Skipping past Writober and Nanoblomo . . ? Shit, I dunno. I'm as bored as you are.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
When Corporate “Specials” Do Not Rely on Your Dishonesty. At All.
This past weekend, we had no obligations whatsoever. No shows or band practices. No recording. No plans with friends. No parties or dinners. Nothing.
This happens about two times a year.
I can’t say we really took full advantage of our “free” time, but we did get SOME things done around the house. And visited with family. Spent time with Mia. Saturday felt like such a long day that, going to bed that night, I couldn’t believe we still had Sunday. It, seriously felt like a three-day weekend. Love me.
In other news:
- Went to the dentist yesterday. It looks like I may have a cracked tooth. They’re supposed to look at the x-rays to see if I need a crown or just a big filling and then call me with the verdict. Or they might not call me at all and just let me ride my cracked tooth out for another six months. (But if I’m gonna fix the motherfucker, I want it to be THIS year because I’ve already ponied up my annual deductible.)
- You know what’s messier and more cluttered than our house? My car. Thankfully, we’re preparing for a garage sale this weekend with friends, so we’re getting rid of some clutter. From our house (because no-one wants daily progress reports from Mia’s school or Mia’s “art projects” . . . well, besides us). Maybe I can park my car nearby and haggle it away. “No, Gramps. You can’t have my 2003 Mitsubishi Lancer for 25 cents. Sorry. I won’t go lower than a buck.”
- Do any of you REALLY spend money making altruistic/political statements. Buying a red iPod or Coach bag during that RED campaign? Only shopping at Democrat-supporting companies during the Blue Christmas? Like, when that whole Dixie Chicks thing was happening, I thought about buying their CD even though I hate country music. Well, I’m finally putting my thoughts into action. Even after Erin’s mini-rant about Gwen Steponme, I feel compelled to tell you that I bought the new Kelly Clarkson CD. Now, I realize that doesn’t sound like it qualifies on the SURFACE, but it does in the scope of artistic integrity and creativity. [edited to remove a bunch of blather] I know I’m not presenting my argument in a compelling way, especially considering the argument AGAINST me that is Avril Lavigne. Perhaps I’ll report back once I’ve listened to the CD.
- On a semi-related, conspiratorial theme (wherein the Government [through their Corporate Rulers] is controlling our thoughts and ideas [to which I’m growing more sympathetic . . . the idea and not the Government]), there’s the whole fluoride-in-the-water fear. Remember that? When we were growing up? (“We” means anyone between, say, 28 and 42.) Well, I think the argument FOR fluoridating the water is so you don’t hear your dentist say you have six cavities because the town in which you live does not put fluoride in their water and you should really do a separate fluoride treatment, every day, on your own. So, if you’re drinking only bottled water and brushing your teeth with baby tears, you should do a daily fluoride rinse. FYI.
- Yesterday, when I purchased that Kelly Clarkson CD, Best Buy was running a buy-two-get-one-free special. Apparently. At the checkout, I handed over my three CDs. During the “Do you have one of our membership/discount cards?” interrogation, I started blocking stuff out. Which is probably why I didn’t immediately realize my total (for three CDs) was just over $21. Granted two of them were $9.99. Which kind-of sucks, because the two discounted CDs I PAID for were on major labels. I’m sorry, Metric and Last Gang Records.
Music • The Media • Weekends • (2) Comments closed • Permalink
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Jack Bauer Says We Can Have Our Lives Back
I’m trying to remember when, exactly, Michelle and I started watching 24. Compulsively. Doing little else . . . often spending an entire evening in front of the television. We completed the first five seasons in a matter of months (that’s 120 episodes, folks). I’ve already vowed that I won’t (CAN’T) watch the next season live, even if we somehow get to see Season Six before Season Seven starts. It will be simply IMPOSSIBLE to watch one episode a week. The urge to exit to the menu and queue up the NEXT episode will be too strong . . . and futile. See, Entertainment Weekly . . . serialized dramas are the reason Americans are buying Network programming on DVD, rather than watching it live. (So, ironically, the Networks are shooting themselves in the feet by making compelling television.)
