I have spent the vast majority of the previous seven years careening all over the country. I have lived on the East coast and the West coast. I have enjoyed the wide open spaces of rural Montana, the frantic hustle and bustle of New York City, and about every kind of town in between. Every place unique. Every place an adventure. Every place dead wrong about what life is like in the South.
I was born in North Carolina, but have lived in Mississippi as long as I can remember. There are definite benefits to growing up in the deep South, but it does come with some downsides. Everyone seems to have pre-conceived notions of what goes on down here. Some based on historical events. Some based on stereotypes. Some just based on Jerry Springer.
I would like to take this moment to dispel some wrongs and propel the rights.
1. Everyone in the South is a racist. Possible source: Slavery, Civil War, "Mississippi Burning"
Yikes! Don't start with that one. This one probably burns my ass the most. It is not like the rest of America is just one big happy world of inter racial neighborhoods and life being lived like a Coke commercial. I am not even going to try to convince you that there are not a large amount of racist peoples living below the Mason Dixon line. I am just going to point out that there are a lot of racists ALL over the place. The difference down here is there is no vast choice of different colors and cultures to project your troubles on. Down here they can't make broad generalizations about Asians being bad drivers. They would just say, "Asians drive cars? I thought they all rode around in rickshaws."
I have a very memorable exchange with a young Indian girl (dots not feathers) while working in California. She said she would not want to come to the South, because everyone would look at her funny because she was Indian. I told her no one would look at her funny for being Indian. They would look at her funny for being Mexican. In the South, they don't know about Indians.
2. Everyone in the South is poor. Possible source: CNN coverage of Hurricane Katrina, Dukes of Hazard reruns.
Everyone is such a big word. Just because Census reports and other government studies show the Southern states with an exponentially higher number of families below the poverty line, that does not mean everyone is below the poverty line. Some people live very fulfilling lives just above that line. Seriously, the breakdown of economic classes in the South is pretty much the same as every place else. It is a LOT cheaper to live down here. I lived in San Francisco for several years. I have a one bedroom apartment in downtown Memphis, TN, in a nice building with 24 hour security and everything for $700 a month. My apartment in San Francisco was $5400 a month. So, in the South, a career making $40,000 a year is quite capable maintaining a solid middle class lifestyle for a whole family. A single guy making at least $40,000 can live like a friggin Southern Fried Pimp.
3. Everyone in the South is stupid. Possible source: Biased standardized testing, President George W. Bush (twice)
Sure it's a matter of state pride if you can make fun of your neighboring state for being ranked 50th in literacy, but not if your state is ranked 49th, and worse yet, it is really bad if you can't email that bit of humorous information to your friends since over half of them can't read.
It is a slow arduous process to change generations of thinking. If your parents, grandparents, or great grandparents never went past highschool it is unlikely they are going to offer a lot of
resistance if you decide to forgo college and take that lucrative assistant manger job at the Tasty Shake. But, it is improving. It would improve quicker, but the more people that learn to read, the more that discover road maps and drive out of the South. At least that is what happened with me.
4. People in the South have sex with their cousins. Possible source: Jerry Lee Lewis, Jerry Springer Show.
There is an important wisdom passed down from father to son in the South. "Never marry a virgin." The rationale is simple: If she is not good enough for her own family, she is not good enough for ours.
I jest, but a few of you were probably wondering if that was real. There are two ways of looking at this issue.
One is to accept it as true and argue that since no one in the South moves more than two miles from the spot they were born it is not unlikely to have ten generations of one family all living in the same small town. Add in the previously mentioned: racism (they can not marry a black person), low income (they can not afford a mail order bride from Russia), and finally stupidity (they probably can not keep track of who is related to who), and it does not seem far fetched to say Southerners are sleeping with their cousins.
The second view is that maybe Jerry Lee Lewis just had a really hot 13 year old cousin, and was an isolated incident, and all those people on Springer, with their strong southern accents, apparent lack of proper dental care, and frequent reference to living in trailer parks, may just be pulling your leg about sleeping with their cousin, who is married to their dad, while their sister took pictures. If you can think of a crazy enough story you get a free trip to Chicago to be on T.V. But, they probably do actually live in a trailer park and those bad teeth are real. Some things you think about the South are real.
Monday, September 25, 2006
Saturday, September 23, 2006
Wonder Twin Powers Activate!
Killer, glad to not have a twin.
Two work companions were looking at baby pictures recently and one said, "They are so cute, but twins are always cute." I don't know if this is true, but the opposite would be disastrous.
It is bad enough if you have to go through life ugly, but it would be unbearable if you were ugly and had a twin. No denial is possible. You can't always look at yourself in the mirror only from the right to see your best side. You are stuck looking at a walking, talking version of you. You know without a doubt that your ass is flat, you look like a cow when you chew, and when you look down, you have not only two chins, but sometimes three or four. You thought the best way to spice up your mullet was to get the back permed, but now that you can see it from behind, not so good.
Really ugly twins are also detrimental to the rest of the world. Say I am strolling down a busy urban street, surrounded by people scurrying to and fro, when I glance to the left and see, an extremely ugly person walking towards me. I immediately take evasive action and look right to avoid seeing that, and Wham! There it is again! Now, having seen it twice in such quick succession it is burned into the back of my retinas, like staring too long at a solar eclipse. Now I am clawing at my eyes frantically trying to dispel the image and I stumble into the path of the crosstown express bus.
Maybe the rarity of really ugly twins is the result of decades of medical intervention at birth. When twins are born the medical team quickly assesses the situation and if a high potential for aesthetic disaster is noted they are separated at birth. One may stay with the family, but the other might get sent to a special orphanage to begin preparations for a job operating the ferris wheel for a traveling carnival. That is just a theory and is not, as of yet, proven. The next time you are at a carnival check out that guy running the ferris wheel. See what you think.
Two work companions were looking at baby pictures recently and one said, "They are so cute, but twins are always cute." I don't know if this is true, but the opposite would be disastrous.
It is bad enough if you have to go through life ugly, but it would be unbearable if you were ugly and had a twin. No denial is possible. You can't always look at yourself in the mirror only from the right to see your best side. You are stuck looking at a walking, talking version of you. You know without a doubt that your ass is flat, you look like a cow when you chew, and when you look down, you have not only two chins, but sometimes three or four. You thought the best way to spice up your mullet was to get the back permed, but now that you can see it from behind, not so good.
Really ugly twins are also detrimental to the rest of the world. Say I am strolling down a busy urban street, surrounded by people scurrying to and fro, when I glance to the left and see, an extremely ugly person walking towards me. I immediately take evasive action and look right to avoid seeing that, and Wham! There it is again! Now, having seen it twice in such quick succession it is burned into the back of my retinas, like staring too long at a solar eclipse. Now I am clawing at my eyes frantically trying to dispel the image and I stumble into the path of the crosstown express bus.
Maybe the rarity of really ugly twins is the result of decades of medical intervention at birth. When twins are born the medical team quickly assesses the situation and if a high potential for aesthetic disaster is noted they are separated at birth. One may stay with the family, but the other might get sent to a special orphanage to begin preparations for a job operating the ferris wheel for a traveling carnival. That is just a theory and is not, as of yet, proven. The next time you are at a carnival check out that guy running the ferris wheel. See what you think.
Credits When Credits Are Due
Liz, Ebert, and Roper critique:
SCENE: A perfect autumn day where long shadows from tall trees are cast onto the pavement. A perfect blue sky. Around 3:30 in the afternoon.
I dreamt that I was in the old 'hood, walking down the street where I lived as a kid. I was the person I am now but the neighborhood was imaculant and beautiful- very well kept and, from all visual accounts, THE neighborhood to live in. I was joined in this stroll by someone who was familiar to me, but I could not place who she was. We were talking about who used to live where, who lives there now, and about the neighborhood in general. I was at peace and had that happy warm-fuzzy that comes from nostalgia being good. She lived in the neighborhood now but had apparently also lived there when I was a kid. From the dream I got a sense that we had been friends or at least schoolmates when we were younger; some level of acquaintance.
I asked her what her name was in a very nice way. I was comfortable with her. She was a good conversationalist. She was interesting and knowledgeable. I said something like, "You'll have to forgive me for not remembering this, but what is your name again?" And she looked at me- almost bored with the question- and said, "I'm going by an alias now and that it Mimi (something or other)." I said, "An ALIAS? Why? What's happened in your life where you need an alias?" She was very nonchalant like EVERYONE had an alias and I was like, so 1993 for not knowing this. I got over being insulted and asked again for her name; no longer interested in why she changed it, just trying to fit her into her proper place in my past.
SCENE: A perfect autumn day where long shadows from tall trees are cast onto the pavement. A perfect blue sky. Around 3:30 in the afternoon.
I dreamt that I was in the old 'hood, walking down the street where I lived as a kid. I was the person I am now but the neighborhood was imaculant and beautiful- very well kept and, from all visual accounts, THE neighborhood to live in. I was joined in this stroll by someone who was familiar to me, but I could not place who she was. We were talking about who used to live where, who lives there now, and about the neighborhood in general. I was at peace and had that happy warm-fuzzy that comes from nostalgia being good. She lived in the neighborhood now but had apparently also lived there when I was a kid. From the dream I got a sense that we had been friends or at least schoolmates when we were younger; some level of acquaintance.
I asked her what her name was in a very nice way. I was comfortable with her. She was a good conversationalist. She was interesting and knowledgeable. I said something like, "You'll have to forgive me for not remembering this, but what is your name again?" And she looked at me- almost bored with the question- and said, "I'm going by an alias now and that it Mimi (something or other)." I said, "An ALIAS? Why? What's happened in your life where you need an alias?" She was very nonchalant like EVERYONE had an alias and I was like, so 1993 for not knowing this. I got over being insulted and asked again for her name; no longer interested in why she changed it, just trying to fit her into her proper place in my past.
Flippantly, she again refused.
Of course, I proceed to get aggravated with this "old pal". You know that extra sense you have in dreams? The one that feeds you, direct line, to the heart of the matter; the inside scoop? I KNEW she had no reason to withhold this information from me. There was absolutely no reason she could not tell me what her real name was- she was simply electing not to do so.
In my dream the frustration is really starting to rise. I KNOW who this woman is, but I cannot pull up her name and I am getting pissed off about it! I'm now obsessed with knowing who she is. She's not giving in. She's even told me that there is no reason for me not to know her name, she just doesn't want to tell me. Nothing matters more than figuring out who this person is and all she can reply with is, "You know, whatever."
I'm combobulated and then the dream ends... but not as in "ends". The dream ends with credits rolling up the screen like in a movie. The whore who wouldn't tell me her name is Elisabeth Shue.
Now, WHY would my brain put me through all of this if, at the end of the dream, it was going to reveal the secret? And, if I'm going to dream about a "star", why can't it be Luke Wilson or George Clooney? Why Elisabeth Shue for Christ's sake?
Some people have to worry about getting fucked over by others. I have to worry about getting fucked over by my self.
Friday, September 22, 2006
Krispy Kreme will Rue the Day!
Typed with misty eyes by Killer
Cruising the bustling metropolis of Memphis the other day I happened by a Krispy Kreme doughnut shop and low and behold the "hot now" sign was lit. I usually abstain from eating doughnuts due to my desire to avoid empty calories (all allotted space is reserved for beer intake), but the tantalizing, blaze red sign was not to be ignored.
For those of you not familiar with the heavenly creation of a fresh Krispy Kreme doughnut, I lament your plight, and can not imagine the thought of such an existence. You can keep your soulless Duncan doughnuts. My doughnuts are of a higher calling.
I strolled into the Krispy Kreme mouth watering and heart all a flutter. I was ready to get some fresh from the fryer doughnuts. I ordered two glazed and for the main course, one freshly made custard filled. I watched the counter jockey pull the doughnuts from the appropriate tray. (I don't trust these guys, too nonchalant with such an important task) I paid and exited the store with my tasty treats.
I get back on the road and reach my hand into the bag, passing over the plain glazed in favor of the much anticipated custard filled. I pull it out, savoring the ever so slight warmth, and take a bite. WHAM! Raspberry! My taste buds, having been thoroughly prepared for delicious custard, revolted with this sudden change in plans.
I peered down at the doughnut to get a look at this travesty and sure enough, instead of creamy custard escaping from the center, it looked like my doughnut was bleeding Raspberry from it's very heart.
If someone walked up to me right this instant and said, "Hey, would you like a raspberry filled doughnut?" I would probably take it. I don't have a ethical issue against raspberries, I just was so enthralled, so in love, with the thought of a fresh, hot custard filled Krispy Kreme doughnut, that nothing else was acceptable at that point.
I returned the once bitten, not custard doughnut back to the bag and tossed the whole lot dejectedly into the floor board. I was sulking now and thinking of all the ways I hated those bastards working at Krispy Kreme. They have a job that enables them to enjoy hot, fresh doughnuts at anytime, but they choose to take that luxury for granted.
I was burned that day my friends. Years from now people will think of me and say, "gosh, I wonder what happened to make him so cynical and untrusting." I used to see the "Hot Now" sign and get the same feelings a young child has about Christmas, before the bubble was burst and he was informed that Santa Claus was all just a lie. Yeah, I am still glad to see that sign, but the magic is gone, and I don't think it will ever be back.
Cruising the bustling metropolis of Memphis the other day I happened by a Krispy Kreme doughnut shop and low and behold the "hot now" sign was lit. I usually abstain from eating doughnuts due to my desire to avoid empty calories (all allotted space is reserved for beer intake), but the tantalizing, blaze red sign was not to be ignored.
For those of you not familiar with the heavenly creation of a fresh Krispy Kreme doughnut, I lament your plight, and can not imagine the thought of such an existence. You can keep your soulless Duncan doughnuts. My doughnuts are of a higher calling.
I strolled into the Krispy Kreme mouth watering and heart all a flutter. I was ready to get some fresh from the fryer doughnuts. I ordered two glazed and for the main course, one freshly made custard filled. I watched the counter jockey pull the doughnuts from the appropriate tray. (I don't trust these guys, too nonchalant with such an important task) I paid and exited the store with my tasty treats.
I get back on the road and reach my hand into the bag, passing over the plain glazed in favor of the much anticipated custard filled. I pull it out, savoring the ever so slight warmth, and take a bite. WHAM! Raspberry! My taste buds, having been thoroughly prepared for delicious custard, revolted with this sudden change in plans.
I peered down at the doughnut to get a look at this travesty and sure enough, instead of creamy custard escaping from the center, it looked like my doughnut was bleeding Raspberry from it's very heart.
