So I was chillaxin' at the State Fair.  Wanted to go see Kelly Clarkson, but as the world knows by now and as I overheard the local Top 40 station over its live mic just as I got past the gate, she cancelled.  Boo.

I decided to hit a coffeehouse before going home.  Went to my usual spot in Uptown.  Went upstairs but found a bit of a crowd -- hmmm, for a Sunday night?  Saw a sign next to a wall: "Meetup, Nice New People."

But I kept going back and forth deciding which table I wanted to sit at.  Then from the room of the "Meetup, Nice New People" sign, one guy motioned to me.  He gave me that one finger curling towards him, palm away gesture.  Now, maybe I'm taking it a little harder than I should, but that looked to me a bit antagonistic.  I looked at him thinking, "Is he really doing that, to me?"  But he did once, twice, three times. 

So I finally pop my head to the the threshold of the doorway and say something I think was not aggressive but showed my relative annoyance; "I'm sorry, do I know you?"  In retrospect I guess that doesn't make sense.  But he said that I could take any open chairs where he and his group were sitting because they were about to leave.  I sort of declined the offer, sort of said I don't mind waiting until they were ready to go.  Less than five minutes later they left.

I made a point of making eye contact and saying goodbye to the guy who offered up his space once he departed.  But I think I made the right move in waiting until they left before I sat in one of their tables.  Taking a man's nice gesture the wrong way kind of proves I'm not a nice person.

Is My Car On The Downcycle Again?

First I was driving my car on low oil.  Then last night the radio antenna wouldn't retract; it stood erect and kept making this grinding noise.  Now, whenever I turn my engine on, even though I turned my radio off, the antenna makes this noise -- sort of like the one it makes when it retracts after I turn the radio off, but noisier and more broken-sounding.  I tried turning the radio on and all it does is make a louder noise.  Either way it eventually goes away, and the radio works fine, but now the antenna is sticking out.

This will be the second time the antenna on my car wouldn't go down.  The last time, though, was better because even though it didn't recede into my car's body, it didn't make any grinding noise.  That makes me scared that I caused it.  And not just by turning my radio on and off all the time, because I'm picky about what I listen to.  This happened two days after I saw my low oil level light stay on as long as I've ever seen it.  I believe that bad things can happen in bunches, and I believe one bad thing can cause another.  Now, does it mean that I think my bad antenna will cause something else in or on my car to go wrong?  Well, no, it's just the antenna ... but then again, yes, I think it could.

This is like 2004 (I think; it could've been 2005), when that squealing sound from under the hood turned into my timing belt tearing, which led to the transmission blowing up six months later, then me deciding to get the rust removed from the top of my windshield the following spring because those fly-by-night companies boasting that they can change your broken windshield while you're at work fucked up by not priming my car.  God, I hope this isn't the start of a snowball of disasters for my car.

My Confusing Day At The Track

Went to Canterbury Park with a friend today.  Tried to make money, but lost about $20, even though on past occasions at the racetracks I've lost my shirt.

The day wasn't without its extreme annoyances, though.  I tried to make a big splash by betting $5 to show on one horse in the first race after we got there, the second.  Lost and it made me gun-shy for the next few races.  Decided to eat a coney dog.  As usual when I eat hot dogs, the damn bottom of the bun fell apart.  And since it's a coney dog, all the chili fell through -- and, eventually, the hot dog.  I had to reassemble the fucking hot dog, for crissake.  And once I got done with that, I had to scoop up the excess chili by using the straw I put in my root beer float.  And then, the chili attracted a bee or a wasp or a hornet, and I'm terrified of those creatures, so I looked ridiculous out in the open swatting away at that thing like a spazz.

But then I started scrutinizing my own picks.  I usually bet at least twice per race, and when I bet more I sometimes stack picks on top of each other (where all of my bets have one horse in common), or I spread them out, or hedge (usually this means I pick at least two horses to, say, show).  I didn't have too much success, but when I hit, I realized a few races later that I didn't really make any money, or worse I still lost money because I made so many loser bets.  For example, my best race was the one where I bet the touted best bet to win, then paired it up top with three potential horses for the exacta.  I hit the exacta, but my combined winnings were $14.80.  For that particular race I made $10 worth of bets, so my profit was ... $4.80.  And in the penultimate race, I hit one out of my three winning tickets, a show bet, and my profit was ... 20 cents.

Now, I had plenty of times where I mentally kicked myself in retrospect -- I thought of a trifecta that hit, one longshot show horse won the last race and I would've wound up in the black if I bet him first -- but now this hedging really bothers me.  I put a lot of irons in the fire, but even if I win on one of them, those winnings have to make up for the losses on the other bets.  But I thought it's best if you cast a wide net; what's the use of pouring all your money into one horse if you're wrong?  Then again, I don't want to keep plodding along, winning four bucks here, forty cents there.

Does anyone out there know the right strategy when it comes to betting the ponies?  Have I done this all wrong?

I'm Back To Hating My Father Again

Grandmother had an episode tonight; when My Father called her for dinner, I saw her stagger out of the bathroom.  She couldn't walk, barely could stand up, and when I helped her to her seat, she closed her eyes and rested her head on her fist.  I touched her head; she was cold.  I patted her back; she clearly was sweating.  She headed back to sleep, although I had to help her to the bathroom, keep her upright because she was about to fall, and then take her to her bed.  I was about to call 911, but after an hour of sleep she came back out, on her own, making her own dinner.  Not listless, not cold, not sweating.  Grandmother seems fine now.

What really pisses me off is My Fucking Father's reaction to it.  One of the last times she had an episode like this was the morning I was going to vacation in St. Louis.  My Fucking Father and I had a huge fight the night before -- actually, he yelled at me for, like, going to the garage late at night, the asshole -- and I needed his help as I actually dialed 911 because Grandmother wasn't responding.  After the paramedics came, My Fucking Father disappeared.  We needed him to make a call to my aunt (his sister) to come over to make sure she was OK as I left.  I realized he was downstairs, in his room, watching TV.  Way to stand up and be a man, pop.

