tag:fubar.com,2010:BlogAtom-459762010-07-07T17:28:35-07:00Waste of More TimeA fubar user blog.faptastichttp://email@example.com:fubar.com,2010:BlogAtom-45976.11214662010-07-07T17:28:35-07:002010-07-07T17:28:35-07:00So you like it long, eh?<p><span style="font-size: small;">July 2, 2010 journal entry</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: small;">At either side of me sits a cup of coffee and a bowl filled with as-yet-unshelled peas. The wind is blowing wickedly again today, and I am grateful that I finished up the mowing last night, just as the sun was setting. Mowing in the wind is no treat, what with the blindness caused by whirlwinds of dirt and grass clippings.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: small;">Yesterday I met with a new client, one with a real estate issue. He stopped over to drop off paperwork, and then proceeded to babble incoherently for twenty minutes or so, telling me (“Well, you’re a lawyer, so perhaps you know something about this,”) that when one registers or licenses a car in a state, the state takes ownership away from the licensee. This was perhaps the sixth conspiracy theory mentioned in as many minutes. I interrupted him to explain that No, that’s not correct. Property ownership is a bundle of rights, and when you register or license your car, yes, you give some powers to the state, but you don’t divest yourself of ownership, and you don’t create a trust that gives the state legal title to your car. Next theory? </span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: small;">Actually, I wasn’t so unwise as to ask for more crazy theories, but hear them I did. Perhaps it was the mid-90’s heat. Perhaps he was just flustered to speak to a lawyer who comes to the door wearing a loudly patterned skirt, a tank top, and no shoes. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: small;">Reflecting on my shoeless lawyering this morning, I recalled a law review colleague commenting on her firm’s policy on open-toed shoes for women. “Open toe shoes may be worn, but only if the wearer has pedicured feet.” We were both struck by the oddity of the regulation, wondered if there were similar rules for men. (“White socks not to be worn in the office. Belts must match shoes.”)</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: small;">My firm had no such regulations, or if it did, I was unaware of them. So, too, were others, as I recall a male partner who would regularly go barefoot after hours. I adopted the same habit, often plodding barefoot out to the copy machine. At 8 p.m., does anyone really care if I’m wearing heels? To the best of my knowledge, no one did. As far as upper management was concerned, you could be completely naked at work, so long as you regularly stayed there for fourteen hour stretches. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: small;">Here, I have the distinct advantage of not having to work fourteen hour stretches (indeed, not even having to work fourteen hours in any given week), and I get to wear or not wear whatever I choose. Sure, clients expect their lawyer to be at least somewhat clothed, but bikinis count as clothes. Indeed, while I was engaged in some bikini-clad gardening, a family friend rumbled into my yard in his big white truck, stood by my garden gate for half an hour, inquiring about “just what all’s needed for a guy to get a will done up.” After I’d explained to him "what all’s needed," and he couldn’t think of anything more to say, he just stood there, scratching his full beard and tugging at his over-alls, not willing to budge from the gate. As the fella commented, “That’s probably the most skin he’s seen in decades.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: small;"><em>Shop Class as Soulcraft</em> arrived today, and I spent the better part of the morning reading the first quarter of the book, reflecting on how everyone else seems to be writing the same kinds of things that I want to be writing but that I'm so often not writing because I'm reading them by other people. The author has a high-minded degree, which he has more or less left behind him in order to work as a motorcycle mechanic, a job that challenges him intellectually and makes him feel happy and useful. His post-graduation job was at a “think tank” in DC. I find it telling that most of us choose to put quotes around “think tank.” It sounds like the kind of tank one could drown in. Not a place for free swimming, certainly, but a contained vessel, an exercise in isolation, futility. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: small;">It is like my qualms with fitness club-style exercise, the kind where you stay in one place and work on a machine. If you run outside, you go somewhere, even if it is around a block or two and you end up back at home. You see plants, people, buildings, you experience the weather, you wave hello to neighbors or shout a greeting in passing. At the temperature-controlled gym, though, you are inclined to stare straight ahead, watch the muted televisions, read a magazine, or close your eyes and listen to the music streaming into your head from the ipod velcro’d to your arm. Furtive glances at someone’s ass have to pass as communication, because there is little other. Or, perhaps there is. I don’t go to these places, so please correct me if I’m wrong.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: small;">If one’s purpose in going to the gym is to stare at other people, to admire their bodies, or perhaps to steal a furtive glance at naked behinds and full- or half-full frontals in the showers, well then fine. But if your purpose is simply to work out, why not just stay at home and accomplish something while you’re at it? Mow the lawn with a people-powered mower. Weed the garden. Build a coop. Why must people spend so much time spinning their legs in circles, or lifting stuff that doesn't need lifting, or climbing imaginary stairs, without actually accomplishing anything? </span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: small;"> It is evening now, and I have a pan of newly-dug red potatoes on the stove, sautéing with a freshly-pulled onion, just-dug garlic, and a few sprigs of rosemary plucked from the plant while the butter melted in the pan. A small plate of parmigiano reggiano is waiting to be sprinkled on top. I lift the lid to check its progress, and a cloud of rosemary-scented steam fogs up my glasses.</span></p>faptastichttp://firstname.lastname@example.org:fubar.com,2010:BlogAtom-45976.11033062010-02-25T12:23:37-08:002010-02-25T12:23:37-08:00cautious optimism<p>The exam is over, done, finished. In 6 or 8 weeks, I'll know if I passed.</p>
<p>Do I think I passed?</p>
<p>Really, I don't know. Probably? But my sense of these things is often well off-base. The last time I took this exam, I thought I did fine on some parts of it, and that I sucked on others. (Secured Transactions? I don't know shit about financing statements or any of that crap. Somehow, though, my essay score on that question was nearly perfect. Contracts, which I know fairly well? I got a two. That's about as far from perfect as you can get.) As it turned out, all my worrying was for naught; I passed by a large margin.</p>
<p>So, this is the answer to the question many of you asked: I don't know how I did. And I won't know for many weeks. But I'm cautiously optimistic. </p>
<p>In the coming weeks, I'm just going to forget about it (which, as it turns out, I'm really good at doing). I'm off to bake some bread & read a novel.</p>
<p>Did I mention that two nights ago, I went to the hotel bar, where I met an energy lobbyist who bought me dinner and drinks and then more or less proposed to me? He even offered to build a coop so that my chickens would feel welcome at his place.</p>
<p>"Thanks, but no."</p>
<p>"Well, if you can't sleep tonight, just call me."</p>
<p>"Thanks, but no."</p>
<p>People are strange.</p>faptastichttp://email@example.com:fubar.com,2010:BlogAtom-45976.11030742010-02-23T15:49:26-08:002010-02-23T15:49:26-08:00candy<p>Last night was a little drama-filled. It wasn't supposed to be, mind you. Last night was supposed to be an early-to-bed night, filled with restful sleep such that I could wake up at the sucktastic hour of five and hose off prior to the big non-AIDS-related test. </p>
<p>I went to bed at about 11, roughly an hour later than planned. As it turns out, the bed and the television in a non-fine hotel room have an unusual inverse relationship: the nicer the television, the shittier the bed. I had a very nice television. Of course, I don't watch television. But I do sometimes like to sleep. Last night was just not my night for sleep.</p>
<p>After forming my usual nest of pillows and glaring for a while at the big flat-screen monster watching me from the dresser, I turned off the lights and crawled between the scratchy sheets. </p>
<p>Wait a minute. What's that noise?</p>