If someone walked up to me right this instant and said, "Hey, would you like a raspberry filled doughnut?" I would probably take it. I don't have a ethical issue against raspberries, I just was so enthralled, so in love, with the thought of a fresh, hot custard filled Krispy Kreme doughnut, that nothing else was acceptable at that point.
I returned the once bitten, not custard doughnut back to the bag and tossed the whole lot dejectedly into the floor board. I was sulking now and thinking of all the ways I hated those bastards working at Krispy Kreme. They have a job that enables them to enjoy hot, fresh doughnuts at anytime, but they choose to take that luxury for granted.
I was burned that day my friends. Years from now people will think of me and say, "gosh, I wonder what happened to make him so cynical and untrusting." I used to see the "Hot Now" sign and get the same feelings a young child has about Christmas, before the bubble was burst and he was informed that Santa Claus was all just a lie. Yeah, I am still glad to see that sign, but the magic is gone, and I don't think it will ever be back.
Never trust a drunk, or his mother
Nursing moments, presented by Killer
When a patient enters the hospital you have to gain certain information for his or her care. It needs to be known if the person is allergic to any medications or foods, does the person take any medications, Or does the person drink alcohol on a regular basis or do drugs. It has developed as a rule of thumb that EVERYONE either lies about their consumption of alcohol or drugs, or at the least cuts it by 50%. When asking a family member, they ALWAYS lie, because they don't want to rat out their loved one.
Excerpt from a conversation with the mother of a 34 year old new admission, the patient is asleep after surgery to remove a ruptured spleen after hitting a tree with his car.
Me: Is your son allergic to any medicines?
Maw: No, I don't think he is...Can you test him to be sure?
Me: Not really, but we will keep a close eye on him.
Maw: He never even takes an aspirin. (everyone loves to say this for some reason)
Me: Okay, does he smoke?
Maw: Occasionally.
Me: Does he smoke everyday?
Maw: Yes.
Me: Do you know how much?
Maw: I think it is about two packs a day. (that is 40 cigarettes a day! Occasional my ass!)
Me: Does he drink alcohol?
Maw: No.
Me: I am not judging your son, but I need to know if he drinks for his own well being.
Maw: I think he might drink a little bit.
Me: Does he drink everyday?
Maw: Yes
Me: Do you know how much?
Maw: He drinks about a case of beer. (I think, TWO cases)
Me: Everyday?
Maw: Yes, and he occasionally will drink a pint of whiskey. (I think, TWO pints, actually at this point I think, man if this lady is cutting everything in half, this dude might be pickled)
Me: Everyday?
Maw: Yes, but he still goes to work everyday, and hardly ever gets in to trouble.
Me: That is good. Does he do any recreational or illegal drugs?
Maw: He might smoke some marijuana occasionally. (like 40 cigarettes a day occasional?)
(On a side note: At this point I am wondering if this guy ever sleeps. Without doubling the alcohol he would need to smoke a cigarette every thirty minutes, drink a beer every hour, and do a shot of whiskey every two. Where is he finding time to smoke pot? This guy is a master of time management.)
Me: Everyday?
Maw: We smoke marijuana pretty much everyday. (Did she just say, "We"?)
Me: Okay, does he take any medications on a regular basis?
Maw: I been meaning to ask, did he have any marijuana with him in the wreck?
Me: I don't know. They pretty much have nothing on them when they reach me. No clothes, no belongings, nothing.
Maw: Cause, I want that back if he had that on him.
Me: I think they destroy any illegal narcotics that come in.
Maw: (Visibly annoyed by now) Well, somebody will have to pay for that then.
Me: I don't know if there was any or not. Let's finish with these questions and then I can make some phone calls to see what I can find.
Maw: I mean, it is not right to just destroy marijuana, that is like burning money.
Me: I understand. Does your son take any medications at home?
Maw: Do you think the marijuana might still be in his car?
Me: I wouldn't have any way of knowing that kind of information. Does your son take any medicines, that you know of?
Maw: Do you know where they take the cars after wrecks?
Me: Not even a tiny idea?
Maw: Can you find out? I really want to look in the car.
Me: I would not even know where to ask about that. DO YOU KNOW IF YOUR SON TAKES ANY MEDICINES?
Maw: I already told you he does not even take aspirin. He might have hidden the pot somewhere after the wreck. Do you know exactly where he wrecked?
Me: No, I really have no idea.
Maw: I better go home and check his room. Maybe he left some there.
Me: Good idea.
When a patient enters the hospital you have to gain certain information for his or her care. It needs to be known if the person is allergic to any medications or foods, does the person take any medications, Or does the person drink alcohol on a regular basis or do drugs. It has developed as a rule of thumb that EVERYONE either lies about their consumption of alcohol or drugs, or at the least cuts it by 50%. When asking a family member, they ALWAYS lie, because they don't want to rat out their loved one.
Excerpt from a conversation with the mother of a 34 year old new admission, the patient is asleep after surgery to remove a ruptured spleen after hitting a tree with his car.
Me: Is your son allergic to any medicines?
Maw: No, I don't think he is...Can you test him to be sure?
Me: Not really, but we will keep a close eye on him.
Maw: He never even takes an aspirin. (everyone loves to say this for some reason)
Me: Okay, does he smoke?
Maw: Occasionally.
Me: Does he smoke everyday?
Maw: Yes.
Me: Do you know how much?
Maw: I think it is about two packs a day. (that is 40 cigarettes a day! Occasional my ass!)
Me: Does he drink alcohol?
Maw: No.
Me: I am not judging your son, but I need to know if he drinks for his own well being.
Maw: I think he might drink a little bit.
Me: Does he drink everyday?
Maw: Yes
Me: Do you know how much?
Maw: He drinks about a case of beer. (I think, TWO cases)
Me: Everyday?
Maw: Yes, and he occasionally will drink a pint of whiskey. (I think, TWO pints, actually at this point I think, man if this lady is cutting everything in half, this dude might be pickled)
Me: Everyday?
Maw: Yes, but he still goes to work everyday, and hardly ever gets in to trouble.
Me: That is good. Does he do any recreational or illegal drugs?
Maw: He might smoke some marijuana occasionally. (like 40 cigarettes a day occasional?)
(On a side note: At this point I am wondering if this guy ever sleeps. Without doubling the alcohol he would need to smoke a cigarette every thirty minutes, drink a beer every hour, and do a shot of whiskey every two. Where is he finding time to smoke pot? This guy is a master of time management.)
Me: Everyday?
Maw: We smoke marijuana pretty much everyday. (Did she just say, "We"?)
Me: Okay, does he take any medications on a regular basis?
Maw: I been meaning to ask, did he have any marijuana with him in the wreck?
Me: I don't know. They pretty much have nothing on them when they reach me. No clothes, no belongings, nothing.
Maw: Cause, I want that back if he had that on him.
Me: I think they destroy any illegal narcotics that come in.
Maw: (Visibly annoyed by now) Well, somebody will have to pay for that then.
Me: I don't know if there was any or not. Let's finish with these questions and then I can make some phone calls to see what I can find.
Maw: I mean, it is not right to just destroy marijuana, that is like burning money.
Me: I understand. Does your son take any medications at home?
Maw: Do you think the marijuana might still be in his car?
Me: I wouldn't have any way of knowing that kind of information. Does your son take any medicines, that you know of?
Maw: Do you know where they take the cars after wrecks?
Me: Not even a tiny idea?
Maw: Can you find out? I really want to look in the car.
Me: I would not even know where to ask about that. DO YOU KNOW IF YOUR SON TAKES ANY MEDICINES?
Maw: I already told you he does not even take aspirin. He might have hidden the pot somewhere after the wreck. Do you know exactly where he wrecked?
Me: No, I really have no idea.
Maw: I better go home and check his room. Maybe he left some there.
Me: Good idea.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Wolfmother concert = Worst Hair Ever
Spotted by Killer
If I am going to continue posting pictures from concerts I really need to start taking a real camera. My camera phone is not cutting the mustard.
Gatewood, Disco Stu and myself spent another glorious evening catching some high level musical talent downtown at the New Daisy theater.
The opening band was an Aussie band named "Messhall". I like the new minimalist approach of only having two people in a band (see White Stripes, Black Keys, etc.) it has to make the profit margins better. As for band names, "Messhall" ranks pretty high on the list of bad ones. (#1 worst band name of all times: "Hoobastank") This band had the unique attribute that once I initially heard them they sounded pretty good, but oddly enough the longer they played the worse it got. I really think they were only picked because: A. They are Australian like the headliner. B. The drummer has an afro like the lead singer of the headliner. (Afro, Australian for hair)
The headliner was the band "Wolfmother". I give them credit for a bad band name that is so off the wall that it becomes cool. They really do rock out, but tend to be a little heavy handed on the guitar solos. A majority of their songs start with a mellow almost classical lead in, and then WHAM they rock you when you least expect it. However, when every song does that you really do start to expect it. It becomes almost like watching a little kid blow up a balloon. You see it getting bigger and bigger and then you can not keep from squinting your eyes, because you know it is going to explode any second and, although no one has ever been injured from a popping balloon, you don't want to be the first. That is what every song was like.
I would kill something in a sacrificial manner if I could make this next picture turn out better. This is probably the worst hair cut I have ever seen in person, and I live in Mississippi where people still where mullets without an inch of tongue in cheek.
This guy was working the sound for Wolfmother. We tried to think of some way to surreptitiously snap a few shots, but due to poor lighting it was not working out. Finally Gatewood just said, "fuck it" and walked right up to him and after a compliment of the hair asked to take a picture with him. Not only did the guy love the idea, he even turned the house lights up so we could get a better shot. You can not get a really good overall image from the crappy camera phone shot, but it is a perfect bastardization of the Joe Dirt, super mullet and a mangy dreadlocked wookie.
I love this guy for rockin' 100% of the time. He even threw up the rockin' "horns of Satan" sign to show that no matter when or where he is ready to rock!
Gatewood threw the rockin' "horns of Satan" because he is a poser.
If I am going to continue posting pictures from concerts I really need to start taking a real camera. My camera phone is not cutting the mustard.
Gatewood, Disco Stu and myself spent another glorious evening catching some high level musical talent downtown at the New Daisy theater.
The opening band was an Aussie band named "Messhall". I like the new minimalist approach of only having two people in a band (see White Stripes, Black Keys, etc.) it has to make the profit margins better. As for band names, "Messhall" ranks pretty high on the list of bad ones. (#1 worst band name of all times: "Hoobastank") This band had the unique attribute that once I initially heard them they sounded pretty good, but oddly enough the longer they played the worse it got. I really think they were only picked because: A. They are Australian like the headliner. B. The drummer has an afro like the lead singer of the headliner. (Afro, Australian for hair)
The headliner was the band "Wolfmother". I give them credit for a bad band name that is so off the wall that it becomes cool. They really do rock out, but tend to be a little heavy handed on the guitar solos. A majority of their songs start with a mellow almost classical lead in, and then WHAM they rock you when you least expect it. However, when every song does that you really do start to expect it. It becomes almost like watching a little kid blow up a balloon. You see it getting bigger and bigger and then you can not keep from squinting your eyes, because you know it is going to explode any second and, although no one has ever been injured from a popping balloon, you don't want to be the first. That is what every song was like.
I would kill something in a sacrificial manner if I could make this next picture turn out better. This is probably the worst hair cut I have ever seen in person, and I live in Mississippi where people still where mullets without an inch of tongue in cheek.
This guy was working the sound for Wolfmother. We tried to think of some way to surreptitiously snap a few shots, but due to poor lighting it was not working out. Finally Gatewood just said, "fuck it" and walked right up to him and after a compliment of the hair asked to take a picture with him. Not only did the guy love the idea, he even turned the house lights up so we could get a better shot. You can not get a really good overall image from the crappy camera phone shot, but it is a perfect bastardization of the Joe Dirt, super mullet and a mangy dreadlocked wookie.
I love this guy for rockin' 100% of the time. He even threw up the rockin' "horns of Satan" sign to show that no matter when or where he is ready to rock!
Gatewood threw the rockin' "horns of Satan" because he is a poser.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
My Brain Thinks I Am Some Kind of Bad Ass
Blogged in a fit of rage by Killer
I am getting spurts of violent urges recently. I don't know if it is my diet, or maybe just too much violence on T.V., but I have moments of almost uncontrollable desire to inflict bodily harm on total strangers. I have not actually performed any of these acts, but I am starting to fear for random people on the elevator. I was sitting in my favorite local watering hole and an obnoxious group of yuppies were sitting nearby. For no discernible reason my brain will start saying, "man, those dudes better not try to throw down, or I will go medieval on their asses!" Probably the most disturbing part of this is, I am not the kind of person who says "throw down" nor "go medieval". I am not even sure what is entailed in going medieval, but I am almost certain it involves a suit of armor, and I tend to chafe in polyester, there is no telling what metal pants would do to my groin.
So, this is the scenario, me sitting in a fairly crowded bar alone. Nearby is a group of rambunctious, intoxicated late twenty-something fellows all wearing business suits in various states of dishevel. They are managing to cover the gambit of stereotypical macho, jack ass behavior; talking loudly, hitting each other, and making unwanted(?) advances towards the scantily clad bar maidens. These guys have not made any outwardly obvious signs of aggression, but my brain has kicked into over time deciding what it would want me to do if they suddenly jumped up and began an old west style bar fight. Man, an old west style bar fight would be great! See, that is my subconscious talking, deep down I know that in an old west style bar fight only the good guy has a respectable outcome, and I don't think I should be cast as the good guy. I would probably be the dude who gets hit from behind with a bottle of whiskey by some chick.
I have digressed.
My brain has determined that, although there are at least six of these younger, fitter guys nearby, I can take them with the right combination of high impact kung fu and the delivery of some bad ass one liners. I will roll up my sleeves, "I am going to give you guys two tickets to the gun show." (I will take this moment to flex in some masculine manner), PUNCH!! "Ya'll are in luck, it's happy hour and that means two for one." PUNCH-PUNCH!!
Fear not faithful readers. I neither tore six new assholes for six yuppie bastards nor did I get six shiny tassel loafers shoved up my ass. The rowdy bunch realized that they had to wake up bright and early in the morning and continue exploiting children in some third world sweat shop, or perhaps just climb back into their cubicles in accounts receiving for some faceless corporation. They paid their tabs and dispatched from the bar in a very anticlimactic manner.
Thus leaving me in a post 'roid rage state. I ordered another beer from the bartender with a menacing sneer and glanced around the bar. I focused my glare on a rapidly deteriorating group of women out for a bachelorette party. They were doing shots and getting very boisterous. I could sense trouble was afoot, and I was not afraid to throw down if any of these bitches decided to step up to the plate.