Well, his manner wasn't better tonight, either.  After yelling at her for getting up to go out to eat (which was after he called her out for dinner), he kept saying, "she's OK" in his typical whiny tone.  Oh yeah, like he's a doctor.  He asked me to get a Sprite for her to drink, even though she didn't ask for one.  I think he said that because when the paramedics were here last time, they gave her a Sprite too, but that was because her blood sugar was too low.  My Fucking Father, who was little help then, was doing the chickenshit thing and acting like the "expert" he wasn't then and diagnosed that Grandmother's blood sugar was low again, even though he didn't know what the fuck he was talking about.  Once again, way to stand up and be a man, one episode too late.

My Fucking Father kept saying she was OK as he berated her to go back to her bedroom.  And when she went back to bed, he told me "she OK."  Why the fuck are you trying to assure me she's OK?  Again, you're not a doctor, and I think I know more about her health than you do.  God, what an idiot.  He's trying to act like a man when all he's doing is overcompensating for being a coward when it counted.  And was he really going to be OK with his conscience in case Grandmother wasn't going to be OK tonight?

I might feel this way just to psyche myself up because I'll be away both nights this weekend, but I don't care.  I now feel good about not doing a damn thing around the house the next two days.

I Am Real Scared As Of Tonight

My car has given me a low oil level light off and on for, like, a month now.  I kind of forgot about it while I was in Zurich, so it could've gone on and I could've just ignored it the past few days.  But either because I was up very early and had stuff I had to do and was frazzeled, or because I decided to be a grown-up and look, that light was on for several seconds, longest it had ever been on, while I was going up a slight incline on 35W.  It went off (it had always blinked off after a while previous times), but it came on briefly again later on my trip back home, so I got really freaked out.

I had checked my oil after it went on twice before, but it's the first time I followed the owner's manual and did it shortly after I turned off the car so it would be as close to normal operating temperature as possible.  There was nothing on the dipstick.  Nothing.  So I got some oil and put, like, a quarter-quart in it; the manual said that while running most of the oil is being sucked into the engine, so I didn't want to put in too much.  I re-checked; there was still nothing on the dipstick.  That's when I recalled a thought that had passed through my mind a couple times before; how many miles ago did I last get my oil changed?

I finally checked the cling on the windshield with the odometer; it's been about 5,300 miles.  When I patronized the dealership, they put me on 5,000 intervals.  And the manual said that under normal operation you can go as far as 7,500 miles.  But that warning light has convinced me not to ever push it beyond five grand ever again.

Other thoughts raced through my head: There is some oil in the engine, and it's not like the warning light's on all the time, so maybe I can wait till August is over, just to make a clean break with the month?  And after checking my last invoice, tomorrow would make it four whole months since my last oil change.  But I got over myself and sucked it up and went in this afternoon.  I now assume everything's OK so I won't see the warning light anymore.  But how much damage have I done letting my car go on so long without a change, and especially after dismissing the blinking light as an opportunity to check under my hood?

---

And then tonight my father scared the shit out of me.  I went down to the computer room around 11:30 to help him register for some online auction.  After I was done, he started talking ... ruminating, actually, about how the city of Minneapolis is making him cut down the fence he just put up for one of his properties because it's too high.  I had no interest, but I tried to understand.  He then kept going on and on about how his properties were doing, and he talked in a slow, laconic manner.  My dad then fell back onto the bed in the room and closed his eyes.  Was he taking a nap?  No, not really; he kept going on and on about the properties he has and wanted to buy at auction.

Him talking slowly -- and one point I asked him if he was OK -- cemented the tableau for me in the room.  It was dirty, clothes were all over the place on the bed he was laying down on, and there were at least a couple flies buzzing around the room, an indication that there may be food lying out, as My Father is wont to eat in the room.  I don't think I've ever seen him talk to me as if he were drunk -- or dying.  My Mother still isn't talking to me, but is she talking to him?  Sleeping there meant that he wouldn't be sleeping with her; was that the point?  Finally, I saw a couple hours ago that the door to the backyard was open, wide open.  My Father wouldn't forget such a thing, he's usually fanatical about shutting the doors at night.  My Grandmother may have forgotten to close it, but I know my dad would at some point go upstairs to make sure that's closed.  Did he forget?  Did he leave it open?  Did he want to leave it open?   If so, why?  I've never seen that before.

Now that I've typed this, I'm really freaked out.  I hope he's OK.

The Weekly Minnesota Sports Survey

#-1: Twins (Two Weeks Ago: -2).  Since we were last here, the Twinkies went 8-6.  It was bad early, when they lost three in a row, but they've turned it around since, winning five in a row until last night.  This looked like the month where the team could have made a move because they were playing teams in their own division, in particular home-and-away three-game series against the armpits of the Central, Cleveland and Kansas City.  Well, they went 6-6 in those twelve games (and had to sweep the Royals in K.C. this weekend to reach .500), so this month should be regarded as a blown opportunity.  Yet, because of our geographic affiliation, we still somehow remain 4 1/2 games behind Detroit.  They host sturdy Texas this weekend, then the dreaded White Sox come to town for the week.

#-2: Vikings (Re-Entry!).  That was an auspicious start by Brett Favre, huh?  Dan Cole, "The Common Man," noontime host for sports-talk radio station KFAN has been bitching that his first play wasn't a 70-yard bomb to Percy Harvin but a handoff.  It's the preseason, so who cares, but he does have a point.  Another point that's skewed by the fact that it's the preseason: Tarvaris Jackson outplayed the Reckless Gunslinger.  Could that be why ESPN's Adam Schefter reports that there's a "schism" in the locker room over who should be QB, with even some players supporting Sage Rosenfels, who didn't even frickin' play in Friday's game against Kansas City?  (And why call it a "schism?"  Did they elect a gay bishop?)  Um, that's not good.  Vikings nation has to hope Favre plays at least competently in the first half Monday at home against Houston.  No, Jackson seems to have proven that he might not be able to win games, but so far, Favre hasn't demonstrated he can even manage one, at least not yet.  This drama, though good for Minnesotans' egos, will not go away quietly.

