping trip to the grocery store would be a simple enough, and pleasant enough, experience. You pop in, grab what you need, and leave. Bada bing...done. Yet, for cosmic reasons I do not understand, my trips to the grocery store do not EVER go this way. Again, tonight was no exception.

After going to the gym (when in Fresno, the gym and the grocery store seem to be lately about the only two places I leave my home for), I was given a list of items to purchase for the hungry hoard (two daughters, mom, and sis) waiting back at home. One of these items was crackers and garlic and herb cream cheese spread. So I went about collecting my items in about ten minutes, and last on the list was the cream cheese spread. So off to the cheese aisle I go and....hmmmmm. Cream cheese, shredded cheese, blocks of cheese, individually sliced and wrapped cheese...and, um, apparently no cream cheese spread. I look again. And again. And oooooone more time to be sure. Nada. Then it hits me, "OH! It must be with the fancy cheese in the little kiosk near the deli with all the other foo foo stuff." So off to the fancy kiosk I go and......gorgonzola, feta, goat cheese, brie, blue cheese, cream cheese spread. So I look again. And again. And again. Nada. Obviously I must have over looked it back at the cheese section, so I go back. Nothing.

OK, so this back and forth goes on for about twenty minutes before I finally locate the cream cheese spread in a third location next to the deli counter that contained NO CHEESE AT ALL (well, other than the one I was looking for). What it had was imported pastas, and hummus, and other dips, but no obvious signs of CHEESE. OK, all of this leads me to this question: WHY IN THE HELL DO WE HAVE CHEESE IN THREE DIFFERENT LOCATIONS???????? Here's an idea: you have ONE AISLE, labeled, crazily enough, "cheese". And in this aisle would be "cheese". All of it. You need cheese? You go to the FUCKING CHEESE AISLE. How hard would that be? Just imagine, cheese in the cheese aisle...what a concept. In fact, lets take this idea a step further. There's an aisle labeled "meat" that contains, you guessed it...meat. And one "dairy" that has...yep. The stuff from a cows boobs. The frozen aisle get the idea. Etc. Conversations would go something like this:

"Excuse me sir? Where do I find the queso de la hombre con grande pelotas? If you could just point me to your gourmet..."

"Huh, what the hell is that?"

"Well, its this exquisite goats milk curd from a small region in Jalisco that accompanies a Red Zin like nothing you've..."

"Goats milk curd? You mean like cheese?"


"Oh. Well, then it's in the cheese aisle you pretentious dick."

See? Simple, clear, concise. Perfect for you, perfect for me, and perfect for pretentious dicks everywhere. It's a wonder we can find ANYTHING in a grocery store. Need roasted peppers? Are they in the canned vegetable aisle? No. The produce aisle? No. They're in the CONDIMENT aisle with ketchup and mustard. HUH??? Chili con carne is in the canned meat aisle, not the Mexican food aisle, but refried beans is in the Mexican food aisle, and not the canned beans aisle. WTF???? Is there a rule book on grocery store nomenclature I can study?????? Anyway, I found my cream cheese spread as I said, but only after an obsessive search for it that resulted in my forgetting to get lemon juice, which caused a momentary tea crisis when I got back home (luckily, I had just enough left in the fridge...but thanks for your concern). Had my garlic herb cream cheese spread been my only issue, no biggie. But as usual, there's more...

I get to the register to check out so I can just go home and get out of my gym clothes, shower and enjoy a nice dinner. As I stand in line with my stuff dumped onto the food treadmill that leads to the cashier (i.e. I am now committed to this line. Kinda like after you sleep with somebody. Sure, you COULD leave, but it's AWK-WARD) in the misnamed "Express Line", I now realize there's a commotion at the register. There's wild gesturing, the shaking of heads, lots of finger pointing, furrowed foreheads, the shrugging of shoulders, and a general sense of was almost like I was watching a video of the day I lost my virginity. Anyway, people clearly do not know what to do. Finally, an older guy who obviously had to be brought out in the middle of his lunch break comes over and punches a numerical code into the register that was about as long as as the square root of pi, and apparently, twice as complicated, because he had to do it three times to get it right (again, see losing virginity above). And what was the issue you may or may not be asking yourself? Apparently somebody wrote a (GASP!) check...and royally fucked everything up. Now, I'm guessing this person pulled up in their Model-T and just wanted to buy some sarsaparilla, Epsom salts, and wanted to know if the war was over...the War of 1812 that is. Anyway, yes, they were old. But still, the way everybody was acting, I thought maybe he was attempting to pay with stone coins from ancient Sumeria, as opposed to a check. Luckily, they got it worked out, the old fart got his, well, whatever geezers venture out on a Saturday night for, and I went home to people wondering what the hell took so long. I related my story in a rather animated fashion, got a laugh, and everything was fine. But still...three cheese locations? Really???

Friday, November 13, 2009

About as un-PC as I can be, but dammit...I want my earphones!

So, while driving to Oakland down I-80 from Sacramento the other day, I was doing what all good people in the friendly climes of Northern California do, and that is I was listening to NPR on the radio. NPR is good because you hear stories there you don't anywhere else, and being a guy who enjoys stuffing my head with obscure, and some would say, useless, facts, I learned something THAT MADE PERFECT SENSE.

You know that plastic packaging things like mobile phone earpieces and other electronics come in? I'm talking about that molded plastic that is hermetically sealed together as if the manufacturer doesn't want you to enjoy the product you actually just paid for? The packaging that requires a plasma torch, 43 lbs. of dynamite, multiple bouts of colorful profanity, a few prayers to a god you really don't believe in, and the ritual sacrifice of a neighborhood stray cat, just to pry open a little corner? The packaging that gets you so pissed off you lose it, grab your razor sharp $200 chefs knife out of the kitchen, and start hacking away at it like a middle aged white male with mother issues on a thrill kill spree? (you know, the guy with 14 bodies buried in his backyard that the neighbors always felt was "a nice guy...kinda quiet though" when interviewed by the press when the story goes national?) And once opened (and by "opened", I mean you managed to tear, not cut, a small hole with your chef's knife ((now in need of professional resharpening)) in conjunction with liberal use of your teeth, somewhere near the vicinity where the product is contained, but not close enough to gain actual easy access to said product, which requires you fishing the product out with your fingers like you were trying to get the last olive out of a jar), the plastic has razor sharp edges that result in a situation that it would be far safer to stick your hand down a running garbage disposal than into your products packaging? Your vain attempt to fish out your Bluetooth from this razor sharp maw results in a cut so deep it requires a trip to the emergency room, partial loss of sensation in your left index finger for the rest of your life, a tetanus shot, and a $50 co-pay? Just because you wanted to actually use your BRAND NEW FUCKING iPod earbuds?????? Yeah...THAT stuff.

Anyway, I used to wonder "Who in the hell is responsible for that shit? What retard thought this was a good idea????" Well, here's where the NPR story comes in. Turns out there's a factory in San Antonio, Texas, (land of funny accents, barbecue and Republicans) that packages things in this material. And this factory is predominantly staffed by...the mentally challenged. Which, when you think about it, makes sense. The whole gist of the story was this positive take on how great it was that there were jobs for the mentally handicapped. And it is. Great, that is. And you should have heard how proud the workers were of their work. "Well, you gotta get it REAL HOT! It won't work if it's not HOT! Gotta keep your hands outta there! HOT! HOT! HOT! Then it works! But only when it's HOT! See? It's HOT!!!" OK Corky, I got it. The plastic has to be hot. But why are we letting those with the sense of a cocker spaniel (sorry, yes, I know, I'm going to hell) package my ear buds? I know Corky needs a job, but what about my chef's knife? My $50 co-pay? My sanity???? Maybe Corky and Rain Man should be employed elsewhere in the manufacturing making kitchen towels. That would be great. You'd have your kitchen towel with a fucked up and crooked design on it, and when a friend made the wise ass quip, "Hey, nice dish towel. That's quite a design there" you could shame them with the retort "Actually, that towel was made by the mentally handicapped who are finding ways to be productive and reintegrate their way into valued members of society. But thanks for being a dick." Then you could feel all morally superior and everybody wins. You. Corky. Everybody. 'Ya know?