I am getting spurts of violent urges recently. I don't know if it is my diet, or maybe just too much violence on T.V., but I have moments of almost uncontrollable desire to inflict bodily harm on total strangers. I have not actually performed any of these acts, but I am starting to fear for random people on the elevator. I was sitting in my favorite local watering hole and an obnoxious group of yuppies were sitting nearby. For no discernible reason my brain will start saying, "man, those dudes better not try to throw down, or I will go medieval on their asses!" Probably the most disturbing part of this is, I am not the kind of person who says "throw down" nor "go medieval". I am not even sure what is entailed in going medieval, but I am almost certain it involves a suit of armor, and I tend to chafe in polyester, there is no telling what metal pants would do to my groin.
So, this is the scenario, me sitting in a fairly crowded bar alone. Nearby is a group of rambunctious, intoxicated late twenty-something fellows all wearing business suits in various states of dishevel. They are managing to cover the gambit of stereotypical macho, jack ass behavior; talking loudly, hitting each other, and making unwanted(?) advances towards the scantily clad bar maidens. These guys have not made any outwardly obvious signs of aggression, but my brain has kicked into over time deciding what it would want me to do if they suddenly jumped up and began an old west style bar fight. Man, an old west style bar fight would be great! See, that is my subconscious talking, deep down I know that in an old west style bar fight only the good guy has a respectable outcome, and I don't think I should be cast as the good guy. I would probably be the dude who gets hit from behind with a bottle of whiskey by some chick.
I have digressed.
My brain has determined that, although there are at least six of these younger, fitter guys nearby, I can take them with the right combination of high impact kung fu and the delivery of some bad ass one liners. I will roll up my sleeves, "I am going to give you guys two tickets to the gun show." (I will take this moment to flex in some masculine manner), PUNCH!! "Ya'll are in luck, it's happy hour and that means two for one." PUNCH-PUNCH!!
Fear not faithful readers. I neither tore six new assholes for six yuppie bastards nor did I get six shiny tassel loafers shoved up my ass. The rowdy bunch realized that they had to wake up bright and early in the morning and continue exploiting children in some third world sweat shop, or perhaps just climb back into their cubicles in accounts receiving for some faceless corporation. They paid their tabs and dispatched from the bar in a very anticlimactic manner.
Thus leaving me in a post 'roid rage state. I ordered another beer from the bartender with a menacing sneer and glanced around the bar. I focused my glare on a rapidly deteriorating group of women out for a bachelorette party. They were doing shots and getting very boisterous. I could sense trouble was afoot, and I was not afraid to throw down if any of these bitches decided to step up to the plate.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
What I learned from T.V. at 4am
Shared with inquiring minds by Killer
Late night T.V. can be very informative. The following are things gleamed from my television at 4am..
Fact one: Source, Animal Planet
The Skipper caterpillar can fire it's own feces up to five feet. There is some debate among entomologists as to the purpose of this. My personal opinion is, they do it because they can.
Fact two: Source, Paid Programming
If I order now, I can, not only, receive Girls Gone Wild: Sexy Sorority Sweethearts, but also get Girls Gone Wild: Ultimate Rush, absolutely free. My personal opinion is, apparently girls will do anything for a free t shirt. Note to self: Must carry extra t shirts when going to bars.
Fact three: Source, Cinemax
The Dukes of hazard is, without doubt, the worst movie ever made. The combination of Jessica Simpson, Johnny Knoxville, and Burt Reynolds should be forever banned from occurring on any media source. Not films, T.V., not even on paper. My personal opinion is, This might be the final proof needed that our once great society is on an unstoppable downward slide. For Rome it was vomitoriums, for America, $80,000,000 domestic gross for Dukes of hazard.
Fact four: Source, CNN
A recent Harris Poll listed the most prestigious professions. The top three, in order, are: Firefighter, Doctor, and Nurse. There was a category to be chosen for each called, "Hardly any prestige at all. 3% of all those asked listed nursing in this category. My personal opinion is, upon further investigation you will find that 3% of all those asked actually were nurses.
Late night T.V. can be very informative. The following are things gleamed from my television at 4am..
Fact one: Source, Animal Planet
The Skipper caterpillar can fire it's own feces up to five feet. There is some debate among entomologists as to the purpose of this. My personal opinion is, they do it because they can.
Fact two: Source, Paid Programming
If I order now, I can, not only, receive Girls Gone Wild: Sexy Sorority Sweethearts, but also get Girls Gone Wild: Ultimate Rush, absolutely free. My personal opinion is, apparently girls will do anything for a free t shirt. Note to self: Must carry extra t shirts when going to bars.
Fact three: Source, Cinemax
The Dukes of hazard is, without doubt, the worst movie ever made. The combination of Jessica Simpson, Johnny Knoxville, and Burt Reynolds should be forever banned from occurring on any media source. Not films, T.V., not even on paper. My personal opinion is, This might be the final proof needed that our once great society is on an unstoppable downward slide. For Rome it was vomitoriums, for America, $80,000,000 domestic gross for Dukes of hazard.
Fact four: Source, CNN
A recent Harris Poll listed the most prestigious professions. The top three, in order, are: Firefighter, Doctor, and Nurse. There was a category to be chosen for each called, "Hardly any prestige at all. 3% of all those asked listed nursing in this category. My personal opinion is, upon further investigation you will find that 3% of all those asked actually were nurses.
Re BUTT al
Liz pinches THIS off:
What the FUCK? I go away for a few days and when I return, Kim (my best friend) has, in writing, accused me of fondling nut sacks across the south and, maybe worse, being a pleasure farter. Killer, my blog partner, has blessed it. I feel so betrayed!
I do not have time to respond tonight because I've got some balls to put in my mouth and some gas to release, but I am wounded.
Even though it pains me, I give kudos to Kim. As much as I know about her it takes nerve to call me a nut sack juggler and an air-raid sprayer. I wouldn't betray her just because she thinks it's ok to do that to me, but I will drop a word of warning to Kim. One word. Sascrotch.
What the FUCK? I go away for a few days and when I return, Kim (my best friend) has, in writing, accused me of fondling nut sacks across the south and, maybe worse, being a pleasure farter. Killer, my blog partner, has blessed it. I feel so betrayed!
I do not have time to respond tonight because I've got some balls to put in my mouth and some gas to release, but I am wounded.
Even though it pains me, I give kudos to Kim. As much as I know about her it takes nerve to call me a nut sack juggler and an air-raid sprayer. I wouldn't betray her just because she thinks it's ok to do that to me, but I will drop a word of warning to Kim. One word. Sascrotch.
Thursday, September 07, 2006
Riding the Short Bus to Hell
Aired by Michael
I was reading a blog on another's website, you can find the link on the right, but it is up to you to figure out which one, and they had posted a list of reasons why you should hate them. I like this. It seems cathartic, and could actually be used as a disclaimer for later moments in life. A few years from now when I inadvertently alienate myself from one or all of my friends, I can say, "Hey, I clearly listed this was a reason to dislike me years ago. It is your fault for not reading the fine print. I am sorry, but you will not be able to stop being my friend at this time. By the way, can I borrow $100?" I firmly believe that given an infinite time line, everyone will eventually realize I am an ass.
1. Probably the most socially unacceptable reason. I make fun of the physically and mentally handicapped. I do feel bad about this, but I am literally unable to help myself. Ironically, this might be seen as a mental disability, and that, in turn, makes me laugh.
2. With the exception of a few of my closest friends, I would prefer to sit at the bar alone and drink, rather than drink with them. The problem with this trait is, I don't really feel this way until after the first thirty minutes or so, after it is too late to just walk away and sit at the bar. Believe me, more than once, I have been stuck staring at the bar in a forelorn manner. As a side note, if you have any doubt about your status in this area, it is probably not good for you.
3. I not only prefer to sleep naked, but I really enjoy just lounging around the house naked as well. I have included this one because a few of my closer friends have been privy to me getting more and more comfortable around them, and therefore, less and less clothed. It is only a matter of time before I just come strolling into the room completely naked, and this really could end a friendship. I mean, I am NOT an attractive naked person.
4. When I win the lottery I will not be providing any loans or hand outs to you people. I have already mapped out several spending plans specifically based on the amount I eventually win. None include supporting a bunch of free loading ingrates.
5. I am very proud of my ability to produce flatulence. I expect my friends to be both impressed and in awe of this talent. Some (Liz) claim to not enjoy it, but deep down I know they do. In fact, I am going to do it more around those people until they admit how much they love it.
There are probably a whole lot more, but these are the only ones I am able to discuss openly. My therapist thinks these are a pretty impressive break through. I reserve the right to add more at a later date. You can actually feel free to post any grievances you might have. I must warn you, however the list of people I would rather not drink with is by no means set in stone, nor is the list for increased flatulence.
I was reading a blog on another's website, you can find the link on the right, but it is up to you to figure out which one, and they had posted a list of reasons why you should hate them. I like this. It seems cathartic, and could actually be used as a disclaimer for later moments in life. A few years from now when I inadvertently alienate myself from one or all of my friends, I can say, "Hey, I clearly listed this was a reason to dislike me years ago. It is your fault for not reading the fine print. I am sorry, but you will not be able to stop being my friend at this time. By the way, can I borrow $100?" I firmly believe that given an infinite time line, everyone will eventually realize I am an ass.
1. Probably the most socially unacceptable reason. I make fun of the physically and mentally handicapped. I do feel bad about this, but I am literally unable to help myself. Ironically, this might be seen as a mental disability, and that, in turn, makes me laugh.
2. With the exception of a few of my closest friends, I would prefer to sit at the bar alone and drink, rather than drink with them. The problem with this trait is, I don't really feel this way until after the first thirty minutes or so, after it is too late to just walk away and sit at the bar. Believe me, more than once, I have been stuck staring at the bar in a forelorn manner. As a side note, if you have any doubt about your status in this area, it is probably not good for you.
3. I not only prefer to sleep naked, but I really enjoy just lounging around the house naked as well. I have included this one because a few of my closer friends have been privy to me getting more and more comfortable around them, and therefore, less and less clothed. It is only a matter of time before I just come strolling into the room completely naked, and this really could end a friendship. I mean, I am NOT an attractive naked person.
4. When I win the lottery I will not be providing any loans or hand outs to you people. I have already mapped out several spending plans specifically based on the amount I eventually win. None include supporting a bunch of free loading ingrates.
5. I am very proud of my ability to produce flatulence. I expect my friends to be both impressed and in awe of this talent. Some (Liz) claim to not enjoy it, but deep down I know they do. In fact, I am going to do it more around those people until they admit how much they love it.
There are probably a whole lot more, but these are the only ones I am able to discuss openly. My therapist thinks these are a pretty impressive break through. I reserve the right to add more at a later date. You can actually feel free to post any grievances you might have. I must warn you, however the list of people I would rather not drink with is by no means set in stone, nor is the list for increased flatulence.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Crikey!
Liz eulogizes:
Like a real-life McGyver that has found that duct tape can't get you out of everything, the khaki-clad crocodile hunter is dead. Now really, does this seem fair? Yes, he had a mullet after mullets were out of fashion, and yes, he once pulled a Michael Jacksonesque move by holding his baby boy over a feeding crocodile, but certainly there is no one out there who would say that this was deserved.
I didn't say unexpected, I said deserved.
I loved Steve Irwin- he was enthusiastic, he was kind, he was boyishly adventurous. All in all, a pretty good bloke. I'm not sure what lesson we are suspposed to learn from his demise. Don't poke animals with sticks? Respect nature's authority? Passion for your job will get you killed?
If given the choice, would you elect to live to 74, having worked 30 years under fluorescent lights in a cubicle or would you choose to live to only 44, having lived passionately and on your own terms? That's why I respected him. It's not often that you have the opportunity to see people who are doing exactly what they want to be doing with their lives; people who know the risks, yet push forward in hopes of accomplishing something more significant than themselves. A contribution to the greater good, maybe?
Fortunately, I do not have to make that choice. I'm not really all that passionate about anything, so I expect to make it to at least 60... 70 if I can kick my bad habits.
I'm going to miss the Hunter and his enthusiasm for the ugliest creatures and the foulest reptiles in our World. Today I remember him with words. Tomorrow I will remember him with khaki. Yes, I will be wearing khaki tomorrow. Oh, it's part of the company's dress code, but you and I know that it will really be in memoriam of Steve. So tomorrow, for the first time since the dress code was implemented, I will wear my khaki with passion.
Steve would be proud.
Saturday, September 02, 2006
day 1 of quitting
Liz puffs:
Well, I've already failed at my attempt to quit smoking. I am, however, on day one, pill one of anti-smoking meds. This drug is new to the market and touted as the miracle anti-smoking drug. I may grow an eyebrow on my elbow, but at least my lungs will be pink again in 15 years.
This pill is susppossed to make cigarettes taste awful. The doctor, pharmacist, and Phizer Drug Co. Underestimate my addiction. You see, if you really, really are an addict; if you think about smoking whenever you're not thinking about something else (which is a lot); if you'd rather have a cigarette than go to a movie, then it's going to take not only willpower but cigarettes that taste like ass. Ass that has hemorrhoids. That are leaking.
Ewwwwwww. That's graphic. I'm not even sure what a hemorrhoid really is or if it can leek, but it sounds really nasty. I'm sorry.
Well, I've already failed at my attempt to quit smoking. I am, however, on day one, pill one of anti-smoking meds. This drug is new to the market and touted as the miracle anti-smoking drug. I may grow an eyebrow on my elbow, but at least my lungs will be pink again in 15 years.
This pill is susppossed to make cigarettes taste awful. The doctor, pharmacist, and Phizer Drug Co. Underestimate my addiction. You see, if you really, really are an addict; if you think about smoking whenever you're not thinking about something else (which is a lot); if you'd rather have a cigarette than go to a movie, then it's going to take not only willpower but cigarettes that taste like ass. Ass that has hemorrhoids. That are leaking.
Ewwwwwww. That's graphic. I'm not even sure what a hemorrhoid really is or if it can leek, but it sounds really nasty. I'm sorry.
Friday, September 01, 2006
The Guys Are All Cuter At Closing Time
Me too.
I've had a rash of friends experiencing the dreaded DUI curse lately. By lately, I mean over the past couple of years. By friends, I don't mean Mel Gibson.
I have been lucky enough to never go through this experience- at least as the driver. But I can't help but feel like every road block, every pull over, is part of the cops' quest to find me; the others that they round up are just bonuses.