#-3: Lynx (Two Weeks Ago: -3).  Lost six in a row, and nine of 10.  What the fuck happened to this team?  I can tell you the Lynx have the worse defensive FG% and 3PT% in the WNBA.  Teams are shooting 38% from the perimeter against them for the season, the highest in the league by far.  And in the last 10 games, the team has shot only 41% from the field while opponents have shot at a 47.5% clip.  Jen Gillom's run-and-gun offense may have run out of gas.  They  have three games this week: a nearly must-win game against Western Division cellar-dweller Sacramento at home Friday, at Washington (who are in the middle of fighting for the last playoff spot in the Eastern Conference with Chicago) Sunday afternoon, and a very important game at San Antonio, the team they're currently tied with for the last playoff spot in the Western Conference, Tuesday.  Should Owner Glen Taylor threaten that he'll fold the Lynx if the team doesn't make the playoffs?  That might light a fire under their butts.

I Think My Family Stole My Money

I looked into the place where I keep my money; nothing there.  I swear that I had money there before I left for Zurich, and now it's gone.

I don't think my father would take my money.  His demeanor after My Fucking Mother's meltdown is calm.  He would is he was his usual whiny, bratty, vindictive self, but he's not that way right now.  So it could be My Fucking Mother.  She holds a grudge, but right now I can see her coming into my room while no one knows it and look through my stuff.  I should put my money in a safe or something, but I don't, and so anyone who's snooping around probably could find it.

The other culprit has to be, gulp, my grandmother.  She's always hard-up for money, most notably my money.  (And oh, by the way, I need to put this down on the Internet so it's permanent: She owes me over a thousand dollars.  I want everybody to know that.)  She, more than my parents, know where my money is, even if it is in an easy place to look.  The downside is is that the door is kind of hard to pull open because there's so much shit in it.  My granny has a hard time opening jars, and my place is on the ground, so I can't quite forsee her being able to open the door.

So ... maybe I'm paranoid and I left no money in there at all.  I did put a lot of money in my checking account the couple weeks before I left for Switzerland.  And I'm expecting my money from My Fucking Mother, but she's being a cunt and not giving it to me right now.  But ... God, I swear there was money there when I left.  Maybe it slid down somewhere or something. ...

I'm losing my fucking mind.

I don't want to say fuck Blogger, but fuck Blogger.  I wanted another blog to go with this one, but this one to have my real name and not my fake one.  And for some goddamn reason Blogger won't let me do it.  So I have to export that blog to Wordpress, where for the life of me I still don't know how I can get ads on the blog on the off-hand chance I can make money off of it.  Actually, it looks like I should've put this blog on Wordpress and the other "potential money-maker" site on Blogger.  But it's too late.

Or is it?

The New Normal

I was hoping nine days away and a heart-to-heart between her and my sister would help smooth things over with mom, but it hasn't.  She still hasn't talked to me, and she (and my father) still isn't eating dinner at home.  My Fucking Mother is still mad at me -- maybe for that "33 years" comment, maybe for something else, maybe for all of those things.

What can I do?  Wait it out, or just accept this.  I will not go up to her and apologize, but I'll do what I can to apologize through intermediaries, which right now has to be dad.  In the meantime, I will do what I consistently underestimate myself to do: look on the bright side of things.  After a screaming Mother there's a slient Mother, and with her going all batshit crazy (not just at home but at work too, according to Grandmother, so take that with a grain of salt), Father has to become the Sane One, which means no screaming Father either.  What will soon be a painful quiet in the house is to me, right now, a welcome peace.

Poker Palace gave me ten grand in chips, so why not play?  Some guy went all in when I had pocket 2's.  What the hell?  Flop gave me a third 2, so I was sitting pretty.  Poker Palace even gives percentages of winning, and I had, like 60% plus after the flop.  Then it increased after the turn.  There were five other guys who had money in this pot, and I was going to take it!  And then ... the river card was a jack, and the motherfucker with pocket J's wins the pot and wipes me out.

You just don't like me, do you, Poker Palace?  Go fuck yourself, Poker Palace.

I Take Back Everything I Said About My Sister In My Previous Post

Coming home, I realize I was a bit harsh.  We also had a good long talk about money and expectations, and we aired out a lot of bad feelings.  And I once again exposed myself as a hypocrite when I went to Freitag and bought a $40 cover for my iPod nano.  I can't bitch too much about spending too much money when that's exactly what I did, even when I can excuse it by saying I wanted something "Zurichy" to take home with me.

So yeah, I had a great time.  And I said, going to Switzerland for my sister's important day is the right thing to do.  But I reap the consequences I sowed.  If I am mature, I will either look for more money or cut back on spending stuff.  Hopefully both.

The Honeymoon Is Now Over -- Not Between Her And Him But Between Me And Them

I feel weird typing this on my sister's laptop, but I have to say this or I will explode.

I think I sacrificed a lot to come to Zurich to see my sister get married.  I got a good deal on airfare, but it ain't free.  I still don't have a job, and I certainly don't have enough in my account to make it rain at a strip club.  And it looks like my new brother-in-law is comfortable, or at least is free from debt and all self-doubt.  But My Fucking Sister had to raise the issue of money, and with that the implication I'm just a freeloader.

Happened tonight.  I had a carefree day walking around, getting lost, and seeing the sights of the city.  I had two two-hour periods of sleep and was out in the heat all day, so I will admit I was tired.  But I said we should go out.  He decided we bus it to this outdoor festival.  It was nice, but underwhelming.  There was a cute carousel powered not by a motor but by a guy standing on the edge of a donut stage pushing the ground with a stick while guys playing the drums and accordion played for the kids.  We then spent some time looking at a group playing with fire undramatically.  Don't tell anyone; but I got bored quick, and I wanted to go home.

We first got drinks.  My sister's husband said he got them.  While he stood in line, My Fucking Sister raised again something she said a couple days ago: One of these times I should pay.

"But he said he got this one.  What I am supposed to do?"

"But still. ..." (she says this all the time, and I hate it)

He got dinner; she heard it, she had to!  But after we ate and walked around some more, he ran into some friends.  They actually worked at one of the festival stages putting on a show; my sister's husband used to do the same thing several years ago.  My already-flagging energy nosedived as he ran into more friends, people I had no connection with, not even a language to share.  That left me talking with my sister, or at least my sister nagging me about stepping up and paying again.

That's when I really started to get sick of her.  Does she appreciate that I booked a flight 13 days in advance just so she would have someone representing her family on one of the biggest and most important days of her entire life?  (And something, I may add, she told us only two fucking months ago.  Normal people have the decency to at least plan for a year.)  You were OK with putting me up.  And all this time they -- well, actually him -- stepped up and got discount tickets to Lucerne, and volunteered to pay so far, including tonight.  And I don't fucking see her saying "I got this."  Why?  Because she doesn't have a job, either.  What the fuck does she have telling me what I have to pay for when she hasn't paid a goddamn cent for anything?