Anyway, I'm all for everybody having a purpose in life. Seriously, I am. I just want my headphones...minus the hospital bill.

Friday, November 6, 2009

I'm just a tugboat captain...

I don't have anything to share, but I've had a delicious morning of laying around in an empty house in sweats and slippers drinking coffee. May not sound like much to some, but lately I've rarely had the chance to indulge in this, and it's been...heavenly. Anyway, saw this comedian this morning. Now, comedy is a subjective thing, and I can appreciate this. However, people rarely strike me as funny, and it's a rare comedian who does. Louis CK (my fave) and Dave Attell are two I enjoy. This guy is named Lachlan Patterson. He made me laugh. He may make the list. Here's some clips. "Call me Swiffer..." Enjoy.

Saturday, October 24, 2009


OK, I'll be brief. Spending a Friday night at home...mellow...some good music...and after the gym, I purchased some groceries to make myself a nice, homemade meal. So far, so good, right? Wrong. First, some quick background info: I love wax peppers and pepperoncini. LOVE. THEM. A. LOT. Also, I'm mildly OCD. Not out of control, but a little. Without going into gory detail, I have little rituals, things I cannot ignore, minor obsessions that can cause lack of sleep, etc. It doesn't dominate my life...but it is there. Now that you know this, back to the story...

So I'm making my meal, happy as a little clam, when I grab my BRAND NEW NEVER BEEN OPENED JUST PURCHASED 15 MINUTES AGO jar of wax pepper rings. I go to open the jar, all ready and excited to hear the little "burp" of the vacuum seal being broken and...the lid practically falls off as I put very little pressure on it. WTF??? Did somebody already open it? Is it poisoned? Does it contain a rampant botulism infection? WHY DID THE GODDAMN LID FALL OFF?????? I stare at my jar of peppers, their tangy vapors making me drool, and I cannot get over the whole loose lid issue. Why was the lid loose? Why was the lid loose? Why was the lid loose? I run through a thousand different scenarios that WOULD ALLOW ME TO EAT THE PEPPERS. I cannot sell myself on any of them, my OCD wins, and down the drain into the garbage disposal goes the peppers. I almost cried. Now, not getting my peppers is not the thrust of this story. That, in and of itself, is no big deal. The main focus of this story is this: I now have to check every jar of peppers at the grocery store for "lid tightness" prior to purchase. In fact, I may have to even check every jar regardless of product. My OCD demands it. This cannot ever happen again. EVER. And so, as if I didn't have enough shit in my cluttered, occasionally anxiety laden head, I now have to add "loose lid botulism poison" stress. And I have to ask the Universe, "Why?" Why are you doing this to me? Is a tight fucking lid too much to fucking ask????? I have enough things, ENOUGH THINGS, in my life to keep track of and obsess on (when's the last time I changed the baking soda box in the freezer? Whens the last time I checked my vehicles tire pressure? Does my furniture need polishing oil to keep the wood conditioned? What about the leather sofa? I noticed some moss on my roof...hows that affect the wood shingles...cant be good, thats for sure! etc. etc. etc.) and now were adding this. Fucking great and thank you. Oh, wait, see previous post...perhaps it's just a manifestation of Cosmic Piling On.

Anyways, there's your glimpse into the nightmare that is my head and its inner thoughts. Scary isn't it? Just try being me...

Friday, October 23, 2009

Time Suckers and Cosmic Piling On

OK, so I'm kind of a geek when it comes to all things the Universe, and the physics and physical laws behind what makes the Universe tick. This stuff fascinates me. The fact that it interests NOT A SINGLE OTHER PERSON I KNOW has not cooled my ardor one bit. This knowledge has no practical application to my life, and it is a conversational buzz kill at parties. DOESN'T MATTER. I forge ahead anyway with my thirst for this stuff despite the awkward social encounters it brings into my life, such as this:"So you're in accounting? Really? Aren't numbers interesting? Math doesn't lie, does it? Newton's Inverse Square law applies unwaveringly to gravitation, radiation, electromagnetism..." OK, at about this point what I usually hear is either the thuds of people hitting the ground due to the immediate onset of spontaneous narcolepsy; the sloshing of flammable fluids being poured over their bodies as they beg anybody, please, for the love of god, for a match and/or lighter to put them out of their misery; or the simple blinking of eyes as they stare at me thinking "Who is this guy and what the hell is he talking about? Newton? Isn't that a cookie? Why the fuck is he talking about cookies? Is he fond of cookies? I mean, we all like cookies...but dude, give it a rest....yes I know Newton's are square, but it's not by law....oh please...make him stop!"*** Anywhoo, you get the idea.

Anyway, I had a rather animated conversation the other night with somebody who I seem to usually have animated conversations with, and as we talked about a wide and varied range of subjects, a lot of which was about how people suck and what a complete waste of time most people are, I came up with two new immutable laws of physics as a result of our like minded rehashing of just how lame people, and the world in general, can be:

New Universal Physical Law Number One: "Time Suckers"

A Time Sucker is a terrifying truth of the universe around us. Much like a black hole, if you circulate around long enough, you are bound to fall into the irresistible gravitational pull of a Time Sucker. Although a black hole will do you the favor of stretching you out and spaghettifying you to the mere width of the subatomic particles you are made of before compressing you into a singularity and putting you out of your misery, a Time Sucker will do you no such favors. As a Time Sucker talks to you, you'll find yourself frantically glancing at your watch wondering when will it end, and a fear sets in that it wont. Infinity stretches out before you, and your fear of death disappears because death now seems but a pleasureable dream compared to this person going on about their children or their battles with an intestinal disorder. You now grasp concepts like religious limbo and what it feels like to have a phantom brain aneurysm, and still it goes on. Time is NOT ELAPSING, for if it did, it would eventually end. But its not, its being SUCKED FROM YOU and there is no "time". There is only this, the Time Sucker in front of you and infinity without end, and you begin to lament how you wasted your life and how much you desire just to be back at your desk pounding out TPS reports.

The Time Sucker is not just a talker though. Oh, no no no. They are a listener. The poorest one in the Universe. They are the living proof of the Second Law of Thermodynamics, and their entropic state is proven by their inability to understand jokes, concepts, thoughts, feelings, or pretty much anything. And the more you explain, the LESS THEY UNDERSTAND. As you try to get them to understand your joke, feeling, or thought, you feel the agony of the infinite emptiness enveloping you, and time is being sucked away, there is no end, and you'll never have your life back in the way it was before. Your life is now just a little more sad, empty, frustrating, and filled with ennui due to this encounter. You think perhaps leaping out of the 5th floor window you're on might bring quick relief, but sadly, the fear you may survive and have to endure a visit from a Time Sucker as you lay immobilized in traction with a shattered spine and pelvis with no means of escape keeps you paralyzed in place. And as your head throbs, kidneys ache, and stomach churns, you, ONCE AGAIN try and explain why the Dilbert cartoon was, in fact, funny. "No, you see, the reason why it's funny is because the pointy haired boss ISN'T fact, he's quite stupid, so the advice he's giving would have the OPPOSITE effect of being useful.....sigh. Hey, what floor we on? Fifth, right? Isn't your office above a hard paved parking lot? Is that window locked? Just curious....what? No, see, the one with the funny tie and short sleeved shirt is the COMPETENT one....that's why its funny, because he's not in charge.....ummmm, got any gasoline? Maybe a match?"

