Tuesday, May 25, 2010


.....uh........welllllll.......hmmmmmmm. Nada.

Wednesday, March 10, 2010

Personal Growth

Further evidence of personal growth: a path was navigated today that in the past would have resulted in stepping on a land mine and losing a leg...and possibly a testicle...and the flying shrapnel would have maimed others within the blast radius as well (plus you might have gotten smacked with a bloody, flying testicle. Not pretty*). Cooler heads and maturity prevailed, the ordinance was cleared and defused (I went with my gut and cut the blue wire), and the body (and ball) count was nil. The only person to get fragged in the end was Steve Jobs and the Church of Scientology...and I think they can dry their tears with their billions and the packing materials from an iPad.

I think "Bloody Flying Testicle" would be a great name for a punk band.

Monday, February 22, 2010


-Attention old drivers of the world: just because you do 28 mph in a 45 mph zone, does not, by default, make you a SAFE driver, OK? What it does make you is the Typhoid Mary of the transportation world. Perhaps we will call you 'Road Rage Mary'. Like Typhoid Mary, nothing ever happens to YOU as you toodle on down the road. But like Typhoid Mary, you blithely INFECT everybody else. Traffic stacked up and impeded behind you, sending blood pressures skyrocketing as people try and pass you to make their appointment. Otherwise rational people taking radical risks behind the wheel and running over small children and baby ducklings as they swerve wildly out of control to make the green light ahead that you seem oblivious to. In their anger, desperation, and over aggression, they then crash and die a slow, agonizing death in a fiery hell, cocooned in their burning, metal, four wheeled coffin, wondering why the gray hair that held them up and changed lanes every time they did, has a 700 horsepower Cadillac, if said gray hair never drives it any faster than one half whatever the actual speed limit is. And you, dear old person, just cruises down the highway (at 28 mph) blissfully unaware to the carnage that just occurred all around you. You will then mutter under your breath "Damn kids are driving like crazy!" as the cityscape fills with twisted hulks of burning metal and scorched corpses. You go home secure and arrogant in the knowledge that you just had another accident free day behind the wheel...not realizing you're actually a serial killer worse than Ted Bundy.

-Did some ground fighting today as a result of a training day at my job. After rolling around and incurring facial abrasions, bruised knuckles, pulled and strained muscles, a rolled ankle and a kick to the left ear, I realized something: I'm not a kid. Sure, I'm in pretty good shape. I run 5 miles every other day, and go to the gym in between that, about five to six times a week. And I look pretty good...but I'm 40. What the 25 year old jujitsu ninja sadistic instructor doesn't realize is that we have two very different realities. His is he'll jump out of bed fresh as a daisy tomorrow, like yesterday was just a walk in the park. My reality is I'll wake up like I was hit by a train and will be munching on Advil like it was a bowl of M&M's. Good times. What I did take away from the experience was this: apparently I have 'loose shoulders' because they were amazed that a Kimura and another shoulder lock had little effect on me no matter how far they cranked it. I have no idea what good this knowledge will do for me, but there 'ya go. Also, I have no idea how championship fighters do what they do. I'm in pretty good shape like I said, but after a mere 2'30" of boxing and grappling, it felt like my lungs were on fire and puking seemed like a real option for a moment or two. Doing that for up to 25 minutes is insane, and I'm not sure how you get to that level of fitness without steroids, methamphetamine, some cappuccino, a Mountain Dew, and a Red Bull. Oh, and maybe routine hypodermic injections of pulverized walrus testicle. Anyways, it was fun, but I think I prefer hanging out in my jacuzzi with a nice cocktail as a preferable source of entertainment.

-went to Roller Derby Saturday night. Here's a few pics from the match and me with my friend Poppy (derby name Devious Dolly #88) of the V-Town Derby Dames (city of Visalia) "B" team.


They played 'No Town Roller Derby (city of Fresno) and the Visalia "A" team played a team from Santa Maria. It was actually pretty fun (although my friends husband, who is a really cool guy, saw it a little differently and stated he'd be 'camped out at the beer garden...let me know who wins'. Funny guy). It was an interesting combination of 50's Rockabilly culture (there was a Rockabilly band), burlesque, and girl on girl aggression. Like I said...fun:) There was a larger crowd than I was expecting, plus a beer garden, so perfect, right? The crowd was pretty diverse too. Besides all the guys with duck tailed haircuts and girls with the Betty Page thing going on, there was the usual "Bro and Bro-Ho" contingent (vomit), cowboys, Barbie Dolls, skaters, normalish looking housewives and dads, and the very young to very old. Who knew a bunch of women skating around in short shorts and fishnets knocking the crap out of each other could bring such a diverse crowd together? Oh wait a minute...why WOULDN'T a bunch of women skating around in fishnets and short shorts engaging in various forms of violence appeal to the masses? "ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED?????" hahaha Anyways, it was cool. So there you go, my one weekend activity. I could regale you with tales of cooking for a couple of demanding teen girls, laundry, and doing the dishes, but somehow I'm not sensing the anticipation for those stories.

Monday, February 15, 2010

Another Trip To LA

So, I went out of town again this weekend. I had been lamenting the lack of spontaneous fun things going on in my life, so rather that sit around and be all butt hurt about the lack of spontaneous shenanigans going on, I picked up the phone and imposed myself on my friends down south. My agenda was to hang out in West LA Friday night, and get my art on Saturday night in NoHo (North Hollywood). But before I could do all that, I had to a actually get out of town.

I had that crappy FM transmitter I wanted to return prior to leaving town, so I figured I'd do this on my way south. As I waited at a red traffic signal to get into the shopping center where my neighborhood Best Buy is located, I noticed to my right on the sidewalk a portly woman having a VERY LOUD conversation on her cell phone in Spanish. She was quite animated with wild hand gestures and lots of eye rolling. It was street theater at its best. Well, the light turned green and I needed to make a right turn, so I waited for the woman to cross the street on the "walk" signal. She didn't. She was oblivious to her visual prompt and completely engrossed in her conversation. So I waited for her to look up, see the "walk" signal, and go. She didn't. I waited 20 seconds (as timed by my Omega Seamaster Professional Chronograph...so I'm relatively sure it was an accurate count), and, "nada" (to use her language). Needing to get on my way, I pulled forward and made my right turn into the middle lane (which is illegal) just to give her space because I knew as soon as I went she would magically pull her head out of her ass and step into the street. Yep. POP! Head extracted and into the street she stepped as I was turning. Now, keep in mind the standard traffic lane is 12 feet wide. So I'm at least 10 feet away from her. Well, apparently she thought I was some sort of vehicular manslaughter madman who was looking to orphan her 13 children back at home, and launched into a Spanish, profanity filled tirade at my transgression (I made out the word "ESTUPIDO!!!). Really? I'm the stupid one? The one who JUST KNEW you would step out into traffic like a dumbass without looking and I planned accordingly as to not orphan your brood back home, and I'M THE STUPID ONE???? I'm the guy who was actually PAYING ATTENTION and avoided your dumb, non assimilating ass. Whatever. I gave her the international sign for "you're number 1!" (aka The Bird) and continued on my way.