<p>I turned on the light. The noise instantly stopped. I turned off the light.</p>
<p>Scratch scratch. Crinkle crinkle.</p>
<p>I turned on the light. The noise stopped.</p>
<p>Cockroaches. Or a mouse. OR RATS. </p>
<p>I was pissed, but determined to sleep. I put on my slippers and turned up my sleep-mate (the noise machine I brought with me in order to drown out the inevitable noise of all my mouth-breathing and television-watching hotel neighbors) and reluctantly crawled back between the scratchy sheets. I examined the sheets and determined that they were manufactured from recycled plastic tie straps. </p>
<p>I turned off the light. </p>
<p>Scratch. Crinkle. Scratch. </p>
<p>I tried to sleep. I failed.</p>
<p>Around 12:30, when I realized that some co-occupant of my hotel room had graciously cleaned up the little bits of popcorn I'd so carelessly left on the floor, I called the front desk. Candy answered. I resisted my immediate impulse to ask, "What are you, some kind of sucker?" because I had serious business with this Candy lady. </p>
<p>In a firm but not-too-bitchy voice, I said, "I think there are cockroaches in my room. Or a mouse." I left out the possibility of rats. Also mountain lions, though they've been spotted in the area.</p>
<p>"What room?" she asked. (As if it mattered.) What was she going to say? "Oh? 107? Yeah, that room is fucking crawling with cockroaches. Have you found the maggots in the bedstand drawer yet?"</p>
<p>I told her my room number, and her response was along the lines of: Huh. No offer of assistance, no half-hearted O-I'm-very-sorry-to-hear-that-can-I-put-you-in-a-different-room-right-away? Just: Huh.</p>
<p>I remained silent. She finally said, "It's probably the wind."</p>
<p>"Does the wind here only start up when you turn the lights off? And does it usually stop when you turn the lights back on? Because where I'm from, it doesn't."</p>
<p>"Well, it's too cold for mice," she assured me.</p>
<p>I related this story to my mother, who, at this point, interjected with, "Yeah, mice migrate. I saw a whole herd of them heading south back in November. They're probably in New Orleans by now."</p>
<p>I tried explaining to Candy that it's not too cold INDOORS for mice, but realized the futility of arguing with this woman, with any woman named after empty calories. Hell, with any woman.</p>
<p>Begrudgingly, Candy offered to put me in the room next door to me. I asked if she thought mice and cockroaches were respectful of the boundaries created by the world's flimsiest walls, and she didn't respond. Knowing I had no real options, I just gave up and tried to go to sleep. I succeeded, for about two hours. I woke to the pitter-pat of little feet, the crinkle of the plastic bag lining the wastepaper basket. Oh, that crazy dakota wind.</p>
<p>Realizing that sleep was simply lost to me, I got up, showered, and called a different hotel, the one that was originally booked up. As proof that not ALL my karma is bad, there had been a couple cancellations, and yes, the gentleman (not named Fudge) at the front desk assured me that he would be happy to reserve a room for me. </p>
<p>I moved all of my things out to my car and then went to the front desk to confront Candy. I didn't recognize her at first, but then realized she looks less like Candy and more like Margarine. Is that how you spell margarine? That looks too much like tangerine. Anyway, Candy looks like she had her name and ate it too. Ate all of it. And then ate the box it came in, just cos.</p>
<p>I explained the situation--that I had called during the night. She interrupted me with, "Well, you never called back. I OFFERED to put you in another room, so it's not my fault you didn't sleep." </p>
<p>I said I wanted to check out, that I'd found a different hotel for my second night. She bitched a little more about how she'd been so accommodating and how I was just a complainy little non-confection-named bitch, and then I left. </p>
<p>Despite a mere two hours of sleep, the exam went well. (I think?)</p>
<p>I checked into the different hotel, parked my car by the entrance, and went to my new hotel room. I stuck the card in the slot. Red flashy light. "It's not that kind of hotel, is it?" I wondered. I tried it again. And again.</p>
<p>When I walked in the entrance by my room, I'd passed the maintenance room, had heard two guys in there talking to each other. So I put my things down and peeked in on them. They both stopped talking. </p>