Please don't misinterpret here. I am not for any of you driving drunk. You could hit me, at which point the cops would arrive on the scene and I could end up incarcerated for also being intoxicated. I have faith in you, but I'm too delicate for real jail. However, I am already a prisoner.
Allow me to explain.
The problem lies in the beauty of alcohol. I LIKE adult beverages and if there is any truth that you can speak about me, it is that I do not discriminate. I will drink nearly anything that is at least 40 proof at least once, but I do have my favorites. I do not drink daily; I average less than 25 drinks a month; less than one a day. But I drink those 25 drinks in two sittings which means that when it's on...
I am a rather social person. I like nothing more than meeting friends at the pub and discussing life's joys over a couple of life's joys. By the time one drink becomes 5, I'm ready to start doing shots. After doing a shot or two, I've made new friends and I'm encouraging them to sing karaoke. Sometimes these new friends insist on buying the next round. I don't like to accept drinks from people that I've just met but I'm also not going to let a perfectly good beer get hot. The next thing you know, the lights are coming on and it's last call.
The words "Last Call" make me really hungry. Usually, I haven't eaten since noon and it's almost 2 AM. The kitchen is closed so the "sobering up" plan involves a stick of gum, another cigarette and a giant glass of water. But you have to finish your beer first, so the water just sits condensing on the bar.
Now seriously, at this point I am in no condition to decide if I'm sober enough to drive or not. That's the rub! How can I, in all fairness, be held accountable for the decision to get behind the wheel of my car and drive home? I'm too drunk to make a judgment call like that. People, can't you see that I am a VICTIM?
Here's something annoying that increases my victimization. People who don't drink don't want to go to bars. WHAT? Now, how am I susppossed to get my car home if everyone in the bar at 2 AM has been there since 5? I can't let one of these fools drive me home! Plus, I know better than to go home with strangers. And don't talk that "get a cab" nonsense. There are all sorts of logistical problems associated with taking a cab. Plus, what's a cab running these days? $30 a ride? That's like half my bar tab! Ridiculous.
So. This is my year of not living dangerously. I'm going to TRY and quit smoking and I'm going to TRY and always leave the bar with confidence after only 3 beers. Who knows, I might actually end up spending my weekends doing something productive instead of recovering and rallying. I know, it sounds awful, doesn't it? What good is being single if you can't have 2-day binges? Why have blackout curtains if you're not nursing a hangover?
More than likely, I'm going to have to... oh god this hurts... limit my time in pubs and bars across this great land of ours.
This football season I'm hoping to get an invite to your place so that we can kill a 12-pack while the game is on. And get the guest room ready, because I'm not planning on driving home. And sell your Coors stock. It's about to plumet.
I've had a rash of friends experiencing the dreaded DUI curse lately. By lately, I mean over the past couple of years. By friends, I don't mean Mel Gibson.
I have been lucky enough to never go through this experience- at least as the driver. But I can't help but feel like every road block, every pull over, is part of the cops' quest to find me; the others that they round up are just bonuses.
Please don't misinterpret here. I am not for any of you driving drunk. You could hit me, at which point the cops would arrive on the scene and I could end up incarcerated for also being intoxicated. I have faith in you, but I'm too delicate for real jail. However, I am already a prisoner.
Allow me to explain.
The problem lies in the beauty of alcohol. I LIKE adult beverages and if there is any truth that you can speak about me, it is that I do not discriminate. I will drink nearly anything that is at least 40 proof at least once, but I do have my favorites. I do not drink daily; I average less than 25 drinks a month; less than one a day. But I drink those 25 drinks in two sittings which means that when it's on...
I am a rather social person. I like nothing more than meeting friends at the pub and discussing life's joys over a couple of life's joys. By the time one drink becomes 5, I'm ready to start doing shots. After doing a shot or two, I've made new friends and I'm encouraging them to sing karaoke. Sometimes these new friends insist on buying the next round. I don't like to accept drinks from people that I've just met but I'm also not going to let a perfectly good beer get hot. The next thing you know, the lights are coming on and it's last call.
The words "Last Call" make me really hungry. Usually, I haven't eaten since noon and it's almost 2 AM. The kitchen is closed so the "sobering up" plan involves a stick of gum, another cigarette and a giant glass of water. But you have to finish your beer first, so the water just sits condensing on the bar.
Now seriously, at this point I am in no condition to decide if I'm sober enough to drive or not. That's the rub! How can I, in all fairness, be held accountable for the decision to get behind the wheel of my car and drive home? I'm too drunk to make a judgment call like that. People, can't you see that I am a VICTIM?
Here's something annoying that increases my victimization. People who don't drink don't want to go to bars. WHAT? Now, how am I susppossed to get my car home if everyone in the bar at 2 AM has been there since 5? I can't let one of these fools drive me home! Plus, I know better than to go home with strangers. And don't talk that "get a cab" nonsense. There are all sorts of logistical problems associated with taking a cab. Plus, what's a cab running these days? $30 a ride? That's like half my bar tab! Ridiculous.
So. This is my year of not living dangerously. I'm going to TRY and quit smoking and I'm going to TRY and always leave the bar with confidence after only 3 beers. Who knows, I might actually end up spending my weekends doing something productive instead of recovering and rallying. I know, it sounds awful, doesn't it? What good is being single if you can't have 2-day binges? Why have blackout curtains if you're not nursing a hangover?
More than likely, I'm going to have to... oh god this hurts... limit my time in pubs and bars across this great land of ours.
This football season I'm hoping to get an invite to your place so that we can kill a 12-pack while the game is on. And get the guest room ready, because I'm not planning on driving home. And sell your Coors stock. It's about to plumet.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
There's One In Every Crowd
Liz concludes:
There's one in every crowd- and I fear it may be me.
Ten ways to ascertain if you're the one:
There's one in every crowd- and I fear it may be me.
Ten ways to ascertain if you're the one:
- When someone farts and tries to play it off, you call him on it no matter how many others are around
- When you get tired of listening, you say, "I'm tired of listening."
- You stick your finger in the best donut so no one else can claim it
- When someone you don't like sits beside you, you move
- You openly curse other people's good fortune
- You call your parents when you're expecting another call so you don't have to stay on the phone very long
- You stare at a guy's lazy eye and bob your head to see if it will follow you
- You shrug off getting busted trying to use expired coupons as ignorance
- You never open your own beer
- You harshly judge people with toddlers
- If you don't like your fortune, you force someone to trade cookies with you
- You delight in fat/drug addicted/bankrupt/incarcerated celebrities
- You give a loud warning before the movie starts that talkers will be prosecuted
- You have a "poker playing" outfit
- You also have "drinking britches"
- Your top ten list contains 16 items
These are not all me. But these have, at one time, all been me. Again, I have to remind you, I'm not proud. Just honest.
Monday, August 28, 2006
Not Just A River In Egypt
Killer posts optimistically in the hopes that the NEXT will be different
The mind is an amazing thing. I have had many years of life, building experience with which to better know myself and my limitations. Yet, I still have a few inexplicable habits that rear their ugly head from time to time.
I am constantly buying apples, oranges, even the occasional bunch of grapes, but I never eat them. Every couple of weeks I am being forced to pull a plastic bag out of the bottom of my fridge which contains a large amount of one or more of these rapidly deteriorating fruits. A few times I could not even determine which fruit it originally was. Still, every time I am passing through the produce section I convince myself, "This will be the week I start eating more fresh fruit!" Nothing can halt this practice, not even the frequent resemblance of my crisper bin to a hippie's compost pile.
I don't own a home, and never have, but that does not stop me from occasionally going to Home Depot and walking through the aisles looking at home improvement items. I will even spend a bizarre amount of time looking at riding lawn mowers, comparing horse power and testing the seat for maximum comfort. Maybe it is a guy thing. Perhaps there is a lawn mower loving, power tool coveting gene embedded in my DNA.
I have never been suave enough to pick up a girl from a bar and bring her back to my place. I know many of you might not believe that, but it is, unfortunately, true. Oddly enough, I have not even come close. But, every time I am about to leave my apartment to go to a bar or club. I always hesitate and contemplate straightening up a little. Just in case I pick up some desperate woman and bring her back later that night. Years of negative outcomes in this area have not managed to erase the optimism lurking in my psyche.
What makes it worse is that I know that each of these problems exist, and repeatedly tell myself this when every particular occasion arises, but it does not help. I might have obsessive compulsive disorder, or maybe a mild case of Tourette's syndrome, but without the funny profane language that would make it worth while.
Denial is a bitch.
The mind is an amazing thing. I have had many years of life, building experience with which to better know myself and my limitations. Yet, I still have a few inexplicable habits that rear their ugly head from time to time.
I am constantly buying apples, oranges, even the occasional bunch of grapes, but I never eat them. Every couple of weeks I am being forced to pull a plastic bag out of the bottom of my fridge which contains a large amount of one or more of these rapidly deteriorating fruits. A few times I could not even determine which fruit it originally was. Still, every time I am passing through the produce section I convince myself, "This will be the week I start eating more fresh fruit!" Nothing can halt this practice, not even the frequent resemblance of my crisper bin to a hippie's compost pile.
I don't own a home, and never have, but that does not stop me from occasionally going to Home Depot and walking through the aisles looking at home improvement items. I will even spend a bizarre amount of time looking at riding lawn mowers, comparing horse power and testing the seat for maximum comfort. Maybe it is a guy thing. Perhaps there is a lawn mower loving, power tool coveting gene embedded in my DNA.
I have never been suave enough to pick up a girl from a bar and bring her back to my place. I know many of you might not believe that, but it is, unfortunately, true. Oddly enough, I have not even come close. But, every time I am about to leave my apartment to go to a bar or club. I always hesitate and contemplate straightening up a little. Just in case I pick up some desperate woman and bring her back later that night. Years of negative outcomes in this area have not managed to erase the optimism lurking in my psyche.
What makes it worse is that I know that each of these problems exist, and repeatedly tell myself this when every particular occasion arises, but it does not help. I might have obsessive compulsive disorder, or maybe a mild case of Tourette's syndrome, but without the funny profane language that would make it worth while.
Denial is a bitch.
Saturday, August 26, 2006
Still Killing Time
Liz's picture is worth 1,000 words:
If you're just now checking this week's edition of KillerRants!, you should make sure that you scroll down and catch up on the posts. Apparently, both Killer and I have had a lot of thoughts about nothing that we feel like posting for each other's enjoyment. I've also noted that Killer's post about his sweaty balls appears to be a favorite for our readers. I agree. I too find that post to be delightful. But it's only slightly more delightful than this:
If you're just now checking this week's edition of KillerRants!, you should make sure that you scroll down and catch up on the posts. Apparently, both Killer and I have had a lot of thoughts about nothing that we feel like posting for each other's enjoyment. I've also noted that Killer's post about his sweaty balls appears to be a favorite for our readers. I agree. I too find that post to be delightful. But it's only slightly more delightful than this:
4:00, People's Court
Dateline: Liz's home office-
I'm doing everything I can to avoid doing the ridiculous laborious homework assignments given to me from my graduate class. I'm telling you, this "going back to school" thing is NOT at all like Rodney Dangerfield promised it would be.
While surfing the net (is that still what the kids are calling it?) to avoid classwork, I came across this tid bit of "news":
I'm doing everything I can to avoid doing the ridiculous laborious homework assignments given to me from my graduate class. I'm telling you, this "going back to school" thing is NOT at all like Rodney Dangerfield promised it would be.
While surfing the net (is that still what the kids are calling it?) to avoid classwork, I came across this tid bit of "news":
- JEANNETTE, Pa. - Meow. A district judge has been asked to decide whether that word is a harmless taunt or grounds for misdemeanor harassment. Jeannette police charged a 14-year-old boy for "meowing" whenever he sees his neighbor, 78-year-old Alexandria Carasia.
Hilarious.
The article goes on to explain that the kid's family had to get rid of their cat because Carasia complained that the cat was using her flower bed as a litter box. The boy says he has only meowed at her twice. Carasia says it's every time he sees her.
If the judge rules that this IS harassment, I've got a whole list of things I think I could get away with suing over. If there is any financial compensation for misdemeanor harassment, I plan on taking these issues to court and retiring at age 45.
Things I qualify as harassment:
- Farting in my presence. Especially on purpose, as almost every one of my friends thinks it's acceptable to do. $200 per occurrence.
- Borrowing my office supplies and not returning them to the original location. $50
- Looking at me. $15
- Upholding the "If it's brown, flush it down. If it's yellow, let it mellow" theory in a public restroom. $100
- Not upholding the "If it's brown, flush it down" part of that philosophy. $18,000
- Driving the speed limit in the passing lane. $6,000
- Sending me an email forward that is lame. $486
- Sending me an email forward that began circulation in 2001. $468
- Reading this blog regularly and not posting a comment. $50
- Giving me unsolicited advice about something I do not want your advice on. $2,500
- Cell phone addiction: answering the cell phone when you and I are talking without any apology; driving while talking on your phone; being LOUD while on your phone in a public place; answering your cell in a movie. $300-$4,500
- Having yellow toenails and wearing flip flops. $75
- Being a poor conversationalist. $20
- Believing that God put George Bush in office. $5
- Running with scissors. $0 (I'll pay you $.05)
- Using the word "awesome" in every sentence. $30
- Reading your poetry in public. $800
- Complaining about cats. $TBD
Kidney failure CAN be fun!
It would seem that years of renal failure leading to a kidney transplant would be a downer, but apparently not. When fellow bloggers leave comments you can click on their name and follow back to their own blog. Recently a comment was left by a San Franciscan who has gone through the afore mentioned occasion. His blog is pretty damn funny.
It is called Immunopressed.blogspot.com. I really suggest you check it out sometime. I created a link to it on the right hand side of the page.
I am assuming he was pretty funny prior to this life altering event, and it is a good sign that having your kidneys replaced does not effect your sense of humor. I am concerned that I might be slowly killing my liver, and I don't want to eventually have a liver transplant and become a spiritless, drab person.
It is called Immunopressed.blogspot.com. I really suggest you check it out sometime. I created a link to it on the right hand side of the page.
I am assuming he was pretty funny prior to this life altering event, and it is a good sign that having your kidneys replaced does not effect your sense of humor. I am concerned that I might be slowly killing my liver, and I don't want to eventually have a liver transplant and become a spiritless, drab person.
Friday, August 25, 2006
Confidence
It was a Friday night of nothing special, so I showed up in a Hard Rock Cafe t-shirt (I'm not proud) and limited attention to "the look". I was brining a coworker's 3 kids to my best friend's house. Kim told her daughter, Lily, that I was bringing boys with me. I've come to realize that "it" starts early.