It being a Friday, and early, I figured the line at the return register at Best Buy couldn't be that bad. Everybody should be at work, and I'll just pop in and pop out, right? WRONG. Huge fucking line. Who ARE THESE PEOPLE???? Why aren't they at work? And if you're unemployed, how in the fuck can you afford all this electronic bullshit??? So, I wait in line. And wait. And wait. Why does this shit take so long? Here were the various problems ahead of me. 1) Old couple with competitors coupon and looking for a price match 2) Some dude returning a TV with an apparent 35 foot screen that took like 19 employees to move around and finally, my favorite, the idiot without the receipt looking to complete a return. "Man, I just want my money back!" "Sir, you don't have a receipt." "Shiiiit...I bought it here!" "Yes, sir, seven months ago." "Then give me store credit." "We cannot sir. Sorry." "Why not????" "Because sir, it looks like somebody carved their initials on it and what looks like a Raider Nation symbol." Etc. You get the idea. Know how long my exchange took? 45 seconds (thank you Omega timing). I presented my receipt and BAM...out the door. Why is this soooo fucking hard for some people???

OK, exchange completed, and I'm leaving the parking lot...except I cant, because there is always a pedestrian clusterfuck in the front of Target. Can you explain to me what it is about Target that causes people to step into the street and stop, right in the middle of the street, and either dig through their purse, have a cell phone conversation, or run into their long lost birth mother? And they are completely oblivious to the sixteen cars idling trying to get by. And it happens EVERY TIME. Anyways, make it out of the parking lot and head down to LA. The drive was pleasant and traffic wasn't too bad.

I get to Brentwood and we go to a restaurant on the Santa Monica Promenade. Here's pic:


Like I mentioned in a previous post, LA has a thing about lights in the trees. It's like everyday is Christmas down there. Anyways, dinner at this Italian place was tasty, then we headed over to a pub to have a drink or five. It was a very cool place that had the Smiths, Oasis, and U2 blaring on the juke box, actual Brits tending bar, and banners from all the Premier League Football (Soccer) Teams everywhere. I felt very at happy indeed. Here's a pic of the Kings Head pub where I got "royally trashed" (hahaha....get it????????):


Premier League Scarves (Man U, Man City, Aston Villa, Blackburn Rovers):


The next morning, I needed a hearty breakfast to kill my hangover, so we headed to Swingers in Santa Monica. Had the Huevos Rancheros and a pancake drenched in real butter....and lots of water...and lots of coffee. It did the trick. Here's breakfast:


And just because, you know, I am a swinger (ok, not really...):


And this is just a pic I like because it looks like I can manipulate lightning like I'm Zeus or something:


Headed to NoHo to visit my artsy fartsy friend who was directing an alternative performance at Zombie Joe's Under Ground Theater. Here's the theater exterior and the entrance to the NoHo Arts District:


The performance was very cool. Blood, sex, naked flesh, intestines, axes, zombies, lingerie...basically everything you need on a Saturday night.

So, because I was in LA, I had to make a pilgrimage to...FATBURGER. Oh...my...god...can you say "mouthgasm'? And the skinny fries...mmmmmm.....sorry, went to my happy place. However, look at this picture, and I'll share my frustration with you:


The parking lot at Fatburger has very few spaces. I had to circle the block five times before a space opened up. Oh wait. There WAS AN OPEN SPACE...but some fucktard in a HUMMER took up two spaces...BECAUSE THEY'RE JUST THAT BIG AN ASSHOLE. I was hoping, HOPING, that the driver of this vehicle wouldn't live down to my worst expectation, and that it would be some LA scumbag attorney or something I could hate guilt free. But no. It was a ghetto fabulous large woman in all her gold tooth glory...and her entourage all talking at a volume like they were shouting over a landing 747. I...HATE...PEOPLE.

Also, went for a hike at Runyon Canyon. Here's me with my friends dog (an Aussie/Lab mix...awesome dog!):


Anyways, that was it. Drive home over the Tehachapi's was nice. Very clear, and still a little snow in the distance:


And the lovely San Joaquin Valley and home awaits:


Here's the interesting thing I took away from my trip. The people in LA were all very fit, well dressed, tan, and uber hip. And very fake, and very plastic...in every way possible. But they didn't look happy. Everybody had the look about them like an unhappy model who is bored with the shoot. And that's LA. A bunch of people who I think, deep down, are tired of posing.....and I was actually happy to be back in Fresno.

Tuesday, February 9, 2010

Cutting Edge Ancient Technology

Perhaps some of you have seen a theme in some of my postings here, and that theme is I want a new car. The reason why I want a new car is because I drive an eight year old Toyota Tundra pickup. It's a fine truck, paid for, and runs great. But it is eight years old, and has some of the eight year old related minor issues, like this one: the tape player (for those of you over thirty, don't laugh. For those of you under thirty, a "tape player", pronounced TAY-PUH PLAY-ERR, was a neolithic device carved from stone using hand tooled devices. A piece of magnetized tape would run over a piece of smooth metal that read the magnetic impulses and turned these into electrical impulses that recreated sound. It was invented in 1492 AD by Leonardo DaVinci, when his previous invention, the 8-track, didn't take off, and he was struggling to complete the Mona Lisa while listening to Steely Dan albums) doesn't really work anymore. You put in a tape, and it sounds like Lindsay Lohan doing a mountain of crystal while arm wrestling a constipated baboon. In other words, it's noisy...oh, and no music comes out either, which is, of course, a problem as well, and kind of the whole purpose of the TAY-PUH PLAY-ERR. Oh, and as soon as you put a tape in the player, it immediately ejects it anyways (much like if you stuck a donut in Kate Moss' mouth)...making everything kinda moot. But John, doesn't your truck have a CD player? Yes, it does...but it has a few minor issues as well, and a CD player doesn't get me my tunes out of my iPod.