New Universal Law Number Two: "Cosmic Piling On"

Many a philosopher and cosmologist has pondered the nature of the Universe. Is it a random accident? Or is it divinely inspired? You know what? I dunno. But I DO KNOW the Universe is a bitch, and hence the new Universal Law of Cosmic Piling On. Simply put, when shit happens, and it seems like it can't get any worse, it will, to the point of actual comedy as you look at the shit piling up around you. Have you ever noticed this? It's not like life goes this way: "Oh, look at that? A shitty thing just happened to me. That's too bad. Well, good thing everything else is wonderful and this lottery ticket I just scratched is worth 75K." No, life doesn't work like that. It works like this: "Oh, will you look at that? A shitty thing just happened to me. Oh, that's ok because....hey, why won't my car start? And has my fly been open ALL DAY LONG without anybody saying anything? Why is my mom calling me? Why isn't the gas pump taking my card? I don't have enough gas to get home....and not that that matters because I just locked my keys in the car...and I have to REALLY USE THE BATHROOM but the rest room here looks like a bowl of chili exploded in it..." Etc. The Universe gets kicks out of just "piling on" until you give up and laugh in slightly demented hysterics. Then, if you're lucky, maybe it will find somebody else to pick on if it sees you're no longer any fun to "pile on".

Well, there you go. My new Universal Physical Laws. I don't know if they'll make the new physics books, but I'd say they're as constant as gravity and staining the new shirt you just wore for the first time with an overly juicy lunch time food item (tacos are good for this...perhaps I'll form a postulate for a Taco Law).

***The reason why I am not a Time Sucker is I can sense when I have crossed a line, and then I'll switch the conversation to sports (guys) or shoes (women).

Saturday, October 3, 2009

Pet Peeves

Well, I haven't had a blog in a while where I vented a good bitch or two. So, in order to preserve the calm mental state I have been enjoying as of late, I'm going to purge a few things here:

1) Work place refrigerator cola thieves-I about blew a gasket the other day as a result of this. At 6pm I had put not one, but TWO cans of Coke in the office refrigerator. At 10pm, deciding that a frosty, caffeinated beverage would hit the spot, I go to the fridge and....hmmmmmm, where's my soda? Must be behind this guys, it's behind the macaroni Ordinarily, I would let this go as maybe a one shot mistake. But this is the fourth time this has happened, and it was TWO COKES that were pilfered from the refrigerator. My question is this: WHAT KIND OF SOCIOPATH DOES THIS????? How do you open a refrigerator, see beverages and other food stuffs in there that are CLEARLY NOT YOURS, and take them? Do you have the following conversation in your head:"I know I didn't put those sodas in there, and I didn't pay for them, but since I'm the only person in the universe and my narcissism knows no limits, they were clearly put there for my sole enjoyment." How do you STEAL something and not give it another thought? Or are you still in some sort of childlike state where you think magical office refrigerator gnomes lovingly restock the refrigerator with your favorite food items? Or are you the same type of person who tortures small animals, doesn't give a shit, and is one step away from being a thrill kill serial murderer? Yes, that's right, I just equated a soda snatcher with Jeffrey Dahmer. And yes, I think a person who can continually steal foodstuffs from a community refrigerator is as equally disturbed,and they need to be removed from society...or at least castrated. Want to know what the kicker is? The kicker is this: right next to the refrigerator is a SODA MACHINE. Can of Coke? 65 cents. It would seem a small price to pay for a clean conscience, wouldn't it? Oh, that's right...a sociopath has no conscience, which is precisely my point about these people.

2) Putting me on hold when you're the one who called me in the first place-if you take the time out of your busy day to call me just to say hello, I'm touched and appreciate the gesture. If you take the time out of your busy day to call me just to put me on hold after two seconds because the person you really wanted/needed to talk to called you back, I would feel no guilt if your mobile phone instantly gave you a brain tumor. If you're going to call me, please make sure you can devote at least 3-5 minutes to a conversation. All kind meaning taken from a phone call turns into a steaming pile if you reach out to me just to blow me off. "Hey John, how 'ya doing? Just thought I'd give you a call to let you know you're not worth talking to. Ciao!" What a dick move. My promise to you is if you call me, no matter how busy I am, I will stop what I'm doing and make a few minutes for you. I wasn't always like that, and I used to be kind of an ass if you called me and I was busy, like if I was cleaning my pool I'd act all shitty if I was interrupted. But I have grown and learned I was being a bit of a jerk. If I am legitimately super busy, I will immediately tell you I'll have to call you back, which I will do, usually pretty promptly. It would be nice if others learned that same lesson.

3) SUV's and speed bumps-so you're the type of person who drives a 36,000 pound SUV with an all terrain suspension of an M1A1 Abrahms front line battle tank, and yet, for some reason, you feel the need to slow down to .0000000001 MPH for a six inch speed bump. In fact, if you're this type of person, your favorite move is this one: make a left turn into a parking lot off of a busy street, and I follow right behind you. As you enter the parking lot, you notice there's that deadly speed bump directly ahead, and despite your behemoth of a vehicle being equipped with the "V8 mountain crushing deforestation package with brush guards, winch, and small woodland creature killing studded tires", you immediately slam on your brakes in order to negotiate this Mt. Everest in front of you. Since I'm behind you, this of course hangs me out to dry in the oncoming lane of traffic, so I can take a broadside hit from a distracted, mouth breathing, high speed teenager in a 1983 Corolla who is yakking on their cell phone and looking down trying to find the remnants of the joint they've just dropped. Clearly, if you're this person, you have merely purchased this freighter sized vehicle because you're a douche bag. OK, that wasn't could just be merely retarded. My apologies.

4) Old people in economy cars-back in the day, old people drove cars like 700 horsepower Cadillacs and Lincolns. Now matter how slow they WANTED to drive, these cars had so much asphalt shredding power that the simple act of just lifting your foot off of the brake pedal resulted in a 0-60 mph time of 3.8 seconds. Now? Now old people drive the 22 horsepower Prius and Yaris. These vehicles, from what I have seen, appear to have a built in safety measure that once you hit the gas pedal, there's a 45 second delay before the car actually accelerates forward. Couple this delay with the typical octogenarians reaction time as a red light turns to green (approximately 25 minutes), and you can now see why our commutes are getting slower and slower. So, because of this, I'm thinking we petition the government to provide senior citizens with 500 horsepower Shelby Mustangs or Chevrolet Corvettes. It will help out the American auto manufacturer, AND shave ten minutes off of my commute. It's a win-win.

OK, thanks for letting me rant a little bit. I now feel centered again, and the universe, once again, makes sense...except for my inability to locate a dark chocolate peanut butter cup in any Fresno area grocery store. That makes no sense at all.

Sunday, September 20, 2009


Yes. That's right. Shoelaces. Let's talk about them, shall we? I recently went to go buy a new pair of tennis shoes. Walked right into the first store I went to, found the pair I was looking for in the approximate right size and color, and decided to try them on. Sounds like a relatively low stress encounter so far, right? It was...easy. Too easy. Normally, life works in a way that requires you arduously shop to find the one product you want. You know...five hours and twenty dollars worth of gas just buy a forty dollar item. That's just how life...and more specifically So I should have been suspicious, and had my guard up. But I didn't, and I was suckered right in.

So I pop a shoe out of the box and try it on. It seems a little loose, but it's only laced halfway up, so all I have to do is lace it all the way up and see what the true fit is. So here we go and...what the hell? I was now looking at some sort of diabolical lacing method I have never seen. Now, I am a relatively intelligent fellow, so I'll just momentarily study the lacing pattern and...shit. I got it wrong. Somehow I did THE OPPOSITE of the lacing pattern. I study it some more and have the following thought: Why in the hell do we need a creative way to lace our shoes???? We've been lacing shoes perfectly fine for hundreds of years, and then one day some unemployed pot head decided "No way bro....I ain't gonna lace my shoes like the man. I'm going to be DIFFERENT. I'm going to be COOL. Rather than get an actual job, I'm going to make it my life's work to find a way to lace a shoe only a nineteen year old Cheeto, Halo, and Slurpee addict can comprehend." It all started back in the day with Doc Marten's and their "non-crossing tuck the lace in" thing to the current Chuck Taylor "candy stripe one direction voodoo" technique I was struggling with. And my thing is "Why?" Has anybody looked at someones shoes and said, "You know, I was beginning to think you're a total douche bag...but then I noticed your shoelaces. Nice incomprehensible pattern man. You are clearly a man of impeccable taste and high moral fiber. To you sir, I say, huzzah!" I'm thinking this probably hasn't occurred recently. Perhaps it's a calling card to know, like a secret handshake? Two greasy haired weed huffers cross paths in the street and glance at the others shoes, and they JUST KNOW. Halo, Cheetos, Slurpees, weed. They then slyly and knowingly give each other a little nod and utter a "dude" and continue on their 7-11 with $4.87 in their pocket they stole out of their mom's purse.