I hate being told what to do.  I hate it.  This reminds me of the time when I went off on my father after he decided out of the blue to put down new sod on the front lawn.  Both times I was tired, both times I felt blindsided, both times I wished they would've told me the ground rules of something that is very important to me.  But this time is worse because it involves something I don't have right now: cash money.  I don't think I'm being a freeloader, but that's certainly her implication, and if I don't, not only am I a moocher, but I'm also a bad brother.  Which I'm not, otherwise I wouldn't fucking be here.

But in my tired, defeated state I had to shut her up.  So the next time my brother-in-law wanted a beer I said, in a tone of voice meant to convey sarcasm and a complete lack of spontaneity, I kind of screamed, "Hey, I'll buy this one for you!"  There's six francs I no longer have.

Worse yet, he stayed talking to his friends.  In fact, they sat down and ordered more beers.  (I had another one, this one paid for by one of his friends, thank Buddha.)  I felt awkward and isolated; these are his friends, these are not my friends, and I couldn't even eavesdrop on what they're saying because they were speaking in fuckin' German.  The guy next to me, this beautiful, beautiful man, he was very gracious and started talking to me.  He asked me interesting questions that forced me to give answers that were logical and thoughtful.  He made me feel like a part of the conversation.  I got energy from this man, and in fact when we had to go because there was one last bus operating in the city, I actually felt bad that I had to leave the table.

There was one thing that stood out, however.  I made it a point of saying to her that I didn't like being railroaded into paying with money I don't have for this trip.  Before his friend started bringing me into the converasation, I left for the bathroom just to get away from these people.  (Sign I was really tired: I almost fell completely off the wooden plank on my way to the WC just so I could sidestep a guy.)  After I came back, everybody started talking about what I could do for free.  Don't tell me My Fucking Sister didn't tell the table I was bitching about shelling out money.  I hate being ambushed, and I certainly don't like it when someone tells strangers about my "issues."

But so what, the tickets to this acrobatics show was free (assuming we get them, which is still not 100%.).  Well, it does feel like we were handed these because I was being such a cunt about paying for a round of drinks, a stupid suggestion My Fucking Sister told me.  But again, whatever.  On the bus ride home, I still had this spectre of what she said/threatened, and so, without any regard to where this will leave me financially, I blurted out that I will pay for dinner the last night I'm here in Zurich.

"It's the right thing to do," I said.

"I agree."

Fuck You, Sister.  I did a lot to get here, just so you can indulge your need to get your work visa as soon as you can.  And your husband works in fucking Zurich, a place where there's virtually no poverty.  He fucking has more money than I do!  And you fucking think I have to pay, when everything screams that he can pay for everything?!?!?!  I am pulling my weight, goddammit.  Was coming here not enough?  Was washing your dishes like you asked me to not good enough for you?  Was making your bed, putting away the silverware and folding up the reusuable bags mandatory for your guests?  Is allowing me to stay up late and surf the Internet till five in the morning enough for you to extract a pound of flesh from me, you parasite?  What the hell more do you want from me after you made me take a shower every day, wash my face every day and brush my teeth twice a day?  Fuck You, Sis, Fuck You In.  The.  Ass.

I now regret coming here.  While I once felt like a guest, I now feel stepped on, walked over and punched through.  My sister is shaming me -- shaming me, for fuck's sake -- into money I don't have and money I shouldn't have to use.  And I don't want to be told what to do.  Goddamn, it feels like home.  And that's where I'm going in two days!  And now I want to go to there!!

Worst of all, I think I'll just do whatever she says.  She always gets what she wants.  Who am I to ruin her happiness the first several days as a married woman?  And come on, you've got to help the man out.  It's not like he's employed ... wait a second, he is.  Well, it's not like his parents haven't give him money ... oh wait, they did.  I'm like a motherfucking ATM to her, and I'm sick of it right now, I really, truly am.

I'm so pissed off about this that it's ruining our plans (yeah, we have to go out together because we're brother and sister!).  She gave me a choice of whether we would go to this museum in the morning or afternoon, but just before she went to bed she said that there was a change in plans: We were all having lunch togther at noon.

"We?" I asked.

"You don't have to come," she replied, easily gaining the moral high ground and making me look like a peevish, selfish prick who really is only an oppressed, picked on brother who is forced to the edge of financialy bankruptcy just to make His Fucking Sister happy.  I'll be up at the crack of noon, groggy but willing to do my part as the manipulated bro.

Goddamn, fuck all this shit.

Dispatch From Zurich

Sorry to have been dark; I'm visiting my sister in Switzerland.  I will be doing so the rest of this week, and I anticipate that I will be dark until then.  So sorry, no WMNSS.

Zurich, called by Monocle magazine as The Most Liveable City In The World, surely has many things going for it.  While it does kind of stink here and there, and I wish the apartment they live in had an elevator, Zurich has an extensive public transportation system, beautiful natural scenery, a high standard of living ... and lots and lots of babes.

I went out with my sister and her boyfriend to the Lake Zurice (the Zurichsee) where everybody goes to get a tan and go for a swim.  Couldn't swim because of the scary rocks lining the bottom (and the fact I can't swim), but that just gave me more time to scope out all the European chicks.  All chicks are hot, but something about all the babes in their bikinis ... well, maybe it's because I haven't touched myself in a while, but I have the urge now.  It's funny: After they're done sunning, the put all their clothes on, but you can see the strings holding up their bikini tops.  We shopped at the Hauptbanhof, the largest train station in the city and the only place where shops are allowed to open on Sundays.  Everywhere you look, babes in their dresses with the bikini strings showing.  I like seeing girls naked, but I think I wanted to go up to one of them and ask them to take off their dress so she'd show me her bikini.  Maybe it's because there were so many babes out in force in their bikinis that I don't want them to totally undress.  That would just be overdoing it.