So, as you can see, my cassette tape adapter is a no-go for my iPod in order for me to enjoy all the wonderful tuneage in my car. But John! There's this wonderful device called an "FM transmitter" for your iPod that allows you to listen to your iPod over your vehicles FM radio. Really? Awesome. So I bought one.

First issues first. The instructions stated the following: "Just go ahead and tune your stereo to a frequency that is all static, and preferably an area on the radio that has three static frequencies in a row; then choose the middle frequency in order to avoid bleed over from another frequency." OK! Can do! Turn on car stereo aaaaand, one click at a time up we go up EVERY FREQUENCY on the dial, and trust me, that's a lot of fucking frequencies. Know how many static frequencies I find? Three. Know how many were in a row? None. Know what I did find? About 10 channels for classic rock hits, R and B/hip hop, and hard rock, and about 90 channels of the "good time gospel Christian your going to hell you filthy sinning whore hour' and Spanish language stations. In fact, the Spanish stations may have been preaching the same message because I thought I had heard the words "Diablo", "Christos", "puta" and "Dio" (and the "Dio" I think they were talking about wasn't Ronnie James Dio). Then again, I heard the word "cerveza", giggling women, and polka music too...so perhaps they were just telling off-color jokes at an over the air party. I dunno. Anyways, needless to say there was no "bleed over" safe zones due to California's need to either hear the Eagles YET AGAIN, be shunned and reminded we're going to hell, or get our drink on with Rodrigo and Raul (I think they were the dj's). There were, by the way, two perfectly dead and staticky frequencies at the very beginning of the dial right next to each other...I think it was 87.7 and 87.9 FM. Know what the lowest frequency the FM transmitter would go to? Yep. 88.1 FM. Sigh. Although this wasn't an Apple product, I still think Steve Jobs is somehow responsible.

So I find the best of the "non bleed over-ish" frequencies and give the old FM transmitter a go. And.......hmmmm....is it on? Yep. Ooooohhhhhkaaaaaay...read instructions: "Be sure iPod device is turned up to at LEAST 75% of total volume." Huh. Well, it's over 50%, but ok. Turn it up and I hear something tinny like a small child talking over a soup can tied to a string. Crank it up to 100% and there's good old Rob Dickinson, who normally has a powerhouse of a voice, sounding like....shit. I've had better reception in a tunnel, and better audio quality from a Speak and Spell (for those of you under 30...never mind). So what does the "FM" in the FM transmitter stand for? Faulty Merchandise? Feeble Machine? FUCKING MADDENING? Meh....needless to say, it's going back...and I'll just break the law and wear ear buds in the mean time.

So, there you go...another reason why I need a new luxury car...for the MP3 player connectivity. That alone would be worth the $600 a month car payment.

Monday, February 8, 2010

My second rate supermarket is a first rate radio station

I have ranted in the past about the dearth of good, hip, cool, tasteful, relevant or progressive music radio stations. It seems as if the only thing you can hear now is talk, sports, news, top 40, r&b, rap/hip hop, and hard rock. That's it. Oh, and Spanish language...which I'm sure is even transmitted to the surface of Mars. Anyways, most radio stations in California (and I have lived and/or worked in every region of the state) suck. Balls. Majorly. It is an endless source of frustration for me, and what eventually drove me to purchase an iPod large enough to put my musical collection on, so I could hear it in my car. I had given up on the idea that a radio station was going to play me good, or introduce me to new, music. But check this out: My local and closest supermarket plays really good alternative/Brit pop ALL THE TIME. You know how most stores have this pumped in muzak stuff? My local Save Mart (which I only go to when I'm too lazy to drive the extra mile to the Vons that has a better selection of foodstuffs) has played the following bands on its store sound system: The Catherine Wheel/Rob Dickinson, The Doves, Supergrass, The Style Council, REM, Ride, The Stone Roses, The Pixies, The Police, Johnny Marr, Crowded House...and those are the ones I can think of off of the top of my head. Are you kidding me? You can't even hear this stuff on the college radio station here! The supermarket? Save Mart? REALLY? That is so sad when a town's food store is its bastion of indie/college/ alt. rock. It has also introduced me to new music as well, something that hasn't happened in FOREVER as a result of over the air radio. Yesterday I was buying some things to make our traditional humongoid family breakfast, and I heard this perfect little pop ditty on the speakers in the produce section (gots to have my Fuji apples). I had never heard it before, and it literally stopped me in my tracks to try and discern its lyrics. I memorized a few lines, went home and Googled it, and through the magic of iTunes, found it. Unbelievable. And by sampling that song, it turned me on to another band I had never heard of whose music resonated with me. Wow. My local grocery store turns me on to music in a way that the actual music industry itself has failed at for the last fifteen years or so. There's just something inherently hysterical about that.

Other things that bounced through my head as I pushed my cart along the grocery aisles:

-I wonder why most of us don't party like we did when we were younger? I mean we can, and sometimes DO (I had an experience at a football game last fall that was reminiscent of my best/worst 19 year old behavior), but something seems to fade that demands we tie one on every weekend, Thursday, every other Tuesday, and dollar beer Mondays at the local dive. I went to a Super Bowl get together tonight and had some beers. Caught a slight buzz and had good conversation and laughs. Good times. But back in the day, that vibe would have been "Time for me to really get my drink on!" Tonight the vibe was "Hmmmm....kinda drowsy...need to think about going home...sleep sounds gooooood right now." Plus, I was feeling kinda inflated by the beer. Why is that? At 20 years old you could drink a 12 pack and still wolf down an entire meal. Now? Four Newcastles and you skip the meal for fear of exploding. And sleep? I can remember partying literally until sunrise, sleeping for an hour, showering, then going to school/work...and then doing it all over again THAT NIGHT. I dunno. I think a certain gene kicks in that regulates these things. I think it's the same one that also makes us file our taxes on time and keep our pool clean.

-I never seem to completely finish a pot of coffee. Ever. And I love coffee like others love soda, Jesus, whiskey, or cocaine and strippers. Seriously. There's always that unconsumed 1/4 of an inch in the pot whenever I go to make a new pot. Why is that? People always finish their soda. God knows a drunk polishes off his whiskey. But never the coffee for me. And it doesn't matter how much I make. Two cups, twelve cups...same result. 1/4 of an inch left over. If you added all those leftover dregs up, its probably about a pot a month. And good coffee is expensive. Not un-prescribed oxycontin or hydrocodone expensive (not that I would, you know...."know" about that), but it ain't cheap. Personally I think it is some sort of subliminal sacrifice to the great coffee goddess Insomnia (who I picture is a goddess dressed in a bathrobe, bags under her eyes, hair frazzled, a little twitchy, and clutching a steaming mug of java. She of course magically transforms into a breathtaking vision of loveliness...but only after that morning cup).