<p>"So, um, maybe I'm just being retarded about the key card thing, but it doesn't seem to work. Would you be willing to..." Before I'd finished asking my question, they were both out in the hallway, scurrying to figure out where my room was. The guy tried my key for me, and it didn't work. I started to suggest that I just go to the front desk and get a new card, but the dude insisted that I needed a new lock. Before I could protest, he'd run back to the maintenance room and returned with the entire apparatus for the door locking system, and had a cordless screwdriver out and was taking my door apart. I said nothing and went about the task of getting settled in. </p>
<p>Two guys replaced the lock. One guy whistled self-consciously the whole time. When the new lock was in place, they tried my key. It still didn't work. Then they tried their key. It worked.</p>
<p>"I guess you'll have to go to the front desk and get a new key. I'd go get it for you, but for security purposes, we're not supposed to."</p>
<p>So, yeah. Service. Or, at least, service dudes who like to ogle single females in their hotel rooms.</p>
<p>But hey, at least this room looks like it has been vacuumed in the time since Jimmy Carter took office. </p>
<p>So, anyway, that's my very long exam-day story, and it has a whopping two sentences to do with the exam. This is sort of a pattern in my life.</p>
<p>Also, there are probably typos in this, but I am simply too tired to care. So you see some homophone comphusion? Suck it. Candy.</p>
<p>And as a third post-script, if any of you are named Candy in real life, I'm sorry. No, really. I'm sorry.</p>faptastichttp://firstname.lastname@example.org:fubar.com,2010:BlogAtom-45976.11029622010-02-22T20:15:49-08:002010-02-22T20:15:49-08:00just say no to jobs
<p>A comment posted on a NYT article about the jobs bill:</p>
<div class="reviewText">Pollution is destroying us. When we look at pollution, there is no disputing that we are destroying our world. We cannot adapt to polluted air, land, water and food; we are a diseased planet with diseased people and animals. Jobs bills will only continue our destructive oppressive lifestyle and continue to make world problems worse.<br><br>The only reasonable solution is to retire from the employment lifestyle that is causing the pollutions and other world problems like the energy crisis, disease, war, immigration, reoccurring financial crises and social needs for young and old, etc. Real change is a garden paradise lifestyle with trees, plants and pets that provide fresh food around us; it solves the world problems at the same time. It is the only sustainable lifestyle and the employment lifestyle is unnecessary. We are enslaving people to enrich others. That is evil, not just wrong. It is time for real change; and the people know it. We need the government to get out of our way, one way or the other.<br>
<div class="feedback"><span class="link"> <span class="middle"><a href="http://thecaucus.blogs.nytimes.com/2010/02/22/with-g-o-p-help-senate-advances-jobs-bill/?hp#" rel="nofollow" target="_blank"></a></span></span></div>
<div class="feedback">Personally, I like the bit about "pets that provide fresh food around us." The peeps would be flattered. Kitty, however, might not be thrilled with this idea.</div>
<div class="feedback">("Did you hear that fluffy just gave birth to seven kittens?!? They're going to make the most mouth-watering ravioli!")</div>
<div class="feedback">Anyway, I can't say I agree with the commenter entirely--I think pollution is a serious problem, but I don't think the government needs to get out of our way, and I don't think the "garden paradise lifestyle" is within everyone's means. </div>
<div class="feedback">That said, I'm happy it's within mine. As much as I'd like everyone else to share my employment-free lifestyle, it just won't work.</div>
<div class="feedback">Because I like shoes. And I don't know how to make them. </div>
<div class="feedback">SO GET BACK TO WORK, KID!</div>
<div class="feedback">I'm pro-job-bill, even if I don't want to have one of the jobs it purports to create. If people want to have a job making shoes for me, that's excellent. They should have that job. So I can have shoes.</div>
<div class="feedback">I have to admit, though, that I agree a tiny bit with the commenter: people would be better off if they focused less on jobs, and more on making do with less income. </div>