Needless to say, I yanked the lace out and re-laced it in a manner I understand, which is to say, the way I've been lacing my shoes since I was old enough to wear them. I don't mind not being the cutting edge of cool. I'm OK with it. My laces say something about me too. They say the following: "I have a job. I have responsibilities and obligations. I'm busy. I've got important life shit on my mind. My time is FAR TOO IMPORTANT to spend more than one nanosecond....wait, even one nanosecond would be too much...on thinking about new, exciting, and creative ways to lace my shoes. Oh...and put down the doob and the X-Box controller, and move out of mom's basement, you wanna be pathetic hipster twit."

So, there you go. Proof positive that I can find the absurdity and drama in almost anything...including shoe laces. Perhaps next time I'll share my thoughts on "non-screw top you need a bottle opener" beer bottles that frequently result in bloody finger tips and palms, damaged furniture corners, broken glass, the ingestion of small pieces of said broken glass, and the sudden over popularity of the one alcoholic that showed up with a bottle opener on his key chain.

Saturday, September 12, 2009

Why I Hate Cats

I came home Friday morning to discover that a sprinkler in my back yard had broken and flooded out a small patch of the flower bed next to the pool. This minor flood streamed across the concrete deck to the fence line. As a result of this proof of entropy ruling the Universe, there was a patch of silt deposited on the concrete deck next to the pool pump. This patch of dirt was approximately six inches long and six inches wide, and about one quarter of an inch deep. This small patch of dirt is surrounded by hundreds of square feet of concrete pool decking. It was a small dirt island in the middle of a concrete sea, and it hadn't existed for more than 24 hrs. And guess what? A cat crapped right in the middle of it. Apparently, somehow, the word got out that there was a BRAND SPANKING NEW NEVER BEEN CRAPPED IN PATCH OF DIRT in the neighborhood. Never mind that it wasn't much bigger than a DVD was there, all pristine and un-crapped upon, and well, the neighborhood kitties couldn't have that. In fact, Im sure upon the very creation of this virginal patch of earth, a subatomic particle ray was dispersed causing kitty sphincters all across the neighborhood to spasm. As a result of this call to arms, the hunt for this version of the feline El Dorado was on. Well, one of them found it almost immediately, and before you could say fucking "presto!", took a dump on it. Can somebody again explain to me why we tolerate cats?

Monday, August 31, 2009

Golden Showers, Eyeball Juice, Bathroom Etiquette, and Ticket Prices

Today I went to the movies and saw Inglorious Basterds. Excellent movie. Some of the violence might turn some people off, but if you like Tarantino like I do, you will love it. Anyway, my trip to the bathroom urinal once again reminded me why I love the summertime. Unlike in the wintertime, when I have to go to Chinatown and pay $20 dollars American to get some street corner walking, desperate, methamphetamine riddled tweeker who has not slept in five days, to pee on me, in the summer, all I have to do is wear a pair of flip flops and visit the bathroom. There, for absolutely free, somebody who has apparently shotgunned a 12 pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon, three Venti lattes, and a 32 ounce Dasani within the last 15 minutes, will happily urinate on my foot for free. Let me tell you, there is no more refreshing feeling than the cool, misty sensation of a a light rain shower coming from your left and descending on the arch of your foot and on your shin. Thank goodness this guy didn't bother taking the other open urinals further to the left and decided to get nice and cozy by choosing the one right next to me. And that's another thing. Who doesn't know bathroom etiquette? You never, EVER, take a urinal right next to somebody unless you have to. It's a universal, fundamental law (in fact, I think Einstein somehow worked this constant into his theory of general relativity). If you're desperate to see my privates, can't you be like everybody else and at least buy me a drink first before you sidle up next to me and dive right into peeing on me? I mean, normally the Golden Shower is something you work up to after your marriage has gotten boring, right? It's a helluva a gutsy move to break the ice with.

On the other hand, there's the other bathroom extreme I encountered as well...and that's the folks with the extreme urinal fear. The type of people require a stall just for the simplest of bathroom needs. Without going into any nasty detail, let's just say I had the misfortune of needing a plumbing fixture other than a urinal. Like, quickly. So I go to the bathroom and every single stall is occupied. But, oddly enough, all the urinals are free. So, being the curious sort, I peek under the doors and see that everybody is standing to take care of business. I need to sit, 'ya know? A urinal is not going to cut it for me. And here is a bunch of "men", and I use that term loosely, too afraid to hang it out at a urinal. Come on people. If you're THAT ASHAMED/EMBARRASSED to use a urinal, you have no business using a public restroom, maybe no business even being in public at all for that matter. I'm having some distress here, and you're in there dealing with some sort of body shame your momma gave you when she caught you with your dads Playboy when your were 11 yrs. old. Anyhow, somebody eventually vacated, and I made it in the nick of time. My advice to the urinal-phobic? Next time you go out, leave the stalls open for those who truly need them, and you can prepare for this in the following manner: avoid all liquids 8 hrs. before going out; eat an entire bag of vinegar and salt potato chips for breakfast; go for a run in the heat of midday; and enjoy some MSG laden take-out Chinese prior to beginning your evening on the town. That should get you so dried out you won't have to urinate for a week. Sure, you may experience renal failure and go blind, but hey, you won't have to deal with the bathroom...and the stalls will be available for emergency use only.

Does anybody know what gnats eat? Me either. Anybody know what sort of pheromones gnats give off in order to attract a mate? Me either. But whatever it is, it must be very similar to the human tears that keep our eyes moist. I went for a jog tonight and I could clearly see little clouds of gnats about 5 to 5 1/2 feet off of the ground. And yet, as I ran by, they would elevate (I'm 6"1") and kamikaze themselves in a death plunge right into my ocular cavity. It is somewhat distracting to be plucking miniature flying creatures from your eyeball as you attempt to stave off death by staying somewhat fit. This happened like 300 times as I ran tonight (ok, it was more like four...but still). I must have looked like the Bi-Polar Express as I ran around the lake because it looked like I was alternately weeping uncontrollably and furiously rubbing my eyes, and then I would look perfectly calm and sedate 5 seconds later. Oh well. I'm the weird neighbor up until 4 or 5 am everyday anyway, so they probably already think I'm unhinged.

Finally, ticket prices. Bought some tickets tonight online. There was a $1.75 per ticket handling fee, and a $2.00 per ticket delivery fee. OK. Handling fee? Delivery fee? The tickets are being held in WILL CALL!!! They're not being delivered anywhere!!!! I have to burn my own gas and get them myself!!!!! WTF???? Handling fee? THEY WERE PURCHASED ONLINE. Nobody handled them! Even better, they were purchased directly from the event box office, where the tickets are kept ANYWAYS. How stupid do they think we are? "Look! The tickets are only $16! They're running a special...let's get some!!!" Well, no. The tickets are actually $19.75. But I'm guessing in this time of economic strife they figure by not advertising the extra $3.75, the folks will come a runnin'. Whatever. Just treat me like an adult and tell me the tickets are basically $20. I'd respect you a helluva lot more if you did. This weak ass attempt at manipulating the consumer with this sort of ham fisted Jedi Mind Trick (These are not the prices you're looking for...) is patently offensive. Can't we just be straight with each other and be honest? I mean, it's not like we're married for crying out loud (bada bing!)