-if you ever lose a grandparent, or other elderly loved one, do not fret. I will find them for you. Just let me know they are missing, and I'll get straight to work. All I have to do is be in a hurry, and at the grocery store. They will immediately magically appear in front of me either pushing a cart slower than a snails pace right down the middle of the aisle with no hope of passing them on either side, or be arguing with the cashier about an expired coupon while writing a check for the wrong amount. I have guaranteed results and charge a reasonable finders fee. Just let me know.

Saturday, February 6, 2010

Overly Caffinated on a Friday Night...

It used to be the dumbest things I could think of were extolling the virtues of Republican politics at a Jesse Jackson rally; using a running microwave as a pool toy; being a Mormon missionary in Las Vegas; trying to train a cat; getting in the grocery store line behind an elderly person clutching a fist full of coupons AND a check book; and of course, expecting your pet to actually walk one more inch before puking as to make it on the tile and not on the carpet. But I have a new one that eclipses all of those: drinking two strong cups of coffee late at night. Dumb, dumb, dumb...

So, as I sit and type this, I am tweeking on caffeine like a....uh....well, tweeker. Since I'm not in the mood to do usual tweeker activities like stealing cars, disassembling 20 year old VCR's, replacing the transmission on a 1983 Harley Davidson, or leaving nude Polaroids of myself in strangers cars, I decided to write a ten item stream of consciousness thingamabob here.

-one CAN completely express anything one feels without fear or reservation of the consequences if it's honest and without agenda. One caveat: this does not apply to having ripped one at a funeral and then giggled about it. That's one you want to keep on the down low.

-getting older isn't fun. Dying before you're really old is less fun. You can decide for yourself which is best for you.

-I can cook better than most non-professionals, even their own dishes/recipes. I love tacos. They are my favorite food EVER. And yet, tacos are the one food a non-professional individual I know, hands down, without argument, makes better than me. This is a paradox I feel. But it's not the ultimate paradox. The ultimate paradox was somebody thinking Keanu Reeves was a good fit for a Shakespearean comedy...or the acting field in general.

-Fresnan's drive 11mph in the rain when you can see a mile down the road, but speed up to 92mph in fog with 10ft of visibility. This is absolutely the definition of suicidal retardation. Oh, wait, it's the second tier definition of suicidal retardation: the first definition is-eating off of the Cherry Auction taco truck before your wedding day, job interview, or meeting the girlfriends family for the first time. That's just not going to end well, ever, for anybody involved.

-Fresno got labeled the 'Drunkest City in America'. Considering so many of our bars in the nicer parts of town closed at midnight, it just goes to show you besides being a town full of lushes, we're MOTIVATED LUSHES. "Barkeep! Bring me three!!!! I need to get my DUI on by 11pm!!!" (This survey was of course a joke, because it labeled Boston as the soberest. Really? BOSTON??? A town full of Irishmen? Obviously the survey didn't take into account the fact all these east coast cities have superior public transportation ((part of the survey was based on DUI arrests)), and so the drunks don't have to drive to get home. They can just hop on a bus, train, subway, etc. Because, let's be honest...saying good old Irish Boston is the soberest city in America due to low DUI arrests when nobody really has to drive, is like saying Salt Lake City has the least sex because they're all virgins when they get married (but they all have 15 kids after they get married...do the math!). Please...there's lies, damn lies, and statistics....

-people love their pets more than they love human beings. How do I know? Well, your pet can keep you up all night making noise, and peeing and puking on everything, and be loved just the same. Last time I kept somebody up by noisily peeing and hurling all over the room, I gotta tell 'ya, I wasn't feeling the love...and I was even dressed as a Jack Russel Terrier when it happened (it's a long story that involves a bottle of brown liquor, a bet, two midgets in plushie costumes, a trampoline, and a drinking game gone horribly awry).

-the most self confident male I have EVER met? A guy called The Gypsie who was wearing black gucci loafers WITH a red Armani tracksuit, and was as relaxed as can be. Wow. That took BALLS. CANNON BALLS.

-I've been known to go to the grocery store in an old school Adidas Firebird tracksuit wearing flip-flops...but that pushes the limits of my self confidence (and laziness). And let's face it...flip flops are to Gucci loafers as a librarian is to a stripper. One is just waaaaaaay more out there (but who doesn't enjoy a stripper dressed AS a librarian, right?).

-I'm ready to buy a new car, but Arnold keeps threatening to try and cut my pay. So, I'm on pause until we see what happens. I think Arnold needs to back the hell off because I would really, really, like to buy a new car. Like, you know, tomorrow. I think my need for a new luxury car is far more important than petty politics, don't you? So, Ah-nold...get a grip and enjoy a bratwurst or something. Daddy needs to bring that new car smell home baby!

-started cleaning my own home again, and have discovered I really enjoy vacuuming and mopping floors. I think it's primarily because I enjoy the feel of a freshly mopped floor/vacuumed carpet on my bare feet. Maybe that's TMI, but to me a clean floor on bare feet is a better feeling than......ok, really struggling for an analogy here, but it's good. Some have accused me of having mild foot issues, and perhaps this is just an extension of that. Fine. Whatever. I'm just saying a clean floor on bare feet is.......dammit!......well, you get the idea....

OK, still wired, but I'm going to go listen to some music and get inside the souuuund maaaaannnn.......

Sunday, January 31, 2010

More Mental Meanderings...

So this Saturday I drove down to LA to see Eddie Izzard at the Nokia Theater. Eddie was his usual funny and philosophical self, and the Nokia Theater, located at LA Live next to the Staples Center (where the Lakers play their home games), was a very impressive and glitzy venue (if a tad bit 'artificial'...but hey, it's LA). But it wasn't the show that made the biggest impression on me. It was LA itself. Let me explain....