Oh, well. This should help me move more freely through my mom’s Netflix queue. And watch that borrowed copy of V for Vendetta. Thanks to our DVR and HBO, even during the summer hiatus, we’ll NEVER run out of
distractions movies to watch (currently saved: The Break Up, Match Point, and Dragonslayer).
Friday, June 15, 2007
Maybe There Can be an Orchestra of Acoustic Guitar-Wielding Old Men
I know you’re not coming here for positive reinforcement, or positivity in general. Or anything on par with “optimism.” So I’m just gonna come right out and say it.
I fucking HATE The Eagles.
Like, I don’t actively care about who’s better between the Beatles and the Stones, although I recognize their intrinsic value to pop/musical culture. And, seriously, I put Elvis on about the same level as Avril Lavigne. Sure, the “artists” I rail about incessantly (e.g., Blues Traveler, Jimmy Buffett) are as bad or worse, but The Eagles are OMNIPRESENT. If I have to listen to the radio, they’re bound to pop up anywhere.* The “classic rock” station. The “adult contemporary” station. And it’s always the LIVE version of “Hotel California,” too. Oooooh, so all 14 of you old fuckers sat around with acoustic guitars in front of an audience and that makes it UPDATED?
The tipping point was when I was just at CVS picking up Father’s Day cards. And there was a muzak version of “Hotel California.” Which was an improvement.
* I’m now defaulting to our college station . . . even when Mia’s in the car. Because there’s not a station on the dial that hasn’t been INFECTED with country music. It’s insidious.
Misanthropy • Music • (6) Comments closed • Permalink
Thursday, June 14, 2007
“I’m Gonna Need You to Back Off.”
I’m generally not a supporter of big businesses like Comcast, the cable/media giant who has a near-monopoly on our city’s televised entertainment. I don’t know a lot about Comcast, other than the fact that, when built-in DVR technology became available in our area, I disassembled our entire entertainment center and drove right the fuck down to the not-at-all-close-or-convenient Comcast office to trade in my box for one with the DVR included. The dual-tuner DVR. The only other thing I really know is this guy from my old neighborhood grew up to be a Comcast technician; he was arrested a couple years ago for exposing himself to an adolescent girl. While working.
Somewhat surprisingly, given my apparent lust for distraction, I don’t spend a lot of time on You Tube. But where You Tube and Comcast come together, we have the Slowskys*—stars of the best commercials on T.V.
* I’ve linked the “outtakes,” which is made up of footage from the commercials with additional voice-overs from the, um . . . turtles. The individual 30-second spots should be there on the right-hand side. Lazy ass.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Wrath of the 80s, Indeed
I’ve long said that the two most valuable things I learned during my college years were my social security number and how much I could drink. Of course, how much I could drink at 22 and how much I can drink now are very different things. That, and being this far along in my drinking career means I stopped “keeping score” long ago. (Which is slightly different that keeping TRACK. I’m sure you understand.)
But I really pushed the limits this weekend during the Wrath of the 80s party (a benefit). The Girls were supposed to play a couple sets (but only played one . . . a COMPLETELY different story). It was billed as an 80s prom, and I was on the fence as to whether I should dress up. So I half-assed it. Just like high school.*
Anyway, limits. In recent years, I’ve mostly stopped drinking liquor (yes, even my beloved kamikazes) in favor of beer. Easier to handle, easier to track. I’m safe across the board at four beers, but five seems to be the grey area. This weekend, I sort of lost count of how many I had exactly. Factor in a shot of Jager somewhere in the middle and add an ill-advised cider at the end, and you have me. Going over a fucking cliff. Here’s right about the time I (along with 75% if those present) was singing along to Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’.”
Needless to say, I was wrecked the next day (er, yesterday). I really considered going the “Purge All” route navigated (with great success) during the beach trip at 3:30 a.m. after the combo of Erin’s ziti and grape vodka. But I decided to ride this one out because, as I told Michelle, I’d seen my father drunk and/or vomit-y many times growing up, and it didn’t improve my overall impression of him.
For my family’s sake, I’ll try to stay on the RIGHT side of the limit. Until the next time.