The Weekly Minnesota Sports Survey

#-1: Timberwolves (Re-Entry!).  David Kahn finally got a new Head Coach, and it's the guy I always knew as The Lone White Guy On Showtime.  He certainly has the pedigree and achievements (namely the four NBA titles he won with the Bastard Minneapolis Lakers) that'll give the Woofie Dogs some credibility. But as the Star Tribune's Jim Souhan cleverly points out, some of the best coaches pay their dues in places a hell of a lot less cushy than besides Phil Jackson. Maybe, as he says, he couldn't wait to fulfill his role as the Zen Master's heir apparent, but besides a less-than-full season (the '99 season, which, in case you forgot, was the lockout year), he hasn't been a Head Coach before. He's an unknown for a team filled with unknowns after they traded guys who didn't play too shabbily and weren't completely useless. Well, at least he'll have sympathy for being clotheslined by Kevin McHale, the Man Who Fucked The Wolves. And now, out of obligation, is the infamous Clothesline:



#-2: Twins (Last Week: -1).  A 2-3 week, including a home ass-kicking by Kansas City, of all fuckin' teams.  You know things aren't going your way when your recent pitching pickup, Carl Pavano, may be the best hurler on your team right now.  (Saw him pitch inbetween writhing by a belly dancer; I actually was torn between the two all night.)  It's not the hitting really.  This week's runs: 8, 11, 7, 6, 7.  They finish up against the Royals this afternoon, host Cleveland this weekend, then visit the Bastard Washington Senators v.2.0 for four.

#-3: Lynx (Last Week: -2).  A 1-1 week means they're still at .500 (11-11), still trying to beat back San Antonio, still trying to recapture the mojo of the first half of the season.  They snapped a three-game losing streak (and a five-game losing streak at home?!?!?!) with a win over Connecticut on Friday.  But although they lost on a buzzer-beater by the Silver Stars' Ann Wauters, they were down by as much as 17 in the middle of the third quarter.  There has been little perimeter defense from this team since their swoon began.  Brian Martin of WNBA.com points a surprisingly encouraging sign, however: Although the Lynx play only one-third of their remaining schedule at home (a fancy way of saying 4 of 12), they now have a better record away from Target Center.  What will happen when they play at Chicago and Los Angeles this week (after hosting class of the league Indiana Thursday)?

All I can say is I apologize to Associated Content, and I hope doing this rectifies the situation.  This was an oversight and not an attempt to circumvent the rules, and I promise I will be more careful next time.

My Fucking Mother still won't talk to me.  In fact, she's gone to the extent of exercising for longer than usual while My Father has me eat first.  She either eats after me or, like today, she doesn't eat at all.

Fuck her, she's crazy.

And once again, My Fucking Father, of all people, is trying to play peacemaker.  For fuck's sake, I don't know why she blew up on me on Wednesday, and she's still holding my "for 33 years" comment against me.  I have never seen her hold a grudge this long ever ... unless just generally hating me all my life counts.

I now feel I have to make this up to My Father.  He asked me to clean my room.  I feel more of a pull to do it now more than ever.

I also can't forget that the roles of good cop and bad cop are usually the other way around.  I'm now convinced that they're both crazy, but they take turns.

God I hope they don't keep me out of the house when I leave the country later this week.

Fuck These Goddamn Town Hall Health Care Protestors In The Ass So Hard They'll Have To Go The Hospital -- And Then Be Denied Coverage

I would embed video of these health care insurance lobbyist-funded and -organized, Republican-approved disruptions and bullying and thuggery and provocations while congressmen and -women are trying to conduct town hall meetings, but I don't want to give these people any more publicity.  However, I will link to this incredibly intelligent post about how these ambushers aren't really protesting so much as yelling their dumbass heads off, the true crazy thinking underlying these protests, and how these orchestrations intersect with all the other nutty conspiracies and "movements" since Barack Obama became our president.  Really, after you read it once, read it again.

A particularly great point "hunter" writes about is the first paragraph after his first pull quote.  I've seen and heard all these shouting matches, and I thought it was so ... odd that people would get so pissed off about health care.  This is a very complex issue, and minutia about "government co-ops" and "public option" are some of the things that are being debated, but these adult crybabies are screaming things like "socialism" and "government takeover" and shit.  And at the top of their lungs!  These aren't good things, and in some certain situations I would denounce them too.  But geez, if you look at some of these guys, they sound like someone's going to tear down their house.  Why are you getting so angry about Communism?  We killed it, like, a decade and a half ago.

And this article concludes, and I agree, that with the means provided by health insurance money, these people get to speak their mind.  Not about health care reform; what they are really vehemently against is a Democrat and a black President being in charge.  All these accusations that the President isn't a real American, that he wants to take everybody's money, and now this weird bullshit about how he wants to kill the elderly, all of these ridiculous stories made up seemingly in the basement while these people took turns puff-puff-passing (wait, do Republicans do that?), all of them seem to have gotten the attention of a small number of hardcore Obama haters.  This article does away with any pleasantries; they're racists, nothing more.

This Is Incredibly Late, But Please Forgive Me Because I'm Still In A Confused And Tense State At Home

This is a great, thoughtful and, most important, even-handed analysis of GatesGate, the incident where well-known Harvard professor Henry Louis "Skip" Gates was arrested by a member of the Cambridge Police Department in his own home for disorderly conduct. Dr. Boyce Watkins, Syracuse professor and author, casts plenty of blame to go around. He suspects some sort of lingering unintentional racism from Sergeant James Crowley, but he also points out that Prof. Gates is a Harvard man, and that his statement that if it could happen to him could happen to anyone is inaccurate when it's not just black men going to jail but poor black men.

Dr. Watkins is correct in saying that things shouldn't have gotten out of hand. How much of what really turned out to be nothing more than a pissing match was about a white man versus a black man, how much was about a citizen versus a cop, how much was about a distinguished thinker versus an earnest townie, and how much was about an ego versus an ego?

So I'm at the Mall Of America.  Walked past the movie theaters there.  Since this is a summer Saturday afternoon, the place is packed, and so those eWorks guys asking for surveys were there, yards away from the box office.

Don't know why, but the first time I came across the guys I did my best avoid them, just like I did the environmental activists at the U. Wednesday.  Next time, though, I thought, Maybe there's a prize in it for me, and besides, I was being kind of a dick.  I'll go up to them.