As I walked around LA Live (which looks like the Vegas strip was teleported into downtown LA), something didn't seem quite right. It was just a vibe...but I didn't immediately know what it was. Then it hit me: the women were sooooooo skinny...and everybody was WHITE. Now yes, I'm a white guy myself, but I live in a pretty ethnically diverse community, and generally, wherever you go, it's a pretty good cultural and ethnic mix. But the snowstorm around me was WEIRD. And the women were emaciated. I mean, they were scary skinny. And the women were tall as well. I mean...TALL. I'm a fairly slender guy, and taller than average at 6-1. But there were women (no, they weren't trannies...no Adams apples visible) who, heels aside, were taller than me. And more than one. They were EVERYWHERE. And SKINNY. Did I mention that? Like, their calves and thighs were no bigger around than their ankles. Oddly enough, for the most part, the men were pretty average of build and height. It was strange. Like I had arrived in the land of the anorexic Amazons and their shorter, wealthy providers. And everybody was dressed very expensively, and the parking garage was filled with Mercedes, BMW's, Jaguars, Cadillacs, Lexus', Infinitis, Acuras, and a few exotic Italian marques. All of this is of course a weird illusion because a mere three blocks away is a whole DIFFERENT UNIVERSE that exists in the same city.

The only food options at LA Live is a bunch of foo-foo sit down restaurants with 90 minute waiting lists (not that the people were eating, certainly not the bulimic Valkyries, but they were pounding down the cocktails), and I was looking for a quick bite before the show. I walked three blocks down Olympic Boulevard looking for something, and found a Mexican fast food chicken place and had a pretty good grilled chicken burrito and a side of roasted plantains (not bad and only 8 bucks with chips and a drink...about what a bottled water would cost back down the street). The clientele of the chicken place (which was PACKED shoulder to shoulder and filled with small children) was also ethnically uniform: all Latin, and judging by their language, all recent immigrants (and giving me surprised looks as I was the only gringo in the restaurant). They also appeared to be considerably less affluent than the other LA inhabitants just down the street. Furthermore, on the street a little ways down from the restaurant was a homeless individual sleeping in a blanket under a freeway overpass...and the juxtaposition was jarring, and telling. That such wealth, mono-ethnicity, and superficiality coexisted in such close proximity to another mono-ethnicity that was poorer and by empirical observation considerably more reproductive, I think this was a microcosm of modern America. The have and have nots, and the freeway overpass that separated them was the Rubicon. And it's pretty obvious who is who. The clueless and disconnected upper class is oblivious to the brewing shit-storm just down the street and what that may mean to their little, self absorbed world. It's like nobody has read a history book or is familiar with the French Revolution. "Let them eat cake!!!" Or, in this case, roasted plantains.

Anyways, LA is a strange place in that its striated class system and otherworldly body image obsession really let's you know YOU ARE NOT FROM THERE. Which is probably just as well...because I like my Mexican food and my women with a bit of a shape...and generally prefer my Chucks to a pair of Guccis.

-I am in love with two, and tonight I had a threesome. With my Dyson and my Swiffer Wet Jet that is. These things are AWESOME. Tonight I cleaned my house top to bottom, and the pleasure I get from using the Dyson and watching all the crap that thing sucks up is indescribable (to my friends in the UK, if you ever run into Mr. Dyson, tell him THANK YOU for bringing such pleasure into my life). I really thought nothing could touch the Dyson. But tonight, I tried the Swiffer Wet Jet for the first time...and wow. Takes half the time to mop, and my tile floors are sooooo clean. I walked around barefoot on them just for the VISCERAL THRILL of my bare feet walking across such freshly scrubbed cleanliness. I think I started to tingle....just a little. Perhaps it's a sad indictment that I get such immense pleasure from a freshly cleaned home (scrubbed my shower too and now it has the sweet perfume of Tilex in it...heaven), but I really have no plans for the next few days other than just EXISTING in my clean house and reveling in its...cleanliness. As you can see, my needs are simple. My only fear is that the Dyson and Swiffer start getting jealous of the attention I pay the other...and a love triangle develops. Nobody needs that kind of cleaning product drama.

-it's amazing what inspires you when you scour your refrigerator for things. Tonight I made a BLT with cream cheese, wax peppers, avocado, fresh basil, and a drizzle of balsamic. Oh my god...can you still call that a BLT? Or should you call it the BEST BLT EVER? I'm fully convinced avocado and wax peppers can improve any dish...hell, it would probably even fly as a topping for a sundae.

-whats with the new, slick, nylon running shoelaces? What are we trying to achieve here? "Look! They don't accidentally get tied in knots!" Exactly. Know what else they don't do? Stay fucking tied. Went for a run tonight and stopped three times to retie my shoes...which is a buzz kill when you're running. Hey, here's an idea. Why don't we just Teflon coat the frigging things and just never bother tying them at all....that way we can run around and have our shoes go flying off after the first three strides, but say how great it was that we didn't have to worry about our laces getting accidentally knotted. Sure, we got hepatitis from running barefoot through a gutter and stepping on some broken glass and an old bloody band aid, but hey, whats a degenerative liver disease compared to knot free laces? A small fucking price to pay I'd say! Right? Wrong. Attention running shoe manufacturers of the world: if I was so desperate about the shoelace knot situation, I'd pray for something that had the magical, voodoo, space age wizardry, only exists in the dreams of small children, fucking Gandolf and Dumbledore dreamed up after a night of heavy drinking together, mind bending capacity to keep a shoe on without laces altogether...oh wait, we already have it. It's called FUCKING VELCRO. Just leave my laces alone, ok? Cotton or a poly cotton blend is fine. Let's not reinvent the wheel amigo.

OK, that was it. Social revolutions, shoelaces, cleaning product threesomes, skinny Amazons, and BLT's. I think that about covered it.

Sunday, January 24, 2010

Need to get this off of my chest...

OK, I'll say it...The Hangover wasn't as funny as everybody claims it to be. It was mildly amusing at best, and tried too hard to be "quirky". You want "quirky" funny, check out The Big Lebowski, Raising Arizona and Dr. Strangelove. Anyways, I don't understand all the kudos it's garnering...which I suppose is an indictment of the current state of cinematic comedy. Amazing what a marketing campaign can achieve. In fact, I'd say these days it's becoming more and more apparent that it's all about marketing and much less so about actual content. Sad, sad, sad...

Other movies that are actually funny (by no means all inclusive and of course there's more):
-Animal House
-There's Something About Mary
-Old School
-Sixteen Candles
-The Pink Panther/A Shot in the Dark/The Return of the Pink Panther/The Pink Panther Strikes Again (love Peter Sellers and Herbert Lom)
-Ghostbusters (the first one)
-Blazing Saddles
-Young Frankenstein
-and of course, lots more...

Truth of the matter is a good comedy is far rarer than a good action, drama, romance, or thriller...and should be appreciated when you're lucky enough to experience one.

Friday, January 22, 2010

Random things bouncing around my head...