Friday, August 28, 2009

Bastards at the Reeses Corporation

Have you seen the advertisements for the new Reeses Dark Chocolate Peanut Butter Cups? I don't see how you could have missed them. They are on almost as much as erectile dysfunction drug commercials (it seems as if Viva Viagra is on in the background every 12 seconds). For those of you who may know me (and for those of you who do not, I'm going to fill you in here), you know how I feel about Peanut Butter Cups. They are only second to the taco as the worlds most perfect food. I love them. In fact, love may be an doesn't sound intense enough. Insane, "stalker like obsession" may be a better fit. Got a bowl of miniature Peanut Butter Cups laying around on the holidays? I'm the guy who gets stressed out at the thought I can't just have them to myself and may actually have to share some. Anyway, there's this new Peanut Butter Cup out. Needless to say, I'd like to try it. Guess what? I can't. Not because I lack the 75 cents to purchase one for myself. No. The reason is I cannot find them at the store. The Reeses Corp. is putting on this boner drug like televised advertising assault, instilling in me an obsessive need to try this new potentially life altering product, and yet, and here's the really sick and perverse part, apparently refusing to fill my local grocery store with said product. Isn't that the height of cruelty? Never mind my friends have tried the new Peanut Butter Cup and said it was not that great. DOESN'T MATTER. It's my right as a Peanut Butter Cup aficionado to DECIDE FOR MYSELF their new product is crap. Right? So why are they denying me, their biggest fan, access to their peanut buttery goodness while they waste it on other less appreciative consumers (I'm thinking Midwestern white bread types...the kind of people who find ketchup as being "almost too spicy")? Sure, give it up like a drunken prom date to somebody who cannot appreciate the delicate complexity of your unique flavors Reeses people, but extend a giant middle finger to the guy sophisticated enough to appreciate and revel in your subtle nuance! Bastards.

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

God's Cocktail

I had a conversation yesterday where somebody told me they had spent a length of time staring at the small lake near our home because at that time they felt like that was all they were capable of doing. This person told me this in a way that seemed to me they wondered if perhaps this was somewhat odd...just staring at the water. My natural reaction was it seemed perfectly normal to me...for instance I have spent hours just watching the waves crash on a beach, deciphering the different patterns of the streaming water and how the creamy foam makes the rocks look like some sort of extra-terrestrial dessert item.

Well, today, as I was in my kitchen making tacos (always a happy time in my home), I found myself staring out the window at my pool. The way the sun shines through the water creates a sort of refracted prism effect, with the light bouncing all along the bottom...sort of like staring at a diamond. It was almost mesmerizing. Also, I spend a lot of time in my car driving back and forth between Sacramento and the SF Bay Area. Every day I drive across the Carquinez Bridge. When I do, I stare at the bay, and the little finger of it the bridge spans. I find my mind wandering and I think about how weird water is. It's this viscous substance made of fused gas. It covers things like a blanket, but can roll off with the minute pull of the moon. It's not solid, but its not ethereal either. It shapes things through erosion, and it dominates the face of the Earth. It is teeming with life. In fact, not only is it where life evolved from, but the very existence of liquid water seems to be the key ingredient to life as we know it...the universal additive. So I started thinking about the fascination with water. It seems pretty universal I think. Look at all the art devoted to seascapes, lakes, streams, rivers, etc. Artists like Turner, Monet, and Degas, just to name a few right off of the top of my head, devoted a significant portion of their portfolios to it. Countless landscapes are decorated by fountains and reflecting pools. Most of the early civilized cities were on the banks of lakes, oceans, and rivers. Most folks dream of a home with a view of some sort of body of water. And to me, it makes perfect sense.

Why wouldn't we be fascinated, wistfully attracted to, and calmed by the elixir of the Universe? It's kind of like God's cocktail. It uplifts and soothes all. Life springs from it, we're cleansed by it, nourished by it, invigorated by it, calmed by it, healed by it, and let's face's gorgeous. The way it flows is almost reminiscent of the curve of a seductive goddess. Even in its most tempestuous state, it still has a dark beauty to it. In fact, I would say a primordial attraction to water is one of the basic tenants of human existence.

Anyway, this is the sort of thing that bounces through my head at the oddest times, like say, when frying tortillas for my tacos. Still, perhaps it explains why Im so convinced I will eventually end up with a small place on the coast somewhere. It's my innate, primordial instinct...well, that and the love of the taco.

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

Hippie Hypocrisy

From what I'm guessing is the last hurrah of summer, I-80, upon which I'm forced to commute every weekend, is jam packed every Saturday and Sunday at around 3 pm. Bumper to bumper, and an 80 mile drive can take me over two hours...which means over the total distance I average about 35 mph...on a freeway. Now keep in mind the ONLY reason I'm on the god forsaken 80 freeway at 3:30 pm on a Saturday is BECAUSE I HAVE TO BE. I'm commuting to work, and I have no choice. None. Nada. Zilch. Bupkis. Etc. Want to know who IS on the freeway at this time? A whole bunch of yuppie fucks coming back from the mountains and headed back to the Bay Area. How do I know this you may or may not be asking yourself? Because the freeway is packed with SUV's, Subarus and Priuses loaded with bicycles and kayaks all headed westbound back to the Bay. Huh. What I find interesting is the mindset of these nimrods. Why, for the love of God, would you leave the mountains in the middle of the afternoon when traffic is A) at its most congested, and B) its hotter than hell outside. "You know Skye (a good Bay Area name), we COULD leave early in the morning, have a quick breakfast of rainwater and organic soy infused soy, and head down the mountain and avoid the crush of traffic and enjoy the cooler weather and have a pleasant drive, OR, we could leave late this evening, have a quick dinner of fair trade soy water and gluten free soy, and avoid the crush of traffic and enjoy the cooler weather and have a pleasant drive. But you know what Windwalker (Skye's nickname)? Fuck that. We're going to leave in the middle of the afternoon so we can sit in the middle of a 100 mile long traffic jam in 100 degree weather, and just idle in place belching out large volumes of automobile pollution, and turn our 2-1/2 hour drive into a five hour, agonizing, soul sucking hell. So load up the bikes and the kayak and lets get to it! Um, did you remember to pack the instant soy fairer than fair trade coffee?"

All I wonder is "WHY?????" See what rampant weed abuse does to you? It makes you really stupid. But here's the hysterical thing, at least to me. These granola eating, save the whale, save the planet and stop global warming types are pumping massive amounts of greenhouse gases into the atmosphere just to indulge their desire to kayak and mountain bike in Tahoe. Isn't that the height of vanity, narcissism, and hypocrisy? I mean, if you like to mountain bike, it's not like the San Francisco Bay Area has ANY FUCKING HILLS NEARBY. The whole area is nothing but hills!!! Let me tell 'ya, its one hilly fucking city man! And kayaking? Yeah, I can see why you need to go to Tahoe to do that because it's not like there's AN OCEAN AND A GIANT FUCKING BAY IN THE IMMEDIATE VICINITY! But no, your typical wanna be Bay Area liberal needs to indulge his need to "get one with nature" by driving around and belching unneeded additional pollution into the atmosphere...not to mention all the damage they do to the oxygen giving trees of our forests by driving their Subaru Forrester through them EVERY GODDAMN WEEKEND. So, the very nature they love SO MUCH must be destroyed because the nature in their backyard doesn't meet their aesthetic desires. It's not the scenery they DESERVE. Of course they could just move to the woods and be one with nature every day, but then where would they get their lattes, their Pottery Barn salad bowls, and high colonics?

Friday, August 14, 2009

...the mac and cheese was good...

-OK, last post was a little indulgent. But sometimes, you've got to bitch a little, 'ya know? The mac and cheese was the bomb by the way (besides cheddar, had Asiago, Romano, and Parmesan in topped with crunchy Panko...yum). Anyway, life ain't so bad, still got a dollar in my pocket, a decent job, my health, yadda yadda yadda...lots of folks have it worse, so I'll keep the whiny tantrums in check.