They completely ignored me.  I was there for the asking.  Everybody else walked past them like they didn't exist, but I was just standing there, waiting.  But they didn't ask me at all.  Huh!

Still can't go over My Fucking Mother's wigout.  Decided to stay away tonight so I wouldn't have to see her at dinner.  She's probably still pissed at me for some fuckin' reason.

Went to the track.  Once again, I lost my shirt -- thirty dollars plus.  For someone going to Switzerland next week, that is not good.

You know, it was raining tonight, at times heavily.  My car wen through puddles on the highway.  What if ... ?

I'm still trying to get over My Fucking Mother wigging out.  Never have I felt safe or good today, not once.  I sit in my bed watching TV and I think she's going to burst through my door and order me to get out of the house.

I was waiting to turn right in the middle of evening rush.  I thought, just a second, about just gunning it straight.  I don't need the constant threats, especially my parents are going to take turns.

One Thought On The Death Of John Hughes:

Is there a more quintessentially '80's director than Hughes?  Moreover, is there a director that is so identified with a decade of moviemaking than Hughes is?  Spielberg maybe, but 1) he's been a powerhouse filmmaker since the eighties and 2) if you want spectacle you go with him, but if you want a window into the life of the American Teenager, Hughes has to be the guy.

Hell, I can't even think of another director who was so good at depicting adolesence than he.  RIP, sir.

The Weekly Minnesota Sports Survey

#-1: Twins (Last Week: -2). Fuck these teams. Fuck both of these teams!!! There ain't no goddamn difference between these two fucking putrid clubs. I should put both of these squads at -Infinity, but I don't want to start a precedent. The only reason I'm putting the Twinkies first is because they won, once, 10-1 over Cleveland on Tuesday. It was the only time this week that any Minnesota professional team actually beat someone, for crissake. Tuesday was the only fucking time this week any team had both good pitching (thank you, 9-7 Scott Baker) and decent hitting (thank you, Mr. 4-RBI Guy Carlos Gomez). Otherwise they lost every which way, including getting emasculated at home by the Los Angeles Of Anaheim Angels Of Los Angeles Angels Of Anaheim Angels Of, by, like a combined 1,000,000-3. Every thing has gone to hell at the same time, they're under .500 again, and somehow they're still not completely out of it in the division. The question of whether they've done anything to deserve it, however, is getting answered in the negative very, very quickly. At Detroit, then home to Kansas City.

#-2: Lynx (Last Week: -3). The swoon continues. Apparently, a lynx curls up into a ball and die every August. Back-to-back losses at Detroit and home to Phoenix has made this team's early hot start completely irrelevant. They're technically in third place, but their 10 losses ties them with both the Los Angeles Farmers Insurance and San Antonio. They could be out of the playoffs by this time next week with games at home to hometown daughter Linsday Whalen and Connecticut on Friday and then the Silver Stars on Sunday. I could say more, but I have to go home and make sure My Fucking Mother hasn't changed the locks to the house.

My Mother Goes Off On Me

I did not see this coming.  My Father is the petty, vindictive one, and My Mother is the volcano: She can also get angry at a moment's notice, but she's the volcanic one, spewing a mountainous flow of hatred from her mouth ... and then it appears to be over.  She was in rare form tonight.

She got home and wanted me to tell her what a "scoobie" was.  I told her, "Uh, a cartoon dog?"  She was trying to tell me someone told her about an animal that's in pets.  I played charades with her -- "Is it an ant?  A tick?  A worm?  A parasite?"  I don't know what the hell she was talking about.

I was going to tell my parents that I'm flying to Switzerland to see my sister's wedding, something I'm not too sure they approve of.  Definitely My Father, who still doesn't like the guy she's marrying, wouldn't be cool with it; My Mother, by contrast, actually liked the guy when she met him.  So I thought that when it'd be alright if I slipped the news that I was "thinking" about going to see her to My Mother when My Father went downstairs.  She saw me staring into my food; she asked me what was wrong, I told her I was thinking.  "About what?" she asked.  My sister, and the wedding, I replied.  My Grandmother, of all people, then talks about my sister sleeping on the plane.  She heard me use the Chinese word for "marriage" and, as usual, she didn't hear but that didn't stop her from talking to us.

I tried to correct what I said, but nothin' doin'.  "Am I saying the word 'wedding' wrong?" I asked My Fucking Mother.  "Just shut your mouth up," she said in her usual understanding-culturally-but-not-totally-getting-the-words-right way.  That's when I knew that my intimations seemed to have riled her up.  I thought you were cool with the wedding, Mother.

I then paced the entire rest of the performance show of So You Think You Can Dance pacing, thinking up how to break the news to them without getting thrown out.  I decided to kick the can down the curb till tomorrow; then I'll tell 'em.  And if they don't like it, fuck 'em.  I thought we were supposed to be a family, and if one of us gets married, can't we at least fucking go to the thing?  I'll go by myself, and I'll tell everybody who's there that my parents don't approve.  They'll know my parents are assholes, and that's that.

So I go downstairs to get some pop.  I hear someone get up from the master bedroom I pass by, so I stop because it's no use getting my pop now.  It's My Fucking Mother, of all people.  She wanted me to give my Grandmother money.  So I go in like everthing's OK ... except that it's not.  My Father starts talking to me about going to work or finding a job, and I respond.  I leave, and the next thing I know My Fucking Mother starts in on me.  Does she think I'm going to the wedding and she's pissed off about it?  And then I say something I regret now but should've said a long time ago, "For the past 33 years you keep yelling at me!"

And My Fucking Mother goes off.  I vented about a lot of shit to her once she started in on me -- I told her that I yell at people because they raised me that way -- but the one thing she latched onto was my "33 years" comment.  When she gets really pissed off, she can go a hell of a lot longer than My Fucking Father, but the one thing she said in her rant the most was "if you don't like it, get out.  Get Out!!!"  I had that flush of fear I had the last time she got angry, but I was able to step back, listen to her bitch, realize that much of it was her losing it, and I just let it wash over me.  It was weird; I had replayed in my head time after time after time going after my parents with guns blazing if they were going to start picking a fight.  But I stopped myself, mostly because 1) she was threatening to kick me out of the house, something I know she doesn't have the balls to do even though she's sounded like she meant it more than ever; and 2) I don't know if I wanted to rock the boat any more because I needed a ride to the airport when I tell them about my trip next week.  So I did what I thought I would never do: I listened, talked slowly and softly, and defered to My Fucking Batshit Crazy Mother, even to the point of apologizing for shit just to placate her.