Some various, and ultimately, pointless, things have been occupying my mind lately for reasons that probably aren't completely healthy. Fact is, I'd be better off devoting my cranial wattage towards things like a cure for cancer, an even higher definition television, or perhaps new and improved scrubbing bubbles for getting that toilet surgical ward sterile. But no, I devoted my thoughts to the following:

-what the fuck is with the little clock timer on the Ticketmaster ticket purchasing site? Life is stressful and anxiety laden enough, ok? Do I need a fucking clock telling me I have EXACTLY two minutes and thirty three seconds left to complete my purchase before my tickets, MY FUCKING TICKETS!, are released to the next (scumbag) purchaser? Are you kidding me? Why don't you just have some 300 pound goombah come over to my place, put a gun to my head, and have me crack some encrypted code at the same time as well? Of course, since I hadn't been on Ticketmaster in forever, I had to change my credit card info. This required multiple screens and security questions from the Visa corp....and the entire time the clock is ticking, ticking, ticking. One minute...fifty five seconds...gotta hurry...SHIT!!!!!! I spelled my name wrong and I have to re-do the entire billing info!!!!!! Fuck fuck fuck!!!!!! Thirty seven seconds...twenty nine seconds....SOME OTHER ASSHOLE CANNOT HAVE MY EDDIE IZZARD TICKETS!!!!!! GAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!! OK, done......wha.....? Type in the word in the box to complete the purchase?????? I can't fucking read it!!!!!!! Is that a lower case "g" or "q"???? I'll go with "g".....shiiiiiiit!!!!!!! It was a fucking "Q"!!!!!!! Got to retype some OTHER unintelligible word now! Fifteen seconds....eleven seconds....nine seconds....am I sure I wish to complete this purchase? Are you kidding me? And let some other fucktard have my ticket???? You're goddamn right I want to complete my purchase!!!!!! Three seconds....Thank you for your purchase! Sigh...I was spent....exhausted....I needed a drink and a Xanax...all for a ticket to a comedy concert. It seemed overkill. I don't think government code crackers work under that kind of stress....as you can tell, I was scarred by the experience (but I get to see Eddie Izzard in LA! Woot!).

-So I have these various mouthwashes (pre-brush rinse, post brush fluoride, etc) that I try and use on a daily basis, hygienic good boy that I am. Know what they all have in common? A child proof twist off cap that the Incredible Hulk after a pot of black coffee, three rails of crank, and a B12 shot couldn't open on a dare. If you cut off a Kurgen's head, and absorbed his soul energy (There can only be one Highlander!!!!!) you may have a shot of getting these things off. A blow torch, a tactical nuke, and a motivated safe cracker may have a shot at it....I dunno. The point I'm trying to get across here is that the caps are less than easy to remove. So, what are they saying here? The very shit were selling you to swish around IN YOUR MOUTH is so fucking DEADLY, we had to make sure nobody, NOBODY, but a highly motivated adult with the grip strength of an enraged orangutan, could possibly open the cap and get to the highly toxic liquid death inside. I mean, if you need that kind of security to prevent ACCIDENTAL INGESTION of a MOUTH WASH, perhaps we should change the formula? You know...just a wee bit? Or maybe just relabel it 'radiator coolant' or 'transmission fluid' or just plain old 'rat poison'? Just a suggestion...but it does give me pause. But boy, does it make your mouth TINGLE!!!!

-I have determined a cotton swab is worse than heroin, crack, alcohol, and Peanut Butter Cups combined for its addictive qualities. If you ever take a shower and feel the desire to dry out your ears with a Q-tip, just DON'T DO IT. Once you start, there's no going back. Once your on the Q-tip fix, just try, TRY, to take a shower and NOT use one to dry your ears after. You can't. And if you do, it will be HELL. The other day I ran out of swabs, and I didn't realize this until after my shower. I was standing there, naked, and in a near panic. I then thought "Dude, it's just a Q-tip, calm down...and go about your business." So I did. It was awful. All day long it felt like my ear was the Okeechobee Swamp....and I was jonesing for a Q-tip...BAD. I rolled up a Kleenex and tried to get my fix...no good. I think this must be what the DT's feel like. PURE-TORTURE. Anyway, through a Herculean effort of pure willpower, I got through the day by picking at the imaginary spiders crawling all over my skin. Funny thing though...if you go for a swim, no need for Q-tips. It doesn't activate THE NEED. THE HUNGER. But the shower? Another thing all together. "Hi, my name is John, and I'm a cotton swabber.......and today is the first day of the rest of my life" "Welcome John!" What do you think? Surely there must be a 12 step group somewhere for this...

-I experienced true, unadulterated lust for the first time in a long time today. LUST I tell you....CAR LUST. Re-connected with a long time friend of mine who hooked me up with a test drive of the new Acura TL (plus the Snow Leopard OS and MS Office....score!). OH...WOW. It is such a MANLY CAR. Not a chick car....AT ALL. Some people don't like the looks, but to me it's hot hot hot (plus it looks a hundred times better in person). Also, it's an electronic geeks wet dream. I cannot even begin to tell you all the do-dads it has. And the ride? Smooooooth. Anyways, as shallow as all this sounds, I want this car...and I will have it. Personal life a shambles? Maybe....but I know how to buy expensive shit. THAT I can do better than most....

-Finally dumped all my CD's onto my computer and listening on shuffle...its kind of like having your own radio station. Why did it take me so long to do this? (Style Council at the moment...Have You Ever Had It Blue?) However, I do need a much larger capacity iPod now to get these tunes portable....its always something ($). Also watching Casino Royale (Eva Green....YOWZA!) and writing this blog. Who said men cannot multi-task? Ffffft......

-Speaking of Apple (I know..but I needed a transition for my next rant), my ownership of a Mac Book continues to be more frustrating than an eighty year old in the fast lane. My wireless router took a dump and I had to buy a new one. Simple fix, right? Just hook it up and configure it, right? WRONG. The crux of the issue was this: the software that came with the router has this step by step process that requires you to hit "next" at the bottom of the screen like, fifty three times. You cannot accomplish this by simply hitting "enter/return". Guess what? For reasons I'm sure only Steve Fucking Jobs understands, my MacBook screen wouldn't show the bottom of the page with the buttons I need to install the GODDAMN SOFTWARE. I got rid of the dock, fucked with the screen size....NOPE! NO GO MY MAN!!! After a half an hour of profanity, you want to know what did it take to set up the router (you may or may not be asking yourselves)? I had to fire up my rickety assed, eight year old desk top PC with a CD drive that barely functions in order to run the software. And guess what? It magically showed the whole screen and I configured the router lickity split. Wow. Good thing I have this fancy schmancy Mac, isn't it? But my frustrations do not end there. Oh, no no no. I have a new all in one printer, scanner, fax. Guess how it works with my Mac I just found out? It prints (yea)...and thats it. For reasons (Mr. Jobs?) I cannot fathom, they decided to not make the drivers for the scanner and fax compatible, and refuse to write them to this day. What the fuck????? Huh?????? WHY??????? I downloaded third party programs that were supposed to fix this issue, and.....nope. Great. Now I have all that shit cluttering up my computer as well. After two hours of sweat, colorful language, and tears of rage, I went back to the Apple and HP sites just to discover that my model was one of the FEW they arbitrarily decided not to fully configure. Why? Who the fuck knows. But there you go. Thank you Apple Corp (to be fair, Snow Leopard is supposed to help this situation...we shall see). Anyways, my Mac experience continues to be less than advertised. Thank god for that magnetic power plug connection...the one feature I'm down with.