-Speaking of whiny tantrums...enough with the town hall health care jackasses screaming about "death panels" and "rationed care" and "socialized medicine". Listen fucktards...your health care is already "rationed." If you have an HMO, PPO, or whatever, they DECIDE what is fully covered, and what you'll pay out of pocket. I have an OUTSTANDING health plan, and it still came with a booklet of the exotic procedures they will not cover. Thats RATIONING dumbasses!!! I don't know a single person, no matter how rich, who has any sort of health coverage where they can walk into a doctors office and demand whatever medical procedure they want without a review from a big business bureaucrat who has the ultimate say over YOU or the DOCTOR. Rationing is already here. Know what else is already here? Socialized medicine. If you're uninsured, and you have a heart attack, you get rushed to an ER and you get treated whether you can pay or not. If you cannot cover the bill, the rest of us do through higher premiums and taxes...i.e. socializing the costs. And as far as the "death panel" goes...if you think assistance with hospice and end of life care decisions if you decide to seek it constitutes a "death panel", well, theres no point in illustrating your fallacious reasoning. I have better and more stimulating things to clip my toenails. Anyway, health care costs are spiraling out of control at an exponential rate, and slowly destroying the nations economy. It is unsustainable in its current form. It needs to be REFORMED. I have no idea what the answers are, and I dont pretend to. However, rather than puke paranoid bile, drivel, and pablum all over the place, how about offering up an idea or two? Then again, that would require actual THOUGHT...which may be asking a bit too much.

Thursday, August 13, 2009

Whilst the mac and cheese bakes in the oven...

I have come to the conclusion I am exhausted. I have no energy for much of anything. I guess nine months of 160 mile commutes (round trip) and 17 1/2 hour days (well, nights) has caught up to me. I feel bad. I haven't been socializing with my friends, or anybody much else in my life outside of my daughters. You ever been so low on energy nothing, NOTHING, has appeal? Food? Eh. Sex? Eh. Booze and or partying? Eh. Golf and other recreational activities? Eh. Exercise? I keep after it but its a struggle. Yoga? Actually, yoga is the one thing I've gone back to in an effort to re-energize myself, spiritually if not physically. I think it's helping...then again its only been about two weeks back, so we'll see. But it feels good. Thing is, it seems as if I've got to a point at the moment where I'm living to service my life, instead of allowing life to service me. Does that make sense? I have a schedule change coming up where I'll get my weekends back, and I'm hoping if nothing else, it will get me somewhat integrated back with mainstream society in that my days off will again be the "societal norm." But I have this weird sense of guilt in that I haven't been the friend or companion to others I should be. Which is weird I guess, because really, who do we owe other than ourselves? But that doesn't seem right either. Too selfish...narcissistic. Life is a complicated thing in that there is no "thing", be it a person, job, hobby, or whatever, that is an ultimate answer. It all lies (boy is that loaded with multiple interpretations) within us, and its a multifaceted balancing act where if any one component out of a hundred is out of balance, the whole thing warps and breaks. Well, I am out of balance at the moment (some would say warped, but thats another story), but I simply move forward as I always do, because what else is there? Well, I feel as if I've vented, with that, I get to go pick up my oldest for dinner before running her back to school, and make sure I don't burn the mac and cheese. OK, you know what? Gooey cheese and carbs? I suppose things just need to be kept in perspective. Gooey cheese and carbs makes everything better...

Thursday, August 6, 2009

Sooo....lets type something...

I watch a lot of late night tv. I am up all night when the world is asleep (example, I went for a jog last night at 230 am. I'm wondering if the neighbors think I have a meth addiction. "Look at that tweeker running around the lake at 230 in the morning...tsk tsk...its sad what drugs can do to a man...why doesn't his family get him into rehab?"), so there isn't much to do other than watch tv (occasionally, when I'm feeling really rambunctious, I'll do a load of laundry). If you haven't watched any late night tv lately, you're missing out. Rather than programming interrupted by commercials, it's actually commercials interrupted by programming. And the commercials are priceless. Its non stop dick remedies, all the time. Just ooooooone penis drug after another. Make it harder, bigger, help you pee, increase your urine flow (REALLY??? I thought that's what beer was for?), get your herpes under control, etc etc. Good lord, when did the nation stop obsessing about tits and ass and start focusing on the dangler? Anywhoo, one of these snake oil (Ha! Get it? "Snake"? Right...moving on...) commercials is for a product called Extenze. To cut to the chase, it's supposed to make your dick bigger. Whatever. But here's the priceless part. It's called "maximum" strength Extenze. Maximum strength? Really? Is there a minimum strength? You know, a pill for the guy who feels "Yeah, I've got a nice trouser snake, but you know, another 1/16 of an inch might be nice. I don't want to go all John Holmes, but a little extra so the pants fit right...and that's why I use minimum strength Extenze. When a little is more than enough." It's as if that "maximum strength" label is there to assure the customer "Sir, you're in good hands now. This pill is the most potent dick enlarger out there. It's MAXIMUM STRENGTH, and normally, we wouldn't allow it on humans, as it's only been tested on orangutans, and the first guy who tried it had his balls blow off, but dammit, we're going to fix-your-dick. You deserve nothing less! Or, in this, you know...more. So say goodbye to that third thumb and hello third leg!!!"

Anyway, enough with the constant barrage of Johnson talk. Can't we go back to the tasteless advertising we're all used to? You know, the good God fearing commercials featuring the feminine hygiene products soaked in some mysterious blue fluid?

Tuesday, July 28, 2009

I will never use an ARCO gas station again and compost powered cars

As I finished my week in the Bay Area and was driving back to the Valley early this morning, I did something I haven't done in years...I stopped at an ARCO gas station. Normally, I avoid ARCO because although their gas runs about five cents a gallon cheaper, the methamphetamine addict drama that usually plays itself out there is something I haver little energy for (I'm guessing for every five cents a gallon saved is another five cents towards staying up for five days straight and disassembling a motorcycle transmission at 3 am). Anyway, ARCO seems to have a disproportionate number of questionable characters there, but today I was feeling thrifty so I went. First thing that jumped out at me: they FORCE you to leave the pump and go in the store to see the cashier. I rarely carry cash. Cash is a pain in the ass. I like plastic (debit, credit, whatever). It's convenient. It's great at gas stations because you can just plunk your card in the slot and off you go. Well, the ARCO pump has a card reader, but it serves no purpose. It stated right next to card reader: "For credit or debit transactions, please see the cashier." And by seeing the cashier, it means standing behind three drunk people with B.O. buying SlimJims, pork rinds, condoms, and cigarettes (sounds like a busy weekend, huh?). This is why I use plastic, to AVOID seeing the cashier. So, just on a whim, I tried the card reader anyway. Needless to say, it just flashed a sign that said, yep, "Please see the cashier." One DOES have to wonder, "Just what in the hell is it for then?" Fine. So I go in and hand my card over to the cashier (after trying to decipher the alcohol fumed funk coming off of the people in front of me: construction worker who hasn't bathed in three days? Drug addict who lives behind a dumpster? Jihadist freedom fighter who just came in off of a three month stint in the hills of Afghanistan?). I walk back to the car and start to pump my gas. Know how long it takes to pump 15 gallons of gas from an ARCO gas pump? 43 hours. Seriously, I thought my pump was broken. I raised a family, sent the kids off to college, and had a retirement dinner celebration and I was only on gallon number seven. I looked around and all the other pumps were pumping as slowly (now 'pumping slowly' may have its place, but not here). I'm guessing when you're counting every penny in order to have a little something left for those SlimJims and cigarettes, well, you don't want that pump to fly and accidentally stop twelve cents over your limit. So, after continental drift had changed the face of the Earth by the time the pump finished, I drove off thinking how much happier I would have been had I spent the extra eighty-five cents a tank across the street at Chevron.