She shut her mouth while My Fucking Father, of all fucking people, became peacemaker.  As she was threatening to throw me out of the house, it was he who tried to calm her down.  It is The Opposite Fight.  Even weirder was I looked to him for support.  I had to play one off against the other because if they did agree on kicking me out. ...  So even though he said some really stupid things, like I eat my food weird in public and I should look to TV to eat properly -- really, Fuck You, Father, 'cause that really is a stupid thing to recommend even if I do eat funny, which I don't -- I let his shit roll down my back because he was able to step away from our arguing.  All this time I was thinking I would have to get by him in order to get a ride to Switzerland.  Instead, near the end of our fight I broke the news that I was going.  He said OK.  Now, he may get pissed off at me tomorrow, but right I now I'll take that.

I still think about what My Fucking Mother used against me in our fight.  Most of it was bullshit.  In particular, she said that even if she's wrong, I should just let her yell at me.  Fuck that.  I've had to deal with that garbage for 33 years.  That's why I said it!  But she also said that she feeds me and houses me, and then I turn around and tell her that she's made my whole life miserable.  When she said that, I started to understand some of the pain she feels when she's around me.  I don't yap when she asks for something -- well, not as much as she thinks.  I am easily frustrated.  Hell, she does that to me all the time.  But I realize that sometimes that doesn't make her feel all that good when she asks me to, say, help her pay her bills online.  Sorry to make you feel that way, mom.  I love that you still house me after all these years.  Sometimes, you just make me feel like shit, that's all.

To cap off all of this, I finally heard myself not only be pliant towards my rampaging mom but also "listening" to my dad.  In fact, I found myself saying "OK," in exactly the same goddamn whiny, now-will-you-please-go-away tone he does it in.  I don't think he understood the irony.  But I think I kind of understand how he has to deal with his wife sometimes.  And so I think I understand him a little more.

A scary and creepy night, folks.

Spooked By A Clipboard Activist

I can't believe I did this this afternoon.  I was walking to Commons at the U., spacing out like I usually do.  But when I get there, I see this girl in a yellow shirt holding a clipboard.  Oh no -- you're not going to ask me about ... the environment!  Yes, I like the environment, but I don't to sign anything and I don't want to talk to you ... sorry ... please?

I actually froze in place for a second.  And then, my God, I shuffled my feet and started to walk backward.  Then I stopped again, waited for other people to walk between her and me so I would have "cover," and then I ran into Commons.  Man, if I was just out there hanging out and I saw me do what I did, I'd think I was a complete moron.

And worse yet, I did it to the woman stationed on the other side of Commons as I left.

I thought I was putting a lot of miles on my 16-year-old car a few weeks ago when I drove for 120 miles.  Tonight I drove 150+ -- down to the airport to drop off my sister, up to Brooklyn Park to get some Asian fruit for my Grandmother, back home to drop it off, then over to St. Paul to pick up friend so we can go up north to the harness track, then down to South Minneapolis, then a quick coffee at Uptown before going home.

I'm either keeping the oil in my engine clean, or I'm killing my car.

Update To My First Blogging Foray Into Critical Writing

Two things:

1) I feel like a dumbass when I give a side in a political debate more credit than it turns out it deserves. Case in point: health care. Seems like bullies are going to harass, hunt down and make miserable the lives of every single congressperson even thinking about voting for a health care reform bill. I would give the anti-reformer Republican dickheads who are paid to show up at these places some slack if they were just people organizing on a grass-roots level, or if they were honest about being organized by powerful lobbyists for the health insurance industry, or even if weren't being so rude. But that's what Republicans do: yell, shout and drown out cogent arguments hoping for either humiliation or a blow-up by a politician. It is newsworthy in the sense that, even though this is being spearheaded by a lot of money, blocking needed health-care reform is working.

2) I said reporters being afraid to report on sponsors and puff pieces were the worst culprits of the erosion of true broadcast journalism today. I feel stupid in forgetting an even more formidable foe: pissing off their employers, conglomerates who run companies and make products that may be scrutinized by their broadcast properties' newscasts. Who cares about the drug companies purchasing ads on the nightly news? What about General Electric, Viacom, Disney and News Corp.? It's those interests that news organizaations have to worry about.

Read this article, the whole thing. If you're curious as to why Bill O'Reilly and Keith Olbermann have stopped their pissing match, you'll get the explanation over there. And it also reminds me of other times when journalists were influenced into not doing critical pieces that may not be popular. In the run-up to the Iraq War, there was pressure not to do any reports critical of the war or the Bush Administration for fear of not only ratings or accusations of treason, but of the news organizations' employers losing business with the government. Also, there was the story that broke of how the networks used ex-military officers as analysts when they held jobs as consultants and lobbyists for defense firms. They openly coordinated with the government to parrot White House talking points in exchange for influence and potential contracts for the companies they work for in the future. Shame on the Bush Administration, shame on TV journalists for being snowed, and shame on me for forgetting.

If I want to be a media critic, I have to do a little more research, don't I?

My First Blogging Foray Into Critical Writing: Mark Harris' Column

I don't want to hate unless that person has done something to me. Mark Harris, columnist for Entertainment Weekly, hasn't. I don't even know the guy. But after sticking for Katherine Heigl's under-bus throwing of the writers of Grey's Anatomy last year, he's been on my radar. And now, with his essay this week saying the best journalist on TV is Jon Stewart, I'm going to stick my neck out and tell y'all why that opinion sucks. Or, to make it more personal, why Harris sucks.

First, I'll start off picking on the small things. Harris lambastes the Big Three (network anchors Brian William, Charles Gibson and Katie Couric) without acknowledging other facts that I think are salient. While they are the managing editors of their news services, reporters are the ones that do the footwork and file the stories. Moreover, while there are some pieces that invite and even demand the American people take a stand on one side or the other, many stories are just informative pieces, stuff like Ford announcing massive sales last month, or the latest skirmishes in Afghanistan. Last night I just saw a CBS report on a 65-year-old training to be a cop. How the hell can you not be neutral on a story like that (unless saying to yourself, "Geez, a 65-year-old is training to be a cop? Good for him!" is an acceptable point-of-view Harris expects)?