-OK, that will do for now. Went to gym and need to shower. As you can see my Friday night is shaping up to be LEGEND...perhaps I'll hit Facebook next. Whoa...somebody stop me!!!!! :)

Wednesday, January 13, 2010


You ever see something that appears to be quite real, but your mind just says "No way". Normally I have this reaction when my daughters do a household chore without being told to do so, and I'll stop and stare as they're taking out the garbage...savoring the moment because, God knows, it may never happen again. But what I saw today whilst accessing the freeway was something else altogether.

As I accessed the Shields Avenue on-ramp to northbound SR-41 today around 1:30 pm, I saw two gentlemen hitchhiking with their thumbs out. Full grown, adult men. This in and of itself is not terribly odd I suppose. But here's the kicker: they were dressed as Puritans. You know, those people in the black and white clothing with the buckles on their shoes and the wide brimmed hats that just scream "missionary position only please"? The people from all those Thanksgiving projects you did in elementary school as you glued macaroni to construction paper and ate paste (oh, come on, you at least tasted it on a dare)? Yeah...those people. As I drove buy I gave them a good look thinking "OK, clearly there is a hidden camera here somewhere, and all of this is going to end up on some lame assed reality show, or I am just really, really wasted because somebody slipped a roofie into my venti Starbucks." But they seemed quite earnest in their desire for a ride, I saw no evidence of a camera crew, my Starbucks seemed to be un-tainted, and they had some very non-Puritan looking luggage (when I think Puritan, I usually don't also think "Samsonite") with them that seemed to suggest it was all legit. Thoughts began to circle in my head: are they REALLY, REALLY LATE for a Thanksgiving costume party somewhere? Are they in a hurry and need a ride to oppress some American Indians, steal their land and give them smallpox? Did they just steal a turkey and they're making a break for it? (I saw no signs of any fowl in the area...but still...) Was there a rave in the neighborhood I wasn't invited to??? None of this quite rang true and I was perplexed as to what these two gents were doing on the side of the road. I was almost curious enough to offer them a ride just to hear their story, but then thought the odds of me winding up dead and buried in a shallow grave in an orchard (no doubt with a side of mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce and stuffing) were probably about 50/50, and I didn't like those odds. But still, what the fuck, right?

Actually, it was a little unsettling. You know how some people are creeped out by clowns? I think I have something similar in relation to Puritans. I don't know if its the oppressive religious connotations that surrounded their culture, their lust for roasted turkey, their limited clothing color scheme, or their penchant for burning people at the stake, but they kind of give me the heebie jeebies.

Anyway, it was one of those things you just really can't make up, and your brain just can't accept what you're seeing...and yet, there they were...hitchhiking Puritans.

Monday, January 11, 2010

Quick Thoughts

-If you've never gone to the grocery store late at night, you really should. Every freak and nutjob is there aimlessly wandering around eyeballing the egg cartons and frozen cookie dough. It's like a scene from a zombie movie, except the people with the blank stares opening up all the egg cartons (true story) are more disturbing than anything Hollywood can conjure up.

-I want a new car. I don't want to PAY for a new car. It is slowly becoming apparent nobody is just going to give me one for free. Therefore, I will have to part with some cash in order to acquire a new car. This is highly disappointing.

-Now that I'm back home for good, it has dawned on me I should try an establish something resembling a social life. This, however, sounds like a lot of work. Besides, giving somebody a shitty look from behind my sunglasses due to their incompetence behind the wheel while driving down the freeway counts as socializing, right? RIGHT?

-People really are as crazy/dysfunctional/stupid/narcissistic as you think they are. They will generally show you this the first time you meet them. Don't give them the chance to show you a second time (I am ashamed to admit I got that last sentence from....Oprah. Gag. I was channel surfing and she uncorked that little nugget...which I have to give her props for).

-Sometime, when I wasn't paying attention (I was probably slowly suffering in the hell of my former marriage at the time), women turned into men. The women I meet now (I'm talking socially) drink more, sleep around more, lie more, chase younger ass more, and cheat more than the men I know (and way more than me). I'm not sure what to make of this, other than it can't be good...and is kind of sad. Ah, equality. You've come a long way sister.

-I went for a jog tonight at about 1030 pm. Working nights, my biorhythms are quite a bit different, and this is not unusual for me to do, no matter how cold, late, etc. However, judging by the looks I received from a few folks from their second story windows, I think the rest of the neighborhood thinks I'm either wildly caffeinated, high on methamphetamine, or have gone off my meds.

-It's amazing what you'll do for love. Intense love. For instance, I intensely love the hummus and roasted garlic aoli at the House of Kebab (I pour the aoli over everything: the chicken, the pilaf, hell, even the tabouleh). However, this roasted garlic aoli will leave me in a state of discomfort for 24 hrs. after consumption (had it Friday night, and was suffering well into Saturday). It's a helluva price to pay. Don't care. It's that good. I'm sure there's a parallel to people here somewhere, exception being the House of Kebab never disappoints.

Good night.

Sunday, January 10, 2010

Educate Me You Kool Aid Slurpers

What in the hell is the colorful spinning pinwheel of death (oh a Mac never locks up, that's why they're soooooo awesome!!!) that causes my Mac to do something VERY SIMILAR to locking up but I know that cant possibly be whats actually happening because after drinking the Jobs flavored Kool Aid one becomes incapable of recognizing a computer that is...um...locking up? I'm guessing this little psychedelic ferris wheel is just another added AWESOME MAC FEATURE that I'm just too dense and technically deficient to use/appreciate/worship and that I'm not fully grasping the over all AWESOMENESS my interactive MAC EXPERIENCE is delivering to me. Look, a locked up computer with a pretty little sparkler is still a LOCKED UP COMPUTER. Just because you put the pig into a dress, doesn't make it...uh....well, not a pig. Anyways, I'm beginning to wonder if maybe the whole thing is just one GIGANTIC stroke of MARKETING GENIUS...and a lot of fluffy hot air. OK, make that I'm not wondering at all...I KNOW.