<div class="feedback">So your husband lost his job? Let him do the cooking, and stop getting half your meals from a drive-through window. Lose the expensive cable package, cancel the high-speed internet, and, when your 2-year cell phone contract is up, don't get a new one. Not only will you live on a lot less money, research (and my own personal experience) suggests that you'll be a lot happier. Cut out fast food and "convenience" (mostly processed, pre-cooked) foods from your grocery list, and you'll be healthier, too. <br>
<div class="feedback">In summary, the modern lifestyle--working endlessly to pay for all the things we no longer have time to do--isn't very conducive to either health or happiness. The commenter quoted above, though clearly deranged, is onto something here.</div>
<div class="feedback">Anyway, the test is hours away, and all this procrastination is wearing me out. I'm off to bed.</div>
<div class="feedback"><span class="caption"><br></span></div>
faptastichttp://email@example.com:fubar.com,2010:BlogAtom-45976.11029382010-02-22T17:09:57-08:002010-02-22T17:09:57-08:00By god, all this procrastination is finally going to pay off.<p>Or not, as the case may be.</p>
<p>The exam is tomorrow. And the next day. I have to show up at the test center at some ungodly hour (seven) that I'm not even sure exists. I'm not certain of this, but I don't think it's light out at seven. In my opinion, there are only a handful of things that you can do when it isn't light out, and taking a godforsaken test isn't one of them.</p>
<p>I will lodge my protests in the morning. In the dark.</p>
<p>The last time I took this test, it was in a different state, and it was proctered in a fine american city, and I stayed in a fine hotel. You know it's a fine hotel when there are glasses in your room. Glasses made from glass. Glasses that you could steal, but for the fact that people who stay in fine hotels have their own glasses made from glass at home, so they do not steal the ones in their fine hotel room.</p>
<p>There are two plastic cups in my hotel room. </p>faptastichttp://firstname.lastname@example.org:fubar.com,2010:BlogAtom-45976.10990962010-01-27T13:55:41-08:002010-01-27T13:55:41-08:00choice quotes<p><span style="font-family: book antiqua,palatino; font-size: small;">I was looking at the Gore Vidal picture-book (Gore Vidal: Snapshots in History's Glare) and came across a choice quote regarding William F. Buckley, Jr., whom Vidal said was "like Hitler, but without the charm."</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: book antiqua,palatino; font-size: small;">In a different article about Vidal, he's quoted as saying that the three most dispiriting words in the English language are "Joyce. Carol. Oates."</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: book antiqua,palatino; font-size: small;">There are good reasons for why I like mean people. Vidal is one of them.<br /></span></p>faptastichttp://email@example.com:fubar.com,2010:BlogAtom-45976.2445152007-02-27T12:46:33-08:002007-02-27T12:46:33-08:00Comic TragedyIt was one week after my high school graduation, and I was home all by myself, enjoying the beginning of what was to be a blissful parent-free weekend. I was strolling around the house like a spoiled princess when I saw a car drive in. It was my neighbors, a couple my parents were friends with. The both had pained looks on their faces, and I wondered what was wrong. I invited them in, and they started to cry. They made me sit down. I did, and they told me. There had been a car accident. It was bad. He didn't just have a broken leg, or a concussion. John was dead.
I was still sitting in the chair in the kitchen when my mind finally wrapped itself around this concept. "How could he be dead?" I wondered. I'd just talked to him. He'd called to tell me he was coming home early. But there I was, sitting in a chair, faced with the realization that when he came home he'd be in a box and would have makeup caked all over his face. I cried, I swore... I sat there, unable to move.
John and I had been planning on throwing a party that weekend. Like most siblings, we'd spent years at each other's throats, but the last couple years had brought us together. After he moved out of the house to go to school, we became good friends. We both liked to joke, to play elaborate pranks, to do all the things our older sister would never approve of. But that was over. It wasn't a joke. Or a prank. It was real life. It was real death.