I knocked on the door and entered the house with the boys. When Lily strutted out, THIS is what she had on. Kim told me that once Lily had heard that I was bringing boys over, she
went through several outfits before deciding on the perfect one. The one you see is the one she elected to wear. She wore it all night- even at Pizza Hut AND at the Kid's World where we rode go-carts, ice skated, and played miniature golf. Even when the tierra fell into her eyes while driving her go-cart, she refused to take it off.
I wish all of us still had the confidence to wear a tierra in public.
I knocked on the door and entered the house with the boys. When Lily strutted out, THIS is what she had on. Kim told me that once Lily had heard that I was bringing boys over, she
went through several outfits before deciding on the perfect one. The one you see is the one she elected to wear. She wore it all night- even at Pizza Hut AND at the Kid's World where we rode go-carts, ice skated, and played miniature golf. Even when the tierra fell into her eyes while driving her go-cart, she refused to take it off. I wish all of us still had the confidence to wear a tierra in public.
By the way, I would like to point out my hairstyle. It is in primal form, but notice how the bangs are poking 
in my eye? It's gotten worse since the picture. Since I couldn't find the Sandra Bullock photo that inspired the blinding hair, I attached a Terry Hatcher photo that's mostly the same. As a matter of fact, I'm not at all convinced that Sandy and Terry aren't the same woman.
Anti planet counter point
Killer discusses his life long dream of inter-planetary dominance
This is a rebuttal to Liz's blog lamenting the demise of Pluto. To fully appreciate this you need to scroll down and read the previous post first.
So, the loss of Pluto upsets some people. Not me. I have been wanting to knock out a few of the lesser planets for quite some time now. I specifically remember sitting in elementary school and when asked to name the nine planets, I would usually forget Pluto. At that point I made it my life's goal to rid the universe of that insignificant little ball of ice.
After years of lobbying the powerful, yet discreet, International Astronomical Union, my goal has been realized and Pluto is no more. Some might consider me the "Jack Abramoff" of the astronomy world, and I embrace this title. Literally dozens of dollars were spread around by myself and a few shell companies, greasing the palms of a few well placed scientists and their assistants. I am not afraid to admit that an occasional strong arm tactic, like giving a wedgie, is all it took.
Some of you might think that the downfall of a tiny planet 2.66 billion miles away is not really an important issue, but when your dream is to someday Lord over every known planet with an iron fist, controlling all inhabitants with a mixture of fear and a well oiled propaganda machine, then it is very important. There is now one less planet to conquer.
The second stage is now in effect. I am going to bombard Disney with a letter writing campaign until they remove that damn mute dog of the same name. I will not cease until the memory of all things Pluto are erased from the collective thoughts of society.
This is a rebuttal to Liz's blog lamenting the demise of Pluto. To fully appreciate this you need to scroll down and read the previous post first.
So, the loss of Pluto upsets some people. Not me. I have been wanting to knock out a few of the lesser planets for quite some time now. I specifically remember sitting in elementary school and when asked to name the nine planets, I would usually forget Pluto. At that point I made it my life's goal to rid the universe of that insignificant little ball of ice.
After years of lobbying the powerful, yet discreet, International Astronomical Union, my goal has been realized and Pluto is no more. Some might consider me the "Jack Abramoff" of the astronomy world, and I embrace this title. Literally dozens of dollars were spread around by myself and a few shell companies, greasing the palms of a few well placed scientists and their assistants. I am not afraid to admit that an occasional strong arm tactic, like giving a wedgie, is all it took.
Some of you might think that the downfall of a tiny planet 2.66 billion miles away is not really an important issue, but when your dream is to someday Lord over every known planet with an iron fist, controlling all inhabitants with a mixture of fear and a well oiled propaganda machine, then it is very important. There is now one less planet to conquer.
The second stage is now in effect. I am going to bombard Disney with a letter writing campaign until they remove that damn mute dog of the same name. I will not cease until the memory of all things Pluto are erased from the collective thoughts of society.
Rock My World
From Inner Planet Janet:
I feel as if nothing is as it was. With the news of Pluto being downgraded to nothing more than a big, cold rock, it's like the universe is shrinking before our very eyes! What's next? Alaska? Hawaii? Are they going to be taken away too?
I'm really disappointed by the decision to downgrade. That's what happens when you have a bunch of minimalists calling the shots- Like the universe was getting too big for her britches; As if there was just too much clutter in the voids of space. Those assholes. Solar System Science is obviously run by dictators. I don't remember being invited to vote on this. Even when the fat Elvis stamp I voted for lost I could accept it because I had a voice.
You always want science to find MORE, not less. Seriously. What would happen if the cable company dropped 15 channels from their line-up without 16 acceptable replacements? I'll tell you what would happen- street rallies and sit-ins. Think of how pissed off non smokers would be if "science" decided that second-hand smoke really had no health risks. "We eggheads are downgrading the health risks of cigarette smoke from a likely cause of lung cancer to a mere inconvenience." Nonsmokers would be infuriated because there would be no scientific evidence to support their moral superiority. The list goes on and on. I don't think I need mention the can of whoop-ass that would be opened if monster truck tires had to be downsized.
The only acceptable downsizing is the size of my ass. For everything else, bigger is better.
I heard a rumor that they were going to add some new planets. I'm ok with this, but I heard that the new planets had numbers for names. UNACCEPTABLE. Only a dork wants to get his telescope out to look at KX-73 rising in the east. True story: When I was younger I used to think about the day that scientists would discover new planets. I picked out names for the celestial bodies so that I would be ready when asked. Little did I know that Adolph Hitler was in charge of planet naming.
You know what? Science sucks.
Good bye, Pluto. You will be missed.
I feel as if nothing is as it was. With the news of Pluto being downgraded to nothing more than a big, cold rock, it's like the universe is shrinking before our very eyes! What's next? Alaska? Hawaii? Are they going to be taken away too?
I'm really disappointed by the decision to downgrade. That's what happens when you have a bunch of minimalists calling the shots- Like the universe was getting too big for her britches; As if there was just too much clutter in the voids of space. Those assholes. Solar System Science is obviously run by dictators. I don't remember being invited to vote on this. Even when the fat Elvis stamp I voted for lost I could accept it because I had a voice.
You always want science to find MORE, not less. Seriously. What would happen if the cable company dropped 15 channels from their line-up without 16 acceptable replacements? I'll tell you what would happen- street rallies and sit-ins. Think of how pissed off non smokers would be if "science" decided that second-hand smoke really had no health risks. "We eggheads are downgrading the health risks of cigarette smoke from a likely cause of lung cancer to a mere inconvenience." Nonsmokers would be infuriated because there would be no scientific evidence to support their moral superiority. The list goes on and on. I don't think I need mention the can of whoop-ass that would be opened if monster truck tires had to be downsized.
The only acceptable downsizing is the size of my ass. For everything else, bigger is better.
I heard a rumor that they were going to add some new planets. I'm ok with this, but I heard that the new planets had numbers for names. UNACCEPTABLE. Only a dork wants to get his telescope out to look at KX-73 rising in the east. True story: When I was younger I used to think about the day that scientists would discover new planets. I picked out names for the celestial bodies so that I would be ready when asked. Little did I know that Adolph Hitler was in charge of planet naming.
You know what? Science sucks.
Good bye, Pluto. You will be missed.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Funny Thought (at least to me)
Killer posts, then apologizes in advance
I realize that for many of you who read this and are only friends of Liz, and don't know me, probably think this would be a much more enjoyable blog if there were not the occasional bizarre, or grotesque entries by this "Killer" fellow. Any hopes I have of changing your mind will not be helped by this particular entry.
I was watching a random health channel show and it happened to mention surgery on the testicles. Immediately I was intrigued. The part that caught my attention was the statement that post-operatively there is a need to keep the testicles dry. I was concerned with this. Although I have no intention of ever requiring surgery on any part of my groin, I am not sure if I can keep them dry. If some of you have not noticed, I am a bit on the portly side. I have to walk around a lot for my job, which means I sweat profusely, and not just from my arm pits.
I was watching this show and I thought to myself, "my balls sweat like a whore in church."
What made this thought funny to me was the possibility that somewhere, at the very same moment, there could potentially be a whore in church thinking to herself, "I am sweating like a fat guy's balls."
I realize that for many of you who read this and are only friends of Liz, and don't know me, probably think this would be a much more enjoyable blog if there were not the occasional bizarre, or grotesque entries by this "Killer" fellow. Any hopes I have of changing your mind will not be helped by this particular entry.
I was watching a random health channel show and it happened to mention surgery on the testicles. Immediately I was intrigued. The part that caught my attention was the statement that post-operatively there is a need to keep the testicles dry. I was concerned with this. Although I have no intention of ever requiring surgery on any part of my groin, I am not sure if I can keep them dry. If some of you have not noticed, I am a bit on the portly side. I have to walk around a lot for my job, which means I sweat profusely, and not just from my arm pits.
I was watching this show and I thought to myself, "my balls sweat like a whore in church."
What made this thought funny to me was the possibility that somewhere, at the very same moment, there could potentially be a whore in church thinking to herself, "I am sweating like a fat guy's balls."
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Cancel My Life, Please
The new Liz writes:
I've got to go on some sort of soul searching journey. No, Killer, I'm not sure if a trip to your house will cleanse. I'm going to be a work in progress for a while, consumed with myself. Hummm... phrased like that, I fear that you may not be able to tell any difference. It's all this coaching and consulting crap that I do with my job. It's like I've passed out and woke up in the middle of an Oprah show intervention. I guess there are worse things? Like waking up on Dr. Phil?
I suspect that if your gut says move this way, you should move. Didn't you learn anything from Phinocio and his friend, the insect, that gave such good advice when he wasn't busy crawling around on poop or rubbing his legs together? Jimminy Cricket. Now THAT was one smart bug! He wore a hat and had a cane, so he was obviously intelligent.
Kim accused me of being SAPPY last night. ME? Sappy? She said that an essay I had written shocked her because it came from me and was so sugary. Like an email forward. I want to send it out as a forward and see if it gets passed back around to me 2 or 3 years down the road. Wouldn't that be awesome? Especially if someone had tried to claim it as their own.
Part of this insanity includes re-enrolling in school to finish my Master's Degree. This totally blows, but I figure I've already got about 8 grand invested in "higher ed", so I might as well. I cannot tell you how agonizing this is for me. I do not exaggerate. I would not be opposed to illegally purchasing a degree if the price was right. It's that bad. I'm considering illegal activity!
I've got to go on some sort of soul searching journey. No, Killer, I'm not sure if a trip to your house will cleanse. I'm going to be a work in progress for a while, consumed with myself. Hummm... phrased like that, I fear that you may not be able to tell any difference. It's all this coaching and consulting crap that I do with my job. It's like I've passed out and woke up in the middle of an Oprah show intervention. I guess there are worse things? Like waking up on Dr. Phil?
I suspect that if your gut says move this way, you should move. Didn't you learn anything from Phinocio and his friend, the insect, that gave such good advice when he wasn't busy crawling around on poop or rubbing his legs together? Jimminy Cricket. Now THAT was one smart bug! He wore a hat and had a cane, so he was obviously intelligent.
Kim accused me of being SAPPY last night. ME? Sappy? She said that an essay I had written shocked her because it came from me and was so sugary. Like an email forward. I want to send it out as a forward and see if it gets passed back around to me 2 or 3 years down the road. Wouldn't that be awesome? Especially if someone had tried to claim it as their own.
Part of this insanity includes re-enrolling in school to finish my Master's Degree. This totally blows, but I figure I've already got about 8 grand invested in "higher ed", so I might as well. I cannot tell you how agonizing this is for me. I do not exaggerate. I would not be opposed to illegally purchasing a degree if the price was right. It's that bad. I'm considering illegal activity!
The new Liz does NOT approve.
Why did I think September 1 would be an appropriate stop date for smoking?
Monday, August 21, 2006
Sweet Slumber
Through blood-shot eyes, Liz tries to make sense:
It's 12:40. AM. I have to be up at 4. AM. I cannot sleep. This is not a usual problem for me. I'm not sure what to do in this situation. I'm to the point of wondering if it's even worth trying to sleep before the brutal alarm yells at me. I do not do well without sleep. I revert back to a 3 year old in the throws of a 15 hour temper tantrum. What would you do if you were me? I'm busy at work all day tomorrow, so I cannot take a lunch nap. I'm frightened of what daylight is going to bring.
Tomorrow night will be awesome. I've already planned it. I will come home from work (forget going to register for school) and go straight to bed. I can't wait. I may even take a Tylenol PM to ensure that there is no insomnia. Two nights in a row and I think I would melt.
I would not make a good spy. Sleep deprivation would cause me to tell all secrets. All they would have to do is turn the AC down, dim the lights, show me a down comforter and I would spill the beans. Yes, those jeans do make you look fat. Yes, your baby is ugly. No, there is no Santa. The nuclear warheads are hidden in Rhode Island. Whatever. Just hand me a pillow.
I slept all weekend. Really. I got 12 hours in on Saturday and equally as much on Sunday. Do you think that this is pay back for my sloth? That's really not fair. Days should be independent of each other. I'm big on independence. Why should I be punished because I'm single and don't have kids?
I find the obsession with Jennifer Aniston to be annoying. This repulsion is going on 10 years now. Yet, as I was lying in bed letting thoughts whiz past me, I actually formed this question in my mind, "I wonder if she really is engaged to Vince Vaughn?" I then spent approximately 6 minutes thinking about what it would be like to have been married to Brad Pitt. That made me think of Angelia Jolie, which made me think about African babies. That made me think about adoption, which caused me to link back to a tv show on being your own twin. I then think I felt a wrinkle in the universe, so I decided to blog about it.
I have been talking trash. I've SAID I was going to try and quit smoking on September 1. Now, that's only a couple of weeks away and I'm getting disturbed by my declaration. I need to quit. I kind of want to quit. Apparently, health is one of those things I'll care about once it's too late. I do that sometimes. Care too late.
It's 1 AM. I have to be up in 3 hours. I wonder if I went ahead and showered and went into work if that could count. I one time had this problem (but I woke up at 3 instead of went to bed at 3) so I did go ahead and go to work. I barely made it there without falling asleep at the wheel. I ended up sleeping in the parking lot until 7 that morning. That's as close to being a hobo as I've ever been unless you count a couple of New Orleans trips and one night in the park.
I'm tired, but not sleepy. I would really enjoy an Odd Couple rerun right now.