OK, I do like the magnetic power plug though...that, admittedly, is pretty cool....

Thursday, January 7, 2010

My take on that Meatloaf song...

So, just what is "IT" that he wouldn't do for love? Looked up the lyrics, and the meaning of the song seems to me to be this: he's a hopeless romantic who pledges his undying love and devotion, and promises to never leave or betray ("but I won't do that"), despite the fact he'd "do anything for love". She, realizing he's a hopeless romantic, believes the moment he perceives he loves another (and him being a hopeless romantic, it's inevitable that he will), realizes he will leave and/or betray, due to the bitter irony he WILL in fact "do anything for love". She skewers him with his own logic, a concept he cannot grasp. Then again, maybe that's too complicated. A wise man once said "the simplest answer is often the truest." So by that theorem, maybe it is about butt sex.

Monday, January 4, 2010

Life is like a broken sprinkler

Tried answering my mobile phone today. Here's an interesting thing about my mobile phone: it takes going through about 26 prompts in order to answer a call, but you can dump a call with just one (usually accidental) push of the button. Isn't that great? If I'm on the phone, and I received another call I'd like to answer, it goes something like this: answer call? Switch to answered call? Talk to person whose call you switched to and/or answered? Are you sure? No, I mean REALLY sure? Like, you know, sure-sure? OK, here they are....ha! Not really, I'm not convinced you really want to have this conversation. You do? Honestly? OK...but I think you're making a mistake...plus, I think you borrowed his leaf blower last fall and never returned it. But go ahead if you like, but you'll be sorry. Plus the guy's kind of a dick. Oh, you'd like too anyways? Still? OK. Answer call? Switch to answered call?

You get the idea. But if you want (or not) to dump a call...one push of the button is all it takes and it's "SAYONARA MOTHER FUCKER! I'll talk to you in Hell!!!!!" Usually, this happens by accident, and as I'm attempting to re-dial the person whose call I just nuked, they're trying to call me back, and I have to go through the 26 prompt torture session to again try and retrieve the call. They then again get dumped and this Danse Macabre continues ad infinitum. This made me ponder just how smart these so called "smart" phones are going to get, since they seem to be able to determine just when somebody is actually worth talking to. Maybe you won't even be using them and they'll start up unexpectedly as they sit in your pocket and start talking to you. For instance you'll be at the store looking at a shirt and your phone will suddenly say "Dude, please tell me you're not considering buying that shirt...I mean, what are you going to match it with? Parachute pants?" Or you'll be at a bar, drunk out of your mind, chatting up somebody and your phone will start up with "Really? Has your life gotten so bad that a sweaty encounter with this troll seems like a good idea? Hey, while your at it, since you seem so Hell bent on demeaning yourself, why don't you go ahead and take a dump in the potted palm in the corner while singing 'Dont Cry for Me Argentina' at the top of your lungs, then walk away with your pants around your ankles and state to the bartender "Keep the change". As you can see, the phones of tomorrow will be smart, as well as sarcastic AND passive-aggressive.

Was watching TV and saw what was the two most perfect, and true to life scenes I have seen in some time. One was this guys little soliloquy about how his friend is always running late because "When you're constantly late, you never have to think. All you can keep in your mind is the aggravation of the traffic and traffic lights that you feel is making you even later for your destination. It keeps your mind occupied. When you're early and relaxed, your mind wanders, and you're forced to look in your rear view mirror and wonder who you really are..." Fuckin A. Not bad. I saw a lot of truth in that. The other scene was this 40 something guy who has this intense and philosophical encounter with his teenage daughter's ex-boyfriend. He feels like he has given this heart broke lad some important life tips, and maybe, just maybe, connected with him in a way that is going to serve the "not yet quite a man" well as he continues with his life. He then walks away and stands in his yard, pondering and savoring the experience...and has a look of a man who may, in fact, be reflecting back on his own bitter sweet youth. Then a sprinkler explodes and a geyser of water erupts into the sky. Reality sets in, and the bullshit necessities of life quickly snuff out his "win". I thought to myself "Holy shit...that was....perfect." Anyways, that was the truest slice of life I have seen on TV in quite some time. Who knows? Maybe next time the show will show somebody taking a dump in a potted palm...and I know I will have found a new show for me.

Sunday, January 3, 2010

Not nearly as clever as I think I is...

So, after a somewhat trying day, I had this little nugget of realization spring into my head: "There is no reward for doing the right thing...doing the right thing IS the reward unto itself" (yes, thoughts worded like this actually do pop into my head ALL THE TIME). This, admittedly, is sometimes less than instantly gratifying, but there you go. Thinking I was now some sort of philosophical giant whose brilliance the world had yet to recognize, I wondered if this idea had been proffered before. Yep. "Virtue is its own reward. There's a pleasure in doing good which sufficiently pays itself." Sir John Vanvbrugh circa 1700. Dammit! Total buzz kill. The bastard...

Also, on an unrelated note, can you explain this to me? I spent THREE HOURS cleaning my house yesterday, and the minute (no joke. Almost instantaneously as I turned off the vacuum, the door bell rang) I finished, my mom and sister showed up with yet another in an endless series of artsy/fartsy/craftsy things to do to decorate my daughters bedroom. In no time at all it was a mountain of packing material from Pottery Barn Teen, saw dust from having to Dremmel Tool out an ill fitting wood piece on an object, and various pens and tools scattered throughout upstairs. Time I got to enjoy a clean and tidy home? 23.9 nanoseconds. Now, the thing is, my family knows that one of the few ways I can truly relax is by having a quiet, calm, CLEAN AND TIDY home. It allows me to unwind without the hum of things that need to be done buzzing within my head. So, I am at a loss as to why they would do this? They had to wait until I cleaned my home? The stuff had been sitting around for days, and they waited until NOW???? If they had chained me to the floor, pried open my eyelids, filled my eye sockets with gasoline and lit them ablaze like I was some sort of hellish Tiki torch, it would have caused me less distress. And the amazing thing is, as well as they know me, they totally DID NOT GET IT. Beginning to wonder if I'm being Gaslighted, or if perhaps when I speak to my family (all women by the way), all they hear is a series of grunts like I am some sort of ill tempered simian.


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