Also, I have figured out why nobody in the Bay Area drives faster than 62 MPH. Their cars are incapable of higher speeds due to their vehicle being powered by the 'green technology' of garden compost. Surely a populace fueled on high octane gasoline wouldn't be so incapable of even merely APPROACHING the speed limit.

Tuesday, July 21, 2009

Doing Laundry at night...again...

"I think that I shall never see,
a poem as complicated as me"

OK. That is all I have tonight.

Thursday, July 16, 2009

Stuff at 3:23 am

Well, due to the unusual hours I work, my sleep schedule is somewhat contrary to the rest of society and I find myself doing normal things at abnormal hours. In this case, I'm killing time on the 'pooter (as in 'computer'...not the toilet...gross) as I do laundry. Yea. Its always a party at my place. Anyways, a few thoughts:

-what is cool? Are we allowed to decide for ourselves anymore? It seems to me we are not. Example? Levi's vs. Apple products (I just saw one of their incessant commercials so I'm using them as a prime example). One became cool, and one was made to "be" cool...once an incessant marketing campaign beat it into your head. Here's what I mean. Levi's jeans were originally developed as a tough, utilitarian pair of pants for gold miners in 19th century California. The reason why they were blue is because that was the cheapest and most durable dye Mr. Levi Strauss could get in large quantities for his denim pants. Why denim? Because gold miners work in rough conditions and needed a tough product. Then one day starting in the 50's, kids started wearing these jeans and they started to become associated with rock and roll. They were anti establishment. They weren't polite. They became cool. People took a product designed for something else, and decided it was cool when it wasn't trying to be. In fact, not trying to be cool (and I mean genuinely not trying to be) is the very definition of cool. People were free to decide for themselves what was cool free of a (then) existing marketing campaign telling them how cool they were for wearing these jeans.
Now, contrast that with Apple products (confession: I'm typing this on a MacBook). It is decided they are "cool" before they are even released to the public. We have no choice in the matter. Their products are released at conventions of rabid followers by the company president who struts around in his black mock turtleneck, jeans (ha!), and his ever present bottle of water. And people sit in rapt stillness as he unleashes the next "cool" product. "It's the new iWad toilet paper applicator!" (Had a convo with a person a while back about toilet paper application products, and I know how Apple loves 'applications' *pun intended*, so it seems to me only a matter of time before they develop something along these lines...maybe have U2 star in the commercial. You know, Bono wiping his backside with an iWad while Beautiful Day blares in a multi-colored background. God knows these guys are apparently whoring themselves out for these things now...iPods? Blackberry's? Bono, stop now while I can still think of you as the guy who sang The Electric Co. and New Years Day...not the guy shilling for corporate giants). Bow down to the "coolness" of Apple! Now, to me, that is a company trying too hard. And trying too hard isn't cool. If your products are good and worthy, then people will decide if they are cool or not, you don't need to push so hard (after all, nobody is attracted to somebody demanding "love me", right?).

-women are put off by men with a brain. Here's what I mean. Women may complain about a guy having a single minded focus of thinking with his dick, and they may make a big deal about being treated as an object, etc. But you know what? I think its a front...a lie. I think they PREFER their men this way. Here's why: a guy, say, younger than thirtyish, is pretty preoccupied with getting laid...or at least the almighty beejay. It's kind of what we live for. And guess what? That makes us easy. Predictable. Controllable. MALLEABLE. And a woman loves a malleable guy. And when sex is a guys prime focus, all a woman has to do is play the card she was BORN WITH: her sexuality. How easy is that??? I cannot imagine, as a man, going through life with the idea the world will cater to me just for the sole reason I'm in possession of a functional penis. I mean, it must be awesome, and I can see why so many women obsess over this part of themselves...sometimes to the detriment of other aspects of their being. But then something happens to a guy post thirtyish...we realize how stupid we were, and that we sold ourselves incredibly short. That, and once you've been laid enough, you realize theres a whole helluva lot more to life, and you begin to wonder just how worth the effort it all was in your days of yore. Things like a womans sense of humor, intelligence, hell, A JOB, start to matter. Is the person nice? Yes...nice counts. A LOT. You begin to realize pretty is everywhere. Smart? Funny? Decently employed? Sane???? A fucking RARITY. A young man will sell his soul to the dumbest, nastiest, craziest wench if she's hot enough. A guy who has lived a little will laugh and say "Yeah...nice rack...what else 'ya got?" I think this throws women off their game...maybe even worries them a bit. A guy NOT thinking with his dick is a wild card...unpredictable...and a mystery as to what to do with. Unfortunately, nobody gave me this pep talk at twenty...and truth be told I was so obsessed with T&A I probably wouldn't have listened anyway. But now? I feel liberated.

OK, laundry is done, and time for bed...

Tuesday, July 7, 2009

Parasites and The Tour de France

So, as I sit on my sofa in my underwear drinking coffee and watching television (got to LOVE the combination of being on vacation AND having a house to yourself) I see an advertisement for a 'reality medical show' called Monsters Inside Me. Wow. Just when I thought we couldn't get anymore disgusting with our television programming, here comes a show about...human parasites. I know...gag. Who would want to see a show about such a topic? Other than instill a paranoid sense of dread into the psyche of people who already tend to run towards the hypochondriac, what are we to gain from watching in HD detail the horrific possibilities nature can throw at us? If you haven't already grasped the idea of wash your hands, cook your food, practice diligent hygiene, don't go for swims in open sewers and Third World rivers, and question how bad you REALLY want that taco off of that downtown street vendor at 3 am, then I guess go ahead and watch this show in order to encourage you begin TO follow these valuable life skills. It makes me wonder whats next in television programming land? World worst infected open sores? You, me and STD's? World's goriest hemorrhaging arteries? Stay tuned to find out!

Ok, and what was I watching in my underwear this morning? The Tour de France. Here's an interesting thing about the Tour... women don't get it and think its stupid (well, other than my sister who watches every year). Here's a typical conversation I've had with multiple women over the years as I try and watch the Tour:

Female (f): Is that a bicycle race?
Me (m): Yes.
f: Why are they racing in a big pack? How can you win if you're all together?
m: Well, they're not always in a big pack...which is called the Peloton. You see, sometimes, depending on stage and terrain...
f: You've already lost me. This is stupid. I'm going shopping.

That is essentially, with a few variations, just about every conversation I've ever had. Speaking of other things most women find stupid, I think I'll go and hit some golf balls....

Thursday, July 2, 2009

VISA thinks I'm a fried chicken eating porn addict

OK, so I am finally making good on my promise to split my daughters rooms and set them each up with their own bedroom. They've hit the age where they no longer want to share a room, but want their own space. Totally understandable, and, like I said, project underway. As a result of this, i donated to charity 90% of their old bedroom furniture, and am in the middle of purchasing new "teen girl appropriate" bedroom furniture. Nothing too fancy mind you, but still a few bucks out of pocket. So what happens in the middle of my furniture shopping spree? Well, the ever diligent VISA corp. froze my credit card. You see, because I rarely use the stupid thing and keep a near zero balance at all times, apparently the last thing the VISA people want me to do is actually go out and charge things on it. So, once I spent over $1000 dollars on it in one day, they froze the account due to "suspicious activity". Right. Young women's bedroom furniture raises all sorts of red flags. Good thing they're on the ball for that sort of nefarious purchasing. Now, you may be thinking "Hey, you should be happy they're looking out for your best interests." Normally, I would agree with you. However, a few years ago, my credit card number was stolen, and it was used to make long distance calls to Southeast Asia and Northern Europe, purchase online porn and make pornographic calls to "900" numbers, multiple fried chicken and gasoline runs in the greater Los Angeles area, salon treatments in the greater Los Angeles area, and one (ONE!) pizza. Needless to say, the VISA corp. approved all those purchases as "non-suspicious". So if I understand the VISA corp.'s line of reasoning, it is perfectly believable that I'm a pornography addicted, fried chicken eating, self indulgent man-salon going, gas guzzling, solitary pizza eating Los Angeles (note: I do not live in LA...and my billing address on file with the VISA corp. reflects that little factoid) maniac with extended family throughout Asia and Northern Europe, than it is for VISA to believe I'm buying bedroom furniture for 12 and 14 yr. old girls in the town I ACTUALLY FUCKING LIVE IN. Gotta tell 'ya, you just can't sneak anything past those VISA folks...well, other than porn and fried chicken that is.