Sweet dreams. Let me know how they turn out.
It's 12:40. AM. I have to be up at 4. AM. I cannot sleep. This is not a usual problem for me. I'm not sure what to do in this situation. I'm to the point of wondering if it's even worth trying to sleep before the brutal alarm yells at me. I do not do well without sleep. I revert back to a 3 year old in the throws of a 15 hour temper tantrum. What would you do if you were me? I'm busy at work all day tomorrow, so I cannot take a lunch nap. I'm frightened of what daylight is going to bring.
Tomorrow night will be awesome. I've already planned it. I will come home from work (forget going to register for school) and go straight to bed. I can't wait. I may even take a Tylenol PM to ensure that there is no insomnia. Two nights in a row and I think I would melt.
I would not make a good spy. Sleep deprivation would cause me to tell all secrets. All they would have to do is turn the AC down, dim the lights, show me a down comforter and I would spill the beans. Yes, those jeans do make you look fat. Yes, your baby is ugly. No, there is no Santa. The nuclear warheads are hidden in Rhode Island. Whatever. Just hand me a pillow.
I slept all weekend. Really. I got 12 hours in on Saturday and equally as much on Sunday. Do you think that this is pay back for my sloth? That's really not fair. Days should be independent of each other. I'm big on independence. Why should I be punished because I'm single and don't have kids?
I find the obsession with Jennifer Aniston to be annoying. This repulsion is going on 10 years now. Yet, as I was lying in bed letting thoughts whiz past me, I actually formed this question in my mind, "I wonder if she really is engaged to Vince Vaughn?" I then spent approximately 6 minutes thinking about what it would be like to have been married to Brad Pitt. That made me think of Angelia Jolie, which made me think about African babies. That made me think about adoption, which caused me to link back to a tv show on being your own twin. I then think I felt a wrinkle in the universe, so I decided to blog about it.
I have been talking trash. I've SAID I was going to try and quit smoking on September 1. Now, that's only a couple of weeks away and I'm getting disturbed by my declaration. I need to quit. I kind of want to quit. Apparently, health is one of those things I'll care about once it's too late. I do that sometimes. Care too late.
It's 1 AM. I have to be up in 3 hours. I wonder if I went ahead and showered and went into work if that could count. I one time had this problem (but I woke up at 3 instead of went to bed at 3) so I did go ahead and go to work. I barely made it there without falling asleep at the wheel. I ended up sleeping in the parking lot until 7 that morning. That's as close to being a hobo as I've ever been unless you count a couple of New Orleans trips and one night in the park.
I'm tired, but not sleepy. I would really enjoy an Odd Couple rerun right now.
Sweet dreams. Let me know how they turn out.
Saturday, August 19, 2006
Kiss My Ass, Sandra Bullock
Liz peeks:
I'm not a repulsive looking person; I do not scare young children- but I've done almost everything humanly possible to ruin the few good genes my parents did pass along to me. My mother was a knockout in her youth and has managed to creep into middle age gracefully. I, however, take after my dad- who is certainly not an ogre but also not a competitor for a slot on the Chippendale circuit. In other words, I had potential to be above average in the looks department. Notice I used a past tense helping verb? I have done almost everything I can do in my 34 years to pull into the fast lane of unattractiveness. I have smoked, eaten only the highest calorie foods and have avoided sweat most of my life. I'm drinking a beer right now and don't think it's a light.
To compensate (I guess) I started going to the tanning bed- which will age you faster than having 2 year olds in the house. That has not been enough as I've gained about 15 pounds this week. So my new "trick" (because I'll be dammed if I'm going to lose weight or give up cocktails) is to grow my bangs out. This was inspired by a picture of Sandra Bullock on the cover of Vanity Fair.
Now I can't see shit. I try to type and I can't see the screen. I try to drive and I can't see the road. It has gotten out of control. My bangs have actually poked my eyeballs and made my eyes water in pain. I could brush my bangs to the side, but when I try that I look like I'm on a field trip from the group home. That's not going to get me a date.
This blog is a request. Do you know a wealthy blind man looking for a hook up? His looks don't matter. I can't see anyway.
I'm not a repulsive looking person; I do not scare young children- but I've done almost everything humanly possible to ruin the few good genes my parents did pass along to me. My mother was a knockout in her youth and has managed to creep into middle age gracefully. I, however, take after my dad- who is certainly not an ogre but also not a competitor for a slot on the Chippendale circuit. In other words, I had potential to be above average in the looks department. Notice I used a past tense helping verb? I have done almost everything I can do in my 34 years to pull into the fast lane of unattractiveness. I have smoked, eaten only the highest calorie foods and have avoided sweat most of my life. I'm drinking a beer right now and don't think it's a light.
To compensate (I guess) I started going to the tanning bed- which will age you faster than having 2 year olds in the house. That has not been enough as I've gained about 15 pounds this week. So my new "trick" (because I'll be dammed if I'm going to lose weight or give up cocktails) is to grow my bangs out. This was inspired by a picture of Sandra Bullock on the cover of Vanity Fair.
Now I can't see shit. I try to type and I can't see the screen. I try to drive and I can't see the road. It has gotten out of control. My bangs have actually poked my eyeballs and made my eyes water in pain. I could brush my bangs to the side, but when I try that I look like I'm on a field trip from the group home. That's not going to get me a date.
This blog is a request. Do you know a wealthy blind man looking for a hook up? His looks don't matter. I can't see anyway.
Procrastination Vs. Disgusting, Lazy Pig
Written from atop a pile of dirty clothes and old pizza boxes by Killer
Living alone is both a blessing and a curse. I can let my apartment become the epitome of filth and disgust, but once it gets out of control I can not blame it on a roommate or significant other.
A few days ago I collected all the garbage that had mysteriously accumulated on my counter tops and end tables, bagged it up and placed the bag right in front of the door. The rationale was, I would now be forced to take the refuse to the garbage shoot, which is inconveniently located all the way down the hall from my apartment. The fatal flaw in my plan, however, is my amazing ability to procrastinate and then ignore a problem. The garbage bag has since been unceremoniously kicked to the side and still sits, dejected and confused, awaiting its journey to wherever it is the garbage shoot leads.
Usually I clean up my apartment right before someone is to visit. I am diligent at appearing clean. I will clean my apartment from top to bottom, but lately my apartment has become a testament to my ever-depressing social life. Since no one has been to my apartment, there is no reason to clean. I returned from my vacation almost two weeks ago, but my suitcase is still lying in the middle of my living room floor. Even worse, it is open, since I have been digging through it in the hope that a clean pair of underwear might be hidden somewhere in the back. Once again my faulty reasoning said to put it in the middle of the living room, so I could not avoid it and wait two weeks to empty it properly and store it away. One would think that after 33 years I would know me better, but lately it seems as if I just met myself.
I need to collect all the empty bottles and to go boxes off my kitchen counter. It would do me some good to get rid of all the junk mail that keeps appearing on my table. My concern with carrying this out is I don't want two bags of garbage gathered at my door. It is hard enough to step over one bag on the way out, and trip over it on the way back in. Two would quickly become a fire hazard or potential lawsuit, should a burglar trip over them while sneaking in under the darkness of night.
If only the garbage shoot wasn't so damn far away. If only the management of my apartment building would respond reasonably to my repeated complaints and requests for a garbage shoot to be placed closer to my apartment. If only my window were not painted shut so I could toss the bags out them. My life would be so much easier with at least one of these if's corrected. I don't ask for all of them, one would do.
I think I am going to go through the garbage bags to make sure there is nothing with my name or apartment number on it, and then just leave them in the elevator. Somebody is sure to spot them and take them to the garbage shoot for me.
Living alone is both a blessing and a curse. I can let my apartment become the epitome of filth and disgust, but once it gets out of control I can not blame it on a roommate or significant other.
A few days ago I collected all the garbage that had mysteriously accumulated on my counter tops and end tables, bagged it up and placed the bag right in front of the door. The rationale was, I would now be forced to take the refuse to the garbage shoot, which is inconveniently located all the way down the hall from my apartment. The fatal flaw in my plan, however, is my amazing ability to procrastinate and then ignore a problem. The garbage bag has since been unceremoniously kicked to the side and still sits, dejected and confused, awaiting its journey to wherever it is the garbage shoot leads.
Usually I clean up my apartment right before someone is to visit. I am diligent at appearing clean. I will clean my apartment from top to bottom, but lately my apartment has become a testament to my ever-depressing social life. Since no one has been to my apartment, there is no reason to clean. I returned from my vacation almost two weeks ago, but my suitcase is still lying in the middle of my living room floor. Even worse, it is open, since I have been digging through it in the hope that a clean pair of underwear might be hidden somewhere in the back. Once again my faulty reasoning said to put it in the middle of the living room, so I could not avoid it and wait two weeks to empty it properly and store it away. One would think that after 33 years I would know me better, but lately it seems as if I just met myself.
I need to collect all the empty bottles and to go boxes off my kitchen counter. It would do me some good to get rid of all the junk mail that keeps appearing on my table. My concern with carrying this out is I don't want two bags of garbage gathered at my door. It is hard enough to step over one bag on the way out, and trip over it on the way back in. Two would quickly become a fire hazard or potential lawsuit, should a burglar trip over them while sneaking in under the darkness of night.
If only the garbage shoot wasn't so damn far away. If only the management of my apartment building would respond reasonably to my repeated complaints and requests for a garbage shoot to be placed closer to my apartment. If only my window were not painted shut so I could toss the bags out them. My life would be so much easier with at least one of these if's corrected. I don't ask for all of them, one would do.
I think I am going to go through the garbage bags to make sure there is nothing with my name or apartment number on it, and then just leave them in the elevator. Somebody is sure to spot them and take them to the garbage shoot for me.
Costa Rica Photos
A picture speaks a thousand words. Some you don't want to hear. By Killer
The return to civilization has been unwelcome and harsh, but I have to persevere for the sake of the next trip. Here are a couple of the photos of our journey. The first is an example of how a great backdrop can make even the ugliest of trios look good. The second is an example of how, with even a small change in the foreground, the beautiful scenery is ruined.
You can see more pictures of the trip by clicking on the Travel Photo link on the right side of the page. It contains shots from all of our world exploratory adventures. I can not promise you will not see my ass again.
The return to civilization has been unwelcome and harsh, but I have to persevere for the sake of the next trip. Here are a couple of the photos of our journey. The first is an example of how a great backdrop can make even the ugliest of trios look good. The second is an example of how, with even a small change in the foreground, the beautiful scenery is ruined.
You can see more pictures of the trip by clicking on the Travel Photo link on the right side of the page. It contains shots from all of our world exploratory adventures. I can not promise you will not see my ass again.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Quit Stealing All My Ideas
Liz types franticly so no one else says it first:
My life is so recycled that watching Seinfeld reruns is like watching bits of my own life unfold on TBS. I was against "The English Patient" before Elaine! I once enjoyed naked Saturdays before Jerry's girlfriend took them a little too far. I was a virgin wanting to get it on with JFK, Jr. It makes me wonder if the universe is really a lot smaller than scientists would have us believe. Is there such a thing as originality? Is it possible for any experience to truly ever be "new"?
My boss is giving me back my own ideas, shelved for months, as his. Not only that, but playing the role of boss means that he explains to me WHY this idea is such a good one. I want to yell, "No shit, Sherlock! It's MY idea. I know how freakin' good it is." But I don't. He usually adds a sense of urgency to "his" idea by saying something like, "We really need to make this happen as soon as possible." To which I want to scream, "Do ya think? That's why I mentioned it 3 months ago!" But I don't. Because otherwise, he's a pretty damn good boss. And it's not just him. Other people do it to me too. It's like an inescapable curse.
The salt in the wound is this new commercial where a group of men are sitting around a conference table. An employee gives an idea; to which silence is the response. Seconds later, another man at the table regurgitates the same ideas to much fan fare and adulation. My life, condensed into a 30-second spot. Ouch.
I have no idea, really, who knows about or reads this blog. Sometimes I am surprised to hear through a friend that there is a dedicated fan out there who I maybe knew for 9 months back in college. That puts some pressure on me. Even though I don't often rant about specific people, I still am aware of the need to use SOME code when I type. I don't want to tell the world that Killer wears women's panties and then Killer read that and feel betrayed. Therefore, I've been thinking about starting my own blog and keeping it top secret. On this blog I would name names. I would describe features. I would go into detail about the quirks and traits of the people whose lives I was serving up before the reader. It would be "journalism", not blogging!
This evening I was checking out "The Company Bitch"- probably my favorite blog ever- and her latest entry was about this exact problem. She had the same solution- start an anonymous blog! She beat me to the punch by 24 hours by writing HER entry first. Not only can I not get credit for the things I do, but I can't get credit for the things I don't do either.
I guess I'm not original. I guess I don't have keen insights to share with the world. I guess I can't manufacture anything that hasn't already been made. To use a phrase I've coined, there's nothing new under the sun.
My life is so recycled that watching Seinfeld reruns is like watching bits of my own life unfold on TBS. I was against "The English Patient" before Elaine! I once enjoyed naked Saturdays before Jerry's girlfriend took them a little too far. I was a virgin wanting to get it on with JFK, Jr. It makes me wonder if the universe is really a lot smaller than scientists would have us believe. Is there such a thing as originality? Is it possible for any experience to truly ever be "new"?
My boss is giving me back my own ideas, shelved for months, as his. Not only that, but playing the role of boss means that he explains to me WHY this idea is such a good one. I want to yell, "No shit, Sherlock! It's MY idea. I know how freakin' good it is." But I don't. He usually adds a sense of urgency to "his" idea by saying something like, "We really need to make this happen as soon as possible." To which I want to scream, "Do ya think? That's why I mentioned it 3 months ago!" But I don't. Because otherwise, he's a pretty damn good boss. And it's not just him. Other people do it to me too. It's like an inescapable curse.
The salt in the wound is this new commercial where a group of men are sitting around a conference table. An employee gives an idea; to which silence is the response. Seconds later, another man at the table regurgitates the same ideas to much fan fare and adulation. My life, condensed into a 30-second spot. Ouch.
I have no idea, really, who knows about or reads this blog. Sometimes I am surprised to hear through a friend that there is a dedicated fan out there who I maybe knew for 9 months back in college. That puts some pressure on me. Even though I don't often rant about specific people, I still am aware of the need to use SOME code when I type. I don't want to tell the world that Killer wears women's panties and then Killer read that and feel betrayed. Therefore, I've been thinking about starting my own blog and keeping it top secret. On this blog I would name names. I would describe features. I would go into detail about the quirks and traits of the people whose lives I was serving up before the reader. It would be "journalism", not blogging!