* Enter The Sadness. Because when you’ve got women 20-plus years removed from high school sluttin’ it up in short-short skirts working overtime to cover their sun-leathered hides, and they’re hootchie-slammin’ their hips to music from “back in the day” . . . it’s just a sad sight to behold. Sad, sad indeed. I was really depressed. Thus, the heavy drinking.
Thursday, June 07, 2007
Our Road is a Deathtrap. I’m Guessing He Couldn’t Have Come from Far Away.
Just as with those letters I used to read in my dad’s Penthouse Forum, I’ve heard of this happening to other people and I never thought it would happen to me.
I found a cat in the engine of my car.
Yesterday morning, as I sauntered out of bed and into the living room, I heard a panicked meowing from outside. Sounded like a kitten. I fingered the blinds open and looked around the “patio” at the end of our house. No cats. Eh, whatever. I flipped on the Weather Channel and started reading a report for work. Every few minutes, I’d hear the cat again, so I got up and went outside. I walked around our carport, the end of the house, and into the neighbor’s yard. I even looked under my car. No cats. (Did find the neighbor’s fucking YIP-dog, though. Man, I hate that dog.)
I drove to work. And worked. Wednesday is “Mom” day, so I left work at lunch and got on the interstate to drive to the Subway near my mom’s place to get our lunch. As soon as I got out of the car, I heard the screaming meow. Of a kitten who had climbed up into my engine compartment. After opening the hood of the car, I couldn’t even SEE the kitten. Nor could I see it from under the car. It was only after knocking on the side panels and calling for him to come out (in my sweetest, playful, kitten-beckoning voice) that he finally dropped down and started winding around my feet.
After a stop at my mom’s (where the kitten even warmed the heart of my pet-intolerant mother), I took the kitten back to the house. I cleaned out our cat carrier, made a litterbox out of a shoebox, and prepped the kitten to go with Michelle to work. Where he was “adopted.”
We’re still not sure where the kitten lived before we “rescued” him. He had a flea collar, and I’m guessing he climbed into my car overnight (in our carport). So . . . neighbors? We checked with the friendly black couple next door, who have no cats. On the other side is a couple with a new-ish baby. Would they have a kitten, too? Michelle went over at lunch yesterday, but no-one answered the door. After work, the husband was outside and I was feeling particularly blah about meeting my neighbors so, fuck it. I’m rolling the dice that, if you lose a kitten you really care about, you’ll be going door to door and/or putting up flyers. We would. Rationalizing, I know.
I blame the Republicans.
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
I’m on a Mission. And I Can’t Tell You About it.
I’m a firm believer in eating a good breakfast. Or just a breakfast. Whatever. Apparently, this doesn’t include the SlimFast “shakes” I’ve been chilling in my fridge because, invariably, the morning I tell myself, Y’know, self, you’ve been eating like shit the past couple days and probably will again today, and take plan to have a “shake” for breakfast instead (to replace the already-modest breakfast I usually have, taking it to work with me to more adequately bridge the gap between waking up and inhaling whatever prepackaged, frozen dinner I happened to bring to work with me) . . . that’s the morning I leave the “shake” in the fridge. At home.* And have no backup breakfast. So I can either starve myself until lunch (not usually an option), swing by Starbucks and pick up my customary 10,000-calorie venti mocha, or make arrangements to stockpile backup breakfasts at work (instead of eating a packet of oatmeal scavenged from the office kitchenette, which was best-by dated sometime in 2004). So, worry not, The Internet. Because, now, to go along with the 17 packets of Taco Bell mild sauce, bag of spearmint Starlight mints, and wintergreen Altoids in my desk drawer, I have a couple packets of oatmeal manufactured after we made Mia, an “oatmeal-to-go” bar, and a SlimFast breakfast bar.
I’m ready to go, World. Er, The Internet.
* Don’t say it. Or type it. You can’t stockpile JACK in the office fridge. We’re not a sharing bunch. That, and/or the fact that when I finally remembered that they were there, I’d be a fucking LIFER drinking Optima-infused low-fat milk from 14 years earlier.