Tuesday, June 30, 2009

OK, a confession...

...I am now mildly annoyed. Who am I annoyed with you may or may not be asking yourself? (I'm going with 'not asking yourself' by the way) I am annoyed with the idiots who monopolize one particular piece of gym equipment at the gym and are oblivious to the fact that others may like to use it as well. Sure, you can ask to 'work in' a set as they do their thing, but the idea that I have to ask permission to use a piece of equipment I am PAYING for is ridiculous. So, generally, what I'll do is go about my business on the other pieces of equipment until Mr. Healthy is done. Well, today, I was nearing the end of my circuit routine (about 35 minutes or so) and this dumb ass is STILL on the apparatus I want to use and finish with (it was a butterfly station). DUDE! It's ok to work more than one muscle group. I suggest you also work the one that allows you to be something other than an oblivious narcissistic asshole. I love these guys that come into the gym to work on particular body parts on particular days. Isnt that amazing? To be that self absorbed? Hell, to be that self conscious? "Well, today is eyelids, tomorrow is nipples, and then I'll be focusing on my pinky toe on Friday. Got to attack all these groups on their own. After all, it's not about being in good health. Oh no, no,'s about having sculpted eyelids (and nipples and toes)." What makes it even better is the fact that they're not continually working out. They'll work in a fifteen minute conversation with their gym buddy (who no doubt is in there on his day to work his kneecaps...because tomorrow is all about scrotum work), take about 135 water breaks (you can spot these jackasses as they enter the gym. They'll be carrying their own towel and a water jug the size of a beer keg), entertain one or two mobile phone calls, fiddle with their iPod, and frequently stare off into space apparently doing absolutely nothing at all (perhaps 'visualizing those perfect eyelids and nipples he's working on?). In fact, I think they even occasionally take a nap. Even though they spend 26 hours on one piece of gym equipment, they work in only about 12 minutes of actual exercise.
Obviously these guys love to hang around a bunch of heavily sweating men and dislike going home to their families. While this speaks volumes about them, it brings me no satisfaction knowing theyre a bunch of miserable people with repressed sexual longing they wont deal with. I just want to use the fucking butterfly station, you know?

Monday, June 29, 2009


I have a theory, and it is this: if things are ok, you don't spend too much time on the 'net. I was thinking I needed to blog something, but what? I don't have anything all that interesting to bitch about (a usual fave topic of mine), life, family, and finances are good, friends are, well, they're all over the place, but that's nothing new, and I'm generally in a calm place at the moment. So what to type? Dunno...

Been on vacation for some weeks now. As a result, I have had more beer/cocktails in the past twenty days than in the past year...maybe more. The result? Six pounds of weight, needless to say, cocktail hour is over. What I don't get are alcoholics who are skinny. Hows does that work? Cocaine binges? A diet of menthol cigarettes and methamphetamine? Or do you just drink to the point of vomiting, thus maintain your svelte figure? Truly, it is a mystery to me.

I'm tempted to go on here, but it would just be a waste of space that was the result of a forced effort. I think most blogging requires a certain amount of energy, usually negative, and is the result of anxiety, anger, the need for validation from others, etc. Occasionally, it it is for no other purpose than to be funny, and those are the blogs I tend to enjoy and attempt to write (when I'm not full of anxiety, anger, or the need of validation from others). So, in order not to violate my own rule, I should stop here.

Ok, ideally I'd be able to end with an amusing anecdote or a fart joke, but sadly, I have neither to share, although I will say this...the phrase "You cause the rain!" makes me laugh every time I think of it, and is one of the truest ideas I can think of.

Wednesday, June 3, 2009


I discovered something interesting this weekend when I threw a party at my house. If you pour enough alcohol down peoples throats, as the party roars on past 2 a.m., not only will they seek out tobacco products, they will discover a medical condition that requires they immerse themselves in hot, bubbly water. Apparently, I too suffered from this condition. Here's the photographic evidence (which makes me laugh every time I look at it) Photo number one, people socializing on my back patio and behaving themselves. Photo two...well, it speaks for itself:



Thursday, May 21, 2009

You may not know your neighbors, but they sure may know you...

So tonight I was standing in my driveway when a strange, chain smoking Asian woman, who I have never set eyes on in my life, walked up to me, and said I "needed" to walk her to the corner of the street in order to placate a friend of hers, who was worried about her safety. She proceeded to (accurately) tell me what I did for a living, told me all about a party I had three years ago at my house, about how I had a friend who is a NY trained chef bbq at my place several times, and that over the years she's noticed 'several' different women coming and going from my place. Exactly. Cue theme from Twilight Zone (or maybe Psycho). I mean, you know, do you respond to that? What do you say? 'Well complete stranger who I have never met who seems to know waaaaay to much about me, although I am about nine inches and 70 pounds larger than you, I must say, you're spooking the ever living shit out of me." But no, I am a polite man, even to the apparently somewhat disturbed, so I made pleasant chit chat through her cloud of cigarette smoke as I walked her to the corner...and looked for a hidden knife or pistol in the waistband of her pants. I then asked her how she knew so much about the neighborhood (didn't want to bring it back to me), and she stated when you knew Spanish, French, and Arabic, you know a lot. Yep. Apparently you do! So, needless to say, tonight I will be sleeping with one eye open and my hands over my testicles, because a) it just seems like a good idea, and b) truth be told they're usually placed there anyway, so, you know...bonus.

Friday, May 8, 2009

Is It Just Me?

Is it just me or is that singer from Kings of Leon one, whiney, annoying bastard. Attention radio programmers of America: ENOUGH ALREADY! "This sex is onnnn fiiiire." Really? Then go to the doctor and get it checked. That burning sensation is not normal...dumbass.

Saturday, May 2, 2009

Tragedy Avoided

On my long commute home this morning after an even longer graveyard shift, the radio station played back to back John Mayer, Jack Johnson, and Dave Matthews songs. I don't know if the DJ was trying to induce narcolepsy in us early morning drivers, but it was only through quick and decisive action was I able to change the radio channel prior to passing out in a deep coma as a result of this Sleepy Time Herbal Tea radio hour programming. We were THIS CLOSE to having a nasty pile up on I-80 eastbound due to the mellow whitebread sleep inducing music emanating from my speakers. Another interesting thing about these so called "chill' artists is their lyrics, which sound something like this: "Mwah freh traugh sawaho cho mah saw lah owwww". All three songs seemed to follow this unique vocal styling which seemed to take the idea of having a mouth full of marbles to new and exciting heights. It was just simply an awful...I mean awsome...aural experience (not to be confused with an awesome 'oral experience', which, lets face it, beats John Mayer and his ilk all to hell ...). Do people really listen to this stuff? Or is it really meant for the treatment of insomnia? Hmmm...maybe these guys are sponsored by Merck or Eli Lilly? Actually, I can totally see the following: Tonight Only! John Mayer, Jack Johnson, and Dave Matthews brought to you by the makers of Ambien! (and then rather than sell t-shirts at the concert, they sell pilllows and comforters.... You know, I really think I'm on to something here...).

Thursday, April 23, 2009

Orange Blossoms

You know, the Valley and Fresno take a lot of heat (get it? Fresno....heat...yeah, I almost died laughing too. Anywhoo...) from glamorous southern and northern California for a variety of snotty reasons. Whatever. But you know what the Valley has that just can't be beat this time of year? The fragrant smell of orange blossoms in the air on a warm evening. It's sweet smell takes me back to summer drives at night as a teen, when life was still wide open before me, and it is one of the things that reminds me the Valley is, indeed, home.


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