This evening I was checking out "The Company Bitch"- probably my favorite blog ever- and her latest entry was about this exact problem. She had the same solution- start an anonymous blog! She beat me to the punch by 24 hours by writing HER entry first. Not only can I not get credit for the things I do, but I can't get credit for the things I don't do either.
I guess I'm not original. I guess I don't have keen insights to share with the world. I guess I can't manufacture anything that hasn't already been made. To use a phrase I've coined, there's nothing new under the sun.
Monday, August 14, 2006
Embarrassed by Groceries
Liz relays a friend's plight:
This summer, a friend was swimming at my community pool. Also at the pool were some pre-adolescent boys, their father, and a couple of old women. Too many people at my pool for me to feel comfortable taking my tank top off and revealing "me" in bathing suit glory, but I can share sunshine while pouting.
So my friend is in the water- bobbing and weaving and swimming and playing- like all middle aged women should do frequently- and during her displays, these young boys, around 9 and 12 years old, kept diving under the water, bobbing back up for a breath and to defog their dive masks, then diving down again. No swimming, just bobbing. SEVERAL minutes later, my friend realized that one of her boobs had popped out of her suit. Those little rascals! Getting an eyeful! Well, maybe not an eye full, as she is not all that well endowed, but they were having a peep nonetheless.
When she relayed the story, we had a fine laugh. One thing she said is, "If that had happened 10 years ago, I would have DIED. Now, I just think it's funny and hope I haven't psychologically scarred those boys for life." I couldn't agree more. Although I would probably still be mortified if what happened to her happened to me, there are a lot of things that I am no longer embarrassed by that at one time would have sent me into a hysterical crying fit or caused me retreat to my room and sleep for 3 days.
Two months ago, my boss's boss's boss told me that my pants were unzipped. He handled it very delicately by saying, "I know this is going to embarrass you, but your pants are unzipped." It didn't embarrass me at all! If muff had been hanging out I would have been embarrassed but I don't find that to be a frequent side-effect of unzipped pants, so no worries. We had even had visitors that day and I had stood at the door and greeted all 80 of them. Embarrassed? Nope. It's not a reflection on my level of "class". Let she who has not had a wardrobe malfunction in her life cast the first button.
But today I was embarrassed by groceries. If you've caught up with my blogging, you know I've been out of commission for quite some time. This afternoon, I made the dreaded Wal-Mart trip and bought like a welfare mother when the check comes in (no insult meant to welfare recipients. They just seem to buy in bulk). I'm wheeling my 98 lb. buggy out of the store and ran into a co-worker whom I know, but not so well that I feel totally comfortable with him seeing my feminine hygiene products or the brand of mustard I buy. When he sees me he said, "Do you think you have enough groceries there? DANG!" And he was right! I mean, although I often cook for others, my cart made me look like I have a major eating disorder. I even had TWO boxes of chocolate cake mix. TWO. Why does a single woman need two boxes of cake mix? Well, I know why, but he doesn't.
It's the little things that make us insecure, isn't it? By the way, I have two cake mixes because I want to try and replicate a Hostess Ding Dong- you know, with the creamy white filling in the center of the moist chocolate cake?
Why did typing that make me feel slightly embarrassed too?
This summer, a friend was swimming at my community pool. Also at the pool were some pre-adolescent boys, their father, and a couple of old women. Too many people at my pool for me to feel comfortable taking my tank top off and revealing "me" in bathing suit glory, but I can share sunshine while pouting.
So my friend is in the water- bobbing and weaving and swimming and playing- like all middle aged women should do frequently- and during her displays, these young boys, around 9 and 12 years old, kept diving under the water, bobbing back up for a breath and to defog their dive masks, then diving down again. No swimming, just bobbing. SEVERAL minutes later, my friend realized that one of her boobs had popped out of her suit. Those little rascals! Getting an eyeful! Well, maybe not an eye full, as she is not all that well endowed, but they were having a peep nonetheless.
When she relayed the story, we had a fine laugh. One thing she said is, "If that had happened 10 years ago, I would have DIED. Now, I just think it's funny and hope I haven't psychologically scarred those boys for life." I couldn't agree more. Although I would probably still be mortified if what happened to her happened to me, there are a lot of things that I am no longer embarrassed by that at one time would have sent me into a hysterical crying fit or caused me retreat to my room and sleep for 3 days.
Two months ago, my boss's boss's boss told me that my pants were unzipped. He handled it very delicately by saying, "I know this is going to embarrass you, but your pants are unzipped." It didn't embarrass me at all! If muff had been hanging out I would have been embarrassed but I don't find that to be a frequent side-effect of unzipped pants, so no worries. We had even had visitors that day and I had stood at the door and greeted all 80 of them. Embarrassed? Nope. It's not a reflection on my level of "class". Let she who has not had a wardrobe malfunction in her life cast the first button.
But today I was embarrassed by groceries. If you've caught up with my blogging, you know I've been out of commission for quite some time. This afternoon, I made the dreaded Wal-Mart trip and bought like a welfare mother when the check comes in (no insult meant to welfare recipients. They just seem to buy in bulk). I'm wheeling my 98 lb. buggy out of the store and ran into a co-worker whom I know, but not so well that I feel totally comfortable with him seeing my feminine hygiene products or the brand of mustard I buy. When he sees me he said, "Do you think you have enough groceries there? DANG!" And he was right! I mean, although I often cook for others, my cart made me look like I have a major eating disorder. I even had TWO boxes of chocolate cake mix. TWO. Why does a single woman need two boxes of cake mix? Well, I know why, but he doesn't.
It's the little things that make us insecure, isn't it? By the way, I have two cake mixes because I want to try and replicate a Hostess Ding Dong- you know, with the creamy white filling in the center of the moist chocolate cake?
Why did typing that make me feel slightly embarrassed too?
Saturday, August 12, 2006
Liz's "Tone" Problem
I am not a bitchy person. Especially since I've gotten older. I have really mellowed out and let (a lot of) things roll. However, when I'm quiet, I get accused of being "rude" or "hateful". This would be funny if it didn't piss me off so much!
I also recognize irony when I type it.
I do get frustrated with people's slow reactions. I do suffer from pangs over low-performance in others. I must admit that I have trouble tolerating intolerance. BUT I really don't have a mean streak; I have a teeny-tiny "revenge streak", but not a mean streak. I never yell (although I talk so loudly always that it borders yelling), I don't throw things- including fits- and I try to empathize with others. I care. Sincerely. Until I don't care anymore. That's fair, isn't it?
People confuse honesty with bitchiness.
I recently read a book on getting in touch with your inner bitch. I'm there- could have written the book! It was about living life on your terms and allowing others to do the same. Of course! What other way is there? I think "detachment" is a great skill- one of my talents, actually. If we don't see eye-to-eye and there is not a great need for us to be unified, I detach. You go your way, I go mine. I see that as BEAUTIFUL but I'm realizing that other's don't. I'm lost here...
Many of my friends share this characteristic with me, but not many of them at the level that I possess it. We are united in the recognition that approval from others is nice, but not at the expense of compromising our character or souls. We all seem to operate under the assumption that it's ok to honestly speak your mind- how else to find out if there is a base of understanding between two people? Once you know that there is commonality in core beliefs, true and strong friendships can be made and they last. Forever. I'm this way always- I'm the same person at work that I am at home. There is no "good Liz, bad Liz". "work Liz, home Liz"- it is always JUST LIZ. Love it or leave it, but please don't bitch about it.
I think one of the things that some people love about me and that some people hate about me is that I am theatrical. I don't try to be this way, it just is. It's never "I saw a nice sunset Thursday night," it is instead, "The most beautiful rays of light were filtering through the clouds, casting a glow on the Earth that took my breath away." I'm not lying about what I saw. I'm hyper-descriptive in what I saw. I'm this way with EVERYTHING. How can I be different? Really, that's a question. Apparently, this characteristic is a problem for some people. I try to dismiss them- detach from them- but they won't let me. You see my dilemma? THEY are not in touch with their inner bitch, and it's causing ME problems.
I would like to have a web page dedicated to people that suffer this affliction. It would be titled "Truth Hurts" and be like a "Dear Abby" for web readers. I would reply to all inquires then, always, the last line of my response would be "Fuck 'em" or "Fuck you"- which ever was most appropriate.
On another note, I think I have a mild psychological problem. I am in love with my pets. I try not to spoil my cats because I do not want them to be brats. I have actually gotten compliments on how well-behaved they are. I beam with pride at such statements. However, I feel this commitment is becoming something worthy of being committed. I am allowing them to take over the whole bed at night- to the point that I am having to sleep in awkward positions as to not disturb the kitties. There are two of them, and I am at their beck and call. I will get up at night if one of them refused to come in at bedtime- worried that he might be stranded outside, wondering where the love has gone. I don't want either of my boys to suffer any emotional damage. THAT IS JUST PLAIN PSYCHO. They are cats with walnut sized brains. Why can't I learn to say "Fuck 'em" and get the shut-eye I so desperately need?
I also recognize irony when I type it.
I do get frustrated with people's slow reactions. I do suffer from pangs over low-performance in others. I must admit that I have trouble tolerating intolerance. BUT I really don't have a mean streak; I have a teeny-tiny "revenge streak", but not a mean streak. I never yell (although I talk so loudly always that it borders yelling), I don't throw things- including fits- and I try to empathize with others. I care. Sincerely. Until I don't care anymore. That's fair, isn't it?
People confuse honesty with bitchiness.
I recently read a book on getting in touch with your inner bitch. I'm there- could have written the book! It was about living life on your terms and allowing others to do the same. Of course! What other way is there? I think "detachment" is a great skill- one of my talents, actually. If we don't see eye-to-eye and there is not a great need for us to be unified, I detach. You go your way, I go mine. I see that as BEAUTIFUL but I'm realizing that other's don't. I'm lost here...
Many of my friends share this characteristic with me, but not many of them at the level that I possess it. We are united in the recognition that approval from others is nice, but not at the expense of compromising our character or souls. We all seem to operate under the assumption that it's ok to honestly speak your mind- how else to find out if there is a base of understanding between two people? Once you know that there is commonality in core beliefs, true and strong friendships can be made and they last. Forever. I'm this way always- I'm the same person at work that I am at home. There is no "good Liz, bad Liz". "work Liz, home Liz"- it is always JUST LIZ. Love it or leave it, but please don't bitch about it.
I think one of the things that some people love about me and that some people hate about me is that I am theatrical. I don't try to be this way, it just is. It's never "I saw a nice sunset Thursday night," it is instead, "The most beautiful rays of light were filtering through the clouds, casting a glow on the Earth that took my breath away." I'm not lying about what I saw. I'm hyper-descriptive in what I saw. I'm this way with EVERYTHING. How can I be different? Really, that's a question. Apparently, this characteristic is a problem for some people. I try to dismiss them- detach from them- but they won't let me. You see my dilemma? THEY are not in touch with their inner bitch, and it's causing ME problems.
I would like to have a web page dedicated to people that suffer this affliction. It would be titled "Truth Hurts" and be like a "Dear Abby" for web readers. I would reply to all inquires then, always, the last line of my response would be "Fuck 'em" or "Fuck you"- which ever was most appropriate.
On another note, I think I have a mild psychological problem. I am in love with my pets. I try not to spoil my cats because I do not want them to be brats. I have actually gotten compliments on how well-behaved they are. I beam with pride at such statements. However, I feel this commitment is becoming something worthy of being committed. I am allowing them to take over the whole bed at night- to the point that I am having to sleep in awkward positions as to not disturb the kitties. There are two of them, and I am at their beck and call. I will get up at night if one of them refused to come in at bedtime- worried that he might be stranded outside, wondering where the love has gone. I don't want either of my boys to suffer any emotional damage. THAT IS JUST PLAIN PSYCHO. They are cats with walnut sized brains. Why can't I learn to say "Fuck 'em" and get the shut-eye I so desperately need?
Nurse Jekyll and Ms. Hyde
Liz plays catch-up with a genuine RANT:
Although it appears from the lack of inquires on this blog about MY whereabouts or doings that this loving correspondent hasn't been too greatly missed, I will post a second entry today for my silent admirers- both of you. We all know Killer is off on a jaunt in the rainforest, having high adventures with his pals, living high on the hog, out roughing it in the AC and Internet cafes of Costa Rica. Two weeks of doing whatever the Hell he wants to do... and all it takes to live this dream is a job with extreme flexibility and mountains of cash; neither of which I have.
But I have been thinking much about our diarist, Killer, of late. Yesterday and this evening I will be spending a lot of time in the hospital with my mother who has had a second mastecomy due to breast cancer. I hope you never have to see a parent so fragile and so weak. It will affect you. Anyway, I've been dealing with a lot of nurses and have come to some conclusions about people who assume this career: Some of them are borderline retarded.
I know from being a close friend of Killer's that nursing is a job- just like driving a truck, teaching a class, selling insurance and rolling sushi is a job. I know that people become numbers and that you get immune to their shock and surprise, their ignorance, their questions. I know that your shift sucks if you don't have time in the day to catch up with Oprah or "your stories". I understand. What I don't understand is how you can forget the magnitude of this being someone's wife, mother, or friend and that when you forget medication, or you never answer the call button, or when you breeze into a room, are there for 15 minutes and never speak, that the family takes that shit personally.
My parents are "don't cause a wave" kind of people. I admire my parents' kindness and interest in others; their recognition of treating people well so that they, in return, will treat you well. Mom has already nicknamed her male nurse "Big Al"- who is not big, so that makes it very funny to me- and her female nurse "Splenda" because her name is Salinda and Mom says she'll never remember that. Mom apologizes when she weakly whispers a request for something like ice. "I hate to bother you, but could I get some ice? Whenever you have the time. I'm sorry to be such a bother." In other words, in my estimation, these people ARE the patients you dream for.
So, I hope you can understand when I say that I appreciate those nurses who are thoughtful in return. Those that take the time to inquire, provide the family with information, are knowledgeable about their field, see the big picture and understand the next steps and how things might unfold. I am enraged by those nurses who are too stupid to run a cash register and yet have been placed solo in a room with my mother as her only support and source of care during this time that she is absolutely helpless. It might upset you when you're at a 7-11 and the cashier gets your change wrong, but you're not going to dehydrate or die because of it. We have those nurses.