What followed were probably the lowest, darkest days of my life. Both literally and figuratively, as the lights hurt my tear-scorched eyes, forcing me to stay in the basement, in the dark, surrounded by friends. I cried, they cried with me. They held me, trying to keep my broken self from completely falling apart. The nights were worse. A recent ex stayed with me (violating all my mothers’ rules), and he held me, kissed my salty cheeks. We had the saddest sex imaginable. Slow sex, complete with tears. My heart was ravaged. Every part of my body ached.
I was dreading the funeral. Who doesn't? We were Catholic, so it was guaranteed to be a morbid affair. The church reeked of incense and greenhouse flowers. I remember realizing that both probably originated to cover the stench of death. But now death is so sanitary. They drain you and fill you back up with something cleaner. Well, clean in the sense that pine sol is clean. I made it through the funeral, thinking about these things. Sitting in the front row. A funeral is not a concert. You never want to be in the front row at a funeral.
That night, after having made the church look artificially alive, all the plants and flowers showed up at our house. They filled the place... a little ranch home bursting with jungle foliage. We started to sort through all of the greenery, picking out plants and gaudy flower arrangements to give to friends and family. As my aunt Cindy was about to leave, I went to find the plant we were going to give to her. But before I made it there, my mother pulled me aside. She told me to get the ficus from the office... this poor tropical tree that had been languishing through a northern winter and had only a few green leaves to convince itself it wasn't dead. I didn't ask. I knew what she was doing. I'd seen eyes glimmer like that before, and I knew it would be great. I brought the tree out, and my mother, in her most serious, sad voice, said, "Cindy, we want you to have this. In memory of John."
Cindy was very gracious. She still had tears in her eyes, and she took the near-dead plant and held it gently, as if it were a child. She made a sad face, as if this gesture of kindness was going to make her to cry again. My mother and I stood next to her... fidgeting, trying not to make eye contact with each other. Finally (it was inevitable), a small burst of laughter escaped my pursed lips. My mother couldn't contain herself anymore either, and we both started laughing. Cindy's expression went from sorrow to horror. Then, seconds later, she got it and started laughing with us. Perhaps laughing isn't the right word. Howling. Hearty peals of laughter, laughter to shake one's bones, to force four days of death out of one's lungs. We laughed, and we cried. But we cried different tears, soothing tears. I'm not going to lie and say we felt healed, but we shook off some of the numbness that had swallowed our lives.
It was a brilliant farce, one that John was surely proud of.
faptastichttp://firstname.lastname@example.org:fubar.com,2010:BlogAtom-45976.1815992007-01-18T23:43:27-08:002007-01-18T23:43:27-08:00The Politics of Yard WorkI just moved into a house last fall, and the lawn looks like shit. Figuratively and literally, as it is mostly brown, but it doesn't feel as nice and squishy under your feet as shit does. I figure the lawn just needs some attention. You know, fertilizer, regular mowing, a stiff raking. So I went on the internets and purchased a push mower. The kind that doesn't take any gasoline. Because I don't want to support the terrorists when I'm mowing the grass. I see my neighbors mowing, and I just want to ask them, "Why do you hate America? Why do you hate freedom?" Sons of bitches.
The mower arrived, and I ripped into the box like it was a birthday present from the rich aunt you hate but who buys you nice crap. I spent about an hour putting it together. Or rather, putting the handle together. (This involved an elaborate ritual which included a bottle of dish soap and me with a foam hose and a metal bar on my kitchen floor. When I got the foam hose to slide onto the metal bar, the excess dish soap ejaculated all over my rug, the floor, and, unfortunately, my shoe. If this had been filmed and put on youtube, I could understand why it cost google so much.) After the mower was fully assembled, I dragged it to the back yard and started pushing it around. It works like a dream. An almost-perfect dream, like the one where you're having sex and are about to come, but then you wake up. You see, a lot of my grass is so tall that it kind of fell over. It's flattened, and my mower, lacking the suction created by gasoline-fueled spinning blades, doesn't do the greatest job. I mean, it does a passable job. But it kind of leaves you feeling unsatisfied.