It disturbed me when a group of nurses stood outside my mom's hospital door and pointed in the room at the attending nurse and said, "Let's get our camera. She actually looks like she's working!" WHAT? You've put my mom under the care of the laziest nurse in the hospital? Why does this bitch have a JOB in the recovery unit of a hospital if she never works? Why do you look dazed and confused when I use a word like "invasive"? Do you know what that means? When an exiting nurse says, "She can have meds for nausea", then 30 minutes later the patient says she feels nauseated, why do stand there and say,"That will pass." Did you get your nursing degree via correspondence courses from Bolivia?
One other thing: Let's get back to scrubs that are one color. Pick a color, any color: Green, pink, blue, white- define your personality that way. Wear a pin on your scrubs for God's sake. No Fred's Dollar Store-looking flower prints, Disney characters, racecars, or peppermint candy prints on your scrubs unless you work with patients under 8 years old. When you wear that, you look like an idiot, and then when you open your mouth, you confirm it.
I've got some scrub pants at home. I'm going to wear them tonight with a Pac-Man t-shirt and see just how many people ask ME to bring them ice. And you know what? I'll get it for them.
Although it appears from the lack of inquires on this blog about MY whereabouts or doings that this loving correspondent hasn't been too greatly missed, I will post a second entry today for my silent admirers- both of you. We all know Killer is off on a jaunt in the rainforest, having high adventures with his pals, living high on the hog, out roughing it in the AC and Internet cafes of Costa Rica. Two weeks of doing whatever the Hell he wants to do... and all it takes to live this dream is a job with extreme flexibility and mountains of cash; neither of which I have.
But I have been thinking much about our diarist, Killer, of late. Yesterday and this evening I will be spending a lot of time in the hospital with my mother who has had a second mastecomy due to breast cancer. I hope you never have to see a parent so fragile and so weak. It will affect you. Anyway, I've been dealing with a lot of nurses and have come to some conclusions about people who assume this career: Some of them are borderline retarded.
I know from being a close friend of Killer's that nursing is a job- just like driving a truck, teaching a class, selling insurance and rolling sushi is a job. I know that people become numbers and that you get immune to their shock and surprise, their ignorance, their questions. I know that your shift sucks if you don't have time in the day to catch up with Oprah or "your stories". I understand. What I don't understand is how you can forget the magnitude of this being someone's wife, mother, or friend and that when you forget medication, or you never answer the call button, or when you breeze into a room, are there for 15 minutes and never speak, that the family takes that shit personally.
My parents are "don't cause a wave" kind of people. I admire my parents' kindness and interest in others; their recognition of treating people well so that they, in return, will treat you well. Mom has already nicknamed her male nurse "Big Al"- who is not big, so that makes it very funny to me- and her female nurse "Splenda" because her name is Salinda and Mom says she'll never remember that. Mom apologizes when she weakly whispers a request for something like ice. "I hate to bother you, but could I get some ice? Whenever you have the time. I'm sorry to be such a bother." In other words, in my estimation, these people ARE the patients you dream for.
So, I hope you can understand when I say that I appreciate those nurses who are thoughtful in return. Those that take the time to inquire, provide the family with information, are knowledgeable about their field, see the big picture and understand the next steps and how things might unfold. I am enraged by those nurses who are too stupid to run a cash register and yet have been placed solo in a room with my mother as her only support and source of care during this time that she is absolutely helpless. It might upset you when you're at a 7-11 and the cashier gets your change wrong, but you're not going to dehydrate or die because of it. We have those nurses.
It disturbed me when a group of nurses stood outside my mom's hospital door and pointed in the room at the attending nurse and said, "Let's get our camera. She actually looks like she's working!" WHAT? You've put my mom under the care of the laziest nurse in the hospital? Why does this bitch have a JOB in the recovery unit of a hospital if she never works? Why do you look dazed and confused when I use a word like "invasive"? Do you know what that means? When an exiting nurse says, "She can have meds for nausea", then 30 minutes later the patient says she feels nauseated, why do stand there and say,"That will pass." Did you get your nursing degree via correspondence courses from Bolivia?
One other thing: Let's get back to scrubs that are one color. Pick a color, any color: Green, pink, blue, white- define your personality that way. Wear a pin on your scrubs for God's sake. No Fred's Dollar Store-looking flower prints, Disney characters, racecars, or peppermint candy prints on your scrubs unless you work with patients under 8 years old. When you wear that, you look like an idiot, and then when you open your mouth, you confirm it.
I've got some scrub pants at home. I'm going to wear them tonight with a Pac-Man t-shirt and see just how many people ask ME to bring them ice. And you know what? I'll get it for them.
Liz! Your Ankle Looks Like A Super-Sized Burito!
Dear Blog reader,
Because of my job, I will not take ANY medication that is not explicitly for me. No script, no meds. Crippling back pain? Kim offers me a muscle relaxer? NOPE. I'll be having a Tylenol. Extreme stomach cramping? Mom offers me a prescriptive Imodium? NOPE. Pepto and crossed fingers. Right arm severed in a tractor accident? Aspirin. I won't even sit in the upper balcony at concerts for fear I might inhale someone's second hand pot smoke. I'm very serious about this.
Last week I managed to inexplicably sprain my ankle. Crippled like you wouldn't believe, I have been to 4 doctors and (although I think this is overkill) had x-rays, an MRI, and and an orthopedic specialist examine my ankle. Although I think I would have done just as well going to a witch doctor (they don't know how or why or what for certain) the one thing I thought would be a plus through all of this is my very first prescription for pain medication in nearly 5 years. YEE HAW! Let me testify something for you right now: They don't make drugs like they used to.
I hobbled into the house from the car and got all set up for what I thought would be a trip straight out of '94. I propped my pillows up, got my ice pack, fixed a cold glass of water, turned the TV onto Magnum PI, had a magazine handy, peed so I wouldn't have to get up for hours.... I set the stage for this hallucinogenic voyage. Giddy! I was actually giddy!!!
Imagine my disappointment when all the medication did was relieve the pain. What happened to the good ole days when someone would score some expired meds out of grandma's cabinet and we'd all pop a pill and be off in la-la land? What was grandma taking that I'm not getting? What gives these doctors the right to give me a proper dosage when what I was so looking forward to was a mental vacation?
So, one day when I knew I couldn't walk- I mean, if the house caught fire, I would simply crisp because I couldn't move- I took 2 pills within an hour of each other. THIS will do it, I thought! All it really did was erase my memory. I didn't feel like I was floating above the couch. I didn't want to put on a Pink Floyd album and zone, I didn't note the grooviness of the curtains. It was LAME and made my stomach hurt. What I DID do is go to Overstock.com and buy a butt load of stuff I don't need. That's been a treat! I've been getting packages all week that contain items I do not recall ordering.
At least I know I have excellent taste, even when under the influence of weak pain medication.
Because of my job, I will not take ANY medication that is not explicitly for me. No script, no meds. Crippling back pain? Kim offers me a muscle relaxer? NOPE. I'll be having a Tylenol. Extreme stomach cramping? Mom offers me a prescriptive Imodium? NOPE. Pepto and crossed fingers. Right arm severed in a tractor accident? Aspirin. I won't even sit in the upper balcony at concerts for fear I might inhale someone's second hand pot smoke. I'm very serious about this.
Last week I managed to inexplicably sprain my ankle. Crippled like you wouldn't believe, I have been to 4 doctors and (although I think this is overkill) had x-rays, an MRI, and and an orthopedic specialist examine my ankle. Although I think I would have done just as well going to a witch doctor (they don't know how or why or what for certain) the one thing I thought would be a plus through all of this is my very first prescription for pain medication in nearly 5 years. YEE HAW! Let me testify something for you right now: They don't make drugs like they used to.
I hobbled into the house from the car and got all set up for what I thought would be a trip straight out of '94. I propped my pillows up, got my ice pack, fixed a cold glass of water, turned the TV onto Magnum PI, had a magazine handy, peed so I wouldn't have to get up for hours.... I set the stage for this hallucinogenic voyage. Giddy! I was actually giddy!!!
Imagine my disappointment when all the medication did was relieve the pain. What happened to the good ole days when someone would score some expired meds out of grandma's cabinet and we'd all pop a pill and be off in la-la land? What was grandma taking that I'm not getting? What gives these doctors the right to give me a proper dosage when what I was so looking forward to was a mental vacation?
So, one day when I knew I couldn't walk- I mean, if the house caught fire, I would simply crisp because I couldn't move- I took 2 pills within an hour of each other. THIS will do it, I thought! All it really did was erase my memory. I didn't feel like I was floating above the couch. I didn't want to put on a Pink Floyd album and zone, I didn't note the grooviness of the curtains. It was LAME and made my stomach hurt. What I DID do is go to Overstock.com and buy a butt load of stuff I don't need. That's been a treat! I've been getting packages all week that contain items I do not recall ordering.
At least I know I have excellent taste, even when under the influence of weak pain medication.
Sunday, August 06, 2006
Killerś Central American Travel Log: 4
Sorry for the delay. We have been in some pretty remote places where the internet cafes are so slow it would not even let me log in.
I believe the last time I wrote we were in Tamarindo, since then we have dived two dives in Tamarindo that were okay, but no where near Thailand. The visibility is poor this time of year due to the rainy season, but we did manage to get underwater, so that is always a plus.
We spent a few hard partying nights in Tamarindo with Brian, he was very disappointed that we would go to bed at two am. It seems Brian has been acclimated to the Tamarindo night life that does not stop until five or six.
We woke up Wednesday morning and set out for a grueling drive from the North East corner of Costa Rica to a small surfing town at the very South West corner called Puerto Viejo. It was a ten hour drive that, with an American interstate, should have taken about three hours, but since the major highway through all of Central America is a two lane road used as the primary commercial trucking route, and through a large mountain range, it took ten hours.
We arrived in Puerto Viejo late Wednesday and found a really cheap "cabinas", which usually consists of a few mosquito nets and cots or hammocks, but this one actually had a pseudo room that was screened off from the bugs with, what at first glance, appeared to be beds. Luckily we were so tired from driving all day that we could have slept on the ground, because the beds were not much better.
We awakened the next day and set out to find a better place, which we finally found one with air conditioning, which as a spoiled American is a must. It was a much nicer room, and right across the street from a dive shop.
We managed to get two dives in on the Caribbean side which were pretty good dives, but not great visibility, and considering I am still aching to get some good shots with our new, and expensive, dive camera, I was disappointed that there were not more chances.
We checked out the town of Puerto Viejo, and it has been officially decided that almost every country that touches the Caribbean thinks it is Jamaica. The Bahamas had a large percentage of their population wearing, selling, and promoting all things Rasta, Bob Marley, and marijuana. I think if must be somehow related to the sun and sea combo that is created from the tropical waters in the Caribbean. It is a cool town none the less, and it really is worth checking out if you are wanting a few low key days to relax and get away from the daily grind.
We had to get up at 4 am in order to drive to Turrialba to make a white water rafting trip on Saturday. We arrived just in time to turn around and back track almost a third of the distance we just traveled to put into the river with the guide group. The white water trip was incredible. The views were amazing, the rapids were almost non stop and a perfect mix of class 2,3, and 4 rapids. We had brought the underwater camera along to take some shots, but the camera had not been charged back up after the last diving trip. I am going to blame Bam and Chad for not charging the camera, and since they have no blogs of their own to tell you the truth, it will officially remain their fault. We did get some good shots of the raft trip since the guide group had a guy with a camera speed ahead of us and set up at the rapids to take shots, and for the low price of thirty dollars we could purchase a copy. I think the bulk of Costa Rican economy is supported by financial rape of gringos.
We finished the raft trip, changed clothes, hopped into the Terios and ripped down to San Jose. We will be spending the final few days of our journey here. We fly back on Tuesday. Hopefully, we can not get into too much trouble in two nights, but so far this town seems chock full of trouble.
See you all soon.
Killer
I believe the last time I wrote we were in Tamarindo, since then we have dived two dives in Tamarindo that were okay, but no where near Thailand. The visibility is poor this time of year due to the rainy season, but we did manage to get underwater, so that is always a plus.
We spent a few hard partying nights in Tamarindo with Brian, he was very disappointed that we would go to bed at two am. It seems Brian has been acclimated to the Tamarindo night life that does not stop until five or six.
We woke up Wednesday morning and set out for a grueling drive from the North East corner of Costa Rica to a small surfing town at the very South West corner called Puerto Viejo. It was a ten hour drive that, with an American interstate, should have taken about three hours, but since the major highway through all of Central America is a two lane road used as the primary commercial trucking route, and through a large mountain range, it took ten hours.
We arrived in Puerto Viejo late Wednesday and found a really cheap "cabinas", which usually consists of a few mosquito nets and cots or hammocks, but this one actually had a pseudo room that was screened off from the bugs with, what at first glance, appeared to be beds. Luckily we were so tired from driving all day that we could have slept on the ground, because the beds were not much better.
We awakened the next day and set out to find a better place, which we finally found one with air conditioning, which as a spoiled American is a must. It was a much nicer room, and right across the street from a dive shop.
We managed to get two dives in on the Caribbean side which were pretty good dives, but not great visibility, and considering I am still aching to get some good shots with our new, and expensive, dive camera, I was disappointed that there were not more chances.
We checked out the town of Puerto Viejo, and it has been officially decided that almost every country that touches the Caribbean thinks it is Jamaica. The Bahamas had a large percentage of their population wearing, selling, and promoting all things Rasta, Bob Marley, and marijuana. I think if must be somehow related to the sun and sea combo that is created from the tropical waters in the Caribbean. It is a cool town none the less, and it really is worth checking out if you are wanting a few low key days to relax and get away from the daily grind.
We had to get up at 4 am in order to drive to Turrialba to make a white water rafting trip on Saturday. We arrived just in time to turn around and back track almost a third of the distance we just traveled to put into the river with the guide group. The white water trip was incredible. The views were amazing, the rapids were almost non stop and a perfect mix of class 2,3, and 4 rapids. We had brought the underwater camera along to take some shots, but the camera had not been charged back up after the last diving trip. I am going to blame Bam and Chad for not charging the camera, and since they have no blogs of their own to tell you the truth, it will officially remain their fault. We did get some good shots of the raft trip since the guide group had a guy with a camera speed ahead of us and set up at the rapids to take shots, and for the low price of thirty dollars we could purchase a copy. I think the bulk of Costa Rican economy is supported by financial rape of gringos.
We finished the raft trip, changed clothes, hopped into the Terios and ripped down to San Jose. We will be spending the final few days of our journey here. We fly back on Tuesday. Hopefully, we can not get into too much trouble in two nights, but so far this town seems chock full of trouble.
See you all soon.
Killer
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