So anyway, I'm mowing the grass, fully enjoying myself, and the phone rings. I answer it and continue to mow, pushing the thing around with one hand. (It's surprisingly easy to push.) The new boy in my life was on the phone, and he was wondering what I was up to. I told him I was mowing. He dismissed this, going on to talk about other things. His car, namely. I listened, partly, still enjoying my mower. Suddenly he asked, "What's that funny sound?" I answered, excitedly, "the mower." His response was along the lines of you-mean-you-bought-a-hippie-mower? Apparently when I told him earlier that I had ordered a push mower (I swear I emphasized the "push" aspect of the "push mower"--I may have even called it a "push push mower"), he thought I meant a non-self-propelled-but-still-gasoline-powered mower.
I remember being pleasantly surprised by his response when I initially told him that I ordered the push mower. He said something about how it would be a good workout, and he seemed quite positive about it. Upon his realization that this would be an even better workout, he was less positive. He helped me mow, though. When we got to the front yard, however, his negativity increased. At one point, he threw down the handle and muttered something like "I'm gonna fuckin' kill you for this." When I innocently asked why, he responded, "Because I'm not a man pushing this thing around. I'm a 10-year old in 1950." I'm pretty sure he was joking. He kept mowing, anyway, so I assumed he was joking.
I'm still trying to figure out what to call the mower. Obviously, if I call it a "push mower," people don't understand what it is. And calling it "man-powered" or "woman-powered" is unnecessarily gendered. So I've been using "people-powered mower," which I like better. In fact, People Powered Mower sounds kind of political, like I have a Marxist Mower. I like my mower to have a bit of a political agenda. Now I can scoff at my neighbors (more than I already do) when they get out their noisy, gas-guzzling, terrorist-supporting mowers. I can sneer at them while I serenely push my earth-friendly, apple-pie loving mower around. I could sip a champagne glass of mimosa while I do it. That would add a nice effect.
So if you drive by and see me strolling around behind my mower, sipping mimosa, don't shoot. Because I live in that kind of a neighborhood. And because you're like that. A wave would be fine. And if you stop, I might even let you push my mower. And I mean that in an entirely non-sexual way.faptastichttp://email@example.com:fubar.com,2010:BlogAtom-45976.1815772007-01-18T23:29:40-08:002007-01-18T23:29:40-08:00A Summer StoryI golfed for the first last this summer. We started out by going to a little shit hole restaurant, throwing a couple beers down our gullets, and then getting lost on the way to the golf course. We rented carts and purchased necessities, like blue golf balls (at least twenty minutes' worth of jokes) and a non-trivial number of beers.
The golfing was terrible. But the beer--very tasty. Went down like, well, beer. And oh how I love beer. We golfed 7 holes before a few sprinkles and the tantalizing thought of more beer drove us away. To find more beer. We found it in another little shit hole restaurant.
The evening progressed, and we ended up at a strip club. I managed to get yelled at by a bouncer for putting a dollar bill in what was apparently an inappropriate place, but I swear the stripper didn't mind. She was completely into it. Or at least a dollar's worth into it. And when you have a crack habit to support, you can get into pretty much anything for a dollar.
The drinks continued to appear in my hand, and I continued to use the guys' dollar bills to entertain myself and the guys whose dollar bills I had absconded with. Then fate (I'll call him Dan) led me to find a stripper to give our friend (I'll call her Lisa) a lap dance. Lisa hadn't previously had a lap dance, so I accompanied her to the VIP room (and by VIP room I mean semen-encrusted shit hole). I looked on as a Colorado Cowgirl rubbed her tits and the rest of her fleshiness all over Lisa.
I'm not certain how Lisa felt about the Lap Dance. She claims (after the fact) that it freaked her out a little. As a witness, I'm not convinced. Her main concern that evening was the fact that she ended up with stripper (read: foundation) all over her white golf shirt. And the fact that she smelled like stripper.
It was reported by a number of unreliable sources that, at some point in the evening, I was grinding on a stripper. I have no recollection of this event, and it has not been corroborated with photographic evidence. Thus, as far as I'm concerned, it didn't happen.
The rest of the evening is a bit of a haze. I left the keys to my car and my apartment in Lisa's car. I got shot at and killed repeatedly while playing a video game. At about 4 a.m., I walked to a friend's house in a fucking monsoon.
The next day, still wearing my golf clothes, I retrieved my car keys so I could go to my apartment, shower, change, and get to work. (Did I mention that all this happened on a Wednesday?)
All in all, not much damage was done. I did, however, end up with a gash and a nasty looking bruise on my knee.
It must have been a golf injury.faptastichttp://firstname.lastname@example.org:fubar.com,2010:BlogAtom-45976.1815182007-01-18T22:28:12-08:002007-01-18T22:28:12-08:00Nice GirlDuring the apex of my bacchanalian summer, my friend Lisa and I were out carousing and met two pilots, Ryan and Brian. By the end of the evening, I had removed Ryan's tie (it looked uncomfortable, and I was obviously trying to be nice), and Lisa had managed to unbutton his shirt. Ryan said something about giving me and Lisa flying lessons, and he gave me his card. Several nights later and several drinks into the night, Lisa demanded we call Ryan to schedule our flying lessons. I don't remember what came of that telephone conversation. In fact, I don't remember having the conversation. But I apparently called him because he got my number. And then he proceeded to call me every few days for the next several weeks to see if I wanted to meet him out for a drink. I put him off (still trying to be nice! look at me! so nice!), giving every excuse I could think of. Too tired. Too busy. Cat will get lonely. Have nasty case of the clap. Nothing worked. One night, he called while I was at a bar. By myself. (This, in itself, deserves its own story. I will save this for another time.) I couldn't very well say that I wasn't up for a drink when I was already up for a drink. So I obliged. We met at a shitty dive bar and I proceeded to get shitfaced. I was feisty, fearless, snarky, and just plain mean. He was just plain boring. He talked but had nothing to say. I insulted him openly, and he fell in love immediately.
It was clear that in college, this man had majored in douchebaggery. I'd met his type before. But what was I to do? I was single, not otherwise getting laid, and well, quite frankly, I wasn't otherwise getting laid. So I invited him back to my place. Minutes later, we were on my couch in various states of undress. We were kissing, and I pulled away for a moment. He made a strange noise, along the lines of, "Uhhhhhhhnnnnnnn." Confused, I asked him if something was the matter. He repeated the noise. I finally came to my senses (this took longer than it should have), and I excused myself to go to the bathroom and swear at myself in the mirror for a while. "What the fuck are you doing? Are you insane? How on earth do I get him out of here?" I waited for a while, hoping that when I walked out of the bathroom the neanderthal would have stolen something and left. He hadn't. Instead, he was standing in my kitchen, staring at my refrigerator. I had magnetic poetry on my fridge--the genius edition, a gift from the guy who'd recently moved out. I asked him what he was doing, and his response was, "I like your fridge. There's a lot of words on it. It looks like English, but I don't know what any of it means."
At this point, I had run out of nice. (If you recall from my profile, the nice store, located over in the nice district, was out of nice.) So I told him to leave. I was tired. The cat was upset by his presence. I had the clap. Whatever it would take to get him the fuck out of my apartment. He finally left.
Still half-naked, I threw myself down on the couch and reveled in the sound of him not being there.
There are some things worse than not getting laid. At least one of them is named Ryan. faptastichttp://email@example.com