And while I don't have cable (obvious weak point in my argument, but what the hell), I'll believe Stewart when he says he doesn't think himself as a journalist, just a comedian, a satirist and a news critic. That's great, and from what I've seen him on The Daily Show, that is exactly what he is and what he should stick to. He serves a purpose, a vital one. But it's not news.

And that's my biggest gripe against Harris. He believes that it's OK to get your news from people whom "I know where they're coming from." He warns against the slippery slope into "the dumbed-down demagoguery that has infected cable news." That's a menace to remain vigilant of, but by investing completely in someone whose reason for being is to make fun of politicians and reporters and not necessarily honing in on the facts, he's basically signing up for that type of mud-slinging -- a liberally-biased one (not that there's anything wrong with that, I feel much the same way), but mud-slinging nonetheless. That you're honest about your biases doesn't make what you regard as journalism, journalism. News isn't information that you want, Mr. Harris, it's information that you need.

It's really funny that he admires Walter Cronkite for editorializing on the Vietnam War. That was one of the few times he did it, and even then he had to be persuaded to do so. He was unflappingly, maybe even rigidly objective when it came to delivering the news, and he thought a reporter's opinion is best given sparingly, if at all. Cronkite knew that if he and his team could get all the facts of a story, the people would be able to discern the truth; putting yourself front and center is a weapon you use once in a while for maximum impact. I don't fault The Big Three for aspiring to do the same. They're not going to be as good as Cronkite, and I think even they know they won't. But while Harris believes "their determination to appear nonideological" is a weakness and an impossibility I think is an absolute requirement to scour an entire subject for any and all kernels of truth. Being neutral may be a myth, but it nonetheless is worth pursuing. The best ones put their personal thoughts aside and just report. I'm certain that if he were alive today, Cronkite would upbraid Harris for boasting about getting his news from someone who has similar political leanings. Bottom line: If I want to hear someone who agrees with me, I'll watch Keith Olbermann. If I want to hear the news, I'll watch the news, and so what if I don't know how Brian, Charles and Katie tick?

I will agree with Harris when he laments the idea that neutrality is too often used when common sense demands that one side "wins." But running to Jon Stewart isn't the answer. I think he still is reacting to the media's cock-sucking of the Bush Administration when they decided to invade Iraq. We were all reeling from 9/11, and Saddam Hussein was not taking seriously America's threats to let inspectors search his country for weapons of mass destruction, so we let him have it. It's a worthy indictment of journalism -- although, as Arianna Huffington points out in her book, Right Is Wrong, there were several lone cries in the night saying there were no WMD's, and I specifically remember Ted Kennedy, not a shrinking violet he, saying that they were about to start a bad war fought under false pretenses.

Fast forward to the health care bill. Now, I'm all for Obama's almost-perfect version of health insurance reform, and I hate that Republicans are trying to bury it under their usual heap of lies. But the Congressional Budget Office saying that the president's plan will cost taxpayers more than the White House says it will is news; is there a side that needs to be taken? Blue Dog Democrats worry about doctors in rural areas that might lose money in the deal, and they hate that reform may drag us deeper into debt; how would there be evidence discounting those concerns? If there is no such evidence, is it possible that their concerns aren't just political posturing but are in fact real? Important political subjects are often complex, mostly because many opposing sides (not just two) have compelling reasons that any sane, decent American can understand, if not agree with. That's what the news should be -- a vehicle of information, not a tool for advocacy.

If anything, there needs to be an end to the networks' pursuit of ratings. That leads them to accept ads from companies whom they should be critical of, which leads to tension that their employers -- people who run companies -- will "pressure" reporters to look away or soft-pedal critical stories about those sponsors. This also leads to too many puff pieces that do nothing to inform me about the way the nation and the world is now. I understand that finishing a broadcast talking about Bo The First Dog has a lot of human interest, but I don't think we'd see so much attention paid to it if the news didn't need it to pump up ratings.

Two times Stewart had what Mr. Harris probably would call a "Cronkite moment" -- his 9/11 commentary and his commentary after Saddam Hussein's statue was toppled. Both times I saw him at his best -- raw, passionate, human. It's a declaration from a smart man who doesn't take himself too seriously but knows that he has a pulpit and will use it to say what he thinks. That still doesn't make him a newsman. What worries me is that he will give in to "The Most Trusted Man In America" title that his fans have bestowed upon him and start to fancy himself a journalist. Don't believe the hype Mark Harris gives you, sir. You are a comedian. And you are excellent just the way you are.

Hardware Store Fail

I needed to do something on a lazy Saturday afternoon. I also needed to get away from my parents. So when My Father asked me to get something from the hardware store, I jumped at the chance.

Unfortunately, as he sometimes does when he wants to get stuff for him at the hardware store, he has a hard time explaining what he wants. Father shows me what he wants; in this case we went to the master bathroom and he showed me the vertical corner ... thing that, um, bridges the corner. He says the walls don't meet up at this corner in one of his houses, so he wants this moulding thing to make it look nice. Oh, and he needs caulk for this corner thing. And he wants a lock, too, just like the one for the shed.

I treat myself to a slush from Sonic -- just made it at 4 o'clock and their half-off happy hour -- before going to Menards. After finding the caulk, I got lost. When that happens, what I usually do is walk around with a stupid look on my face until someone stops and asks if I need anything. What probably helped extra this time was that I was drinking a Sonic slush and was wearing a hawaiian shirt.

A couple guys helped me. They told me to go down several aisles and they'll get someone. I don't know if I ever went down to where they told me to, but no one ever came. Luckily, I found a bunch of outside corner thingies. But then I notice that they're not corners per se, but there's something more to them, an extra notch that screws up the simple corner I'm looking for. A guy then comes up to me and asks if I need anything; he then says what I need might be in the next building.

I walk to the next building. Pop my dumb look; two people ask how I'm doing. I tell them what I need to the best of my ability. They say the closest thing they have is clear and in the wallpaper section ... in the first building. So I trek the fuck back to the first building. Can't find the wallpaper section. A guy volunteers to help me, but he was busy sawing off some part for some woman.

After wandering some more, I find the piece I'm looking for. But it's clear, not all white as Father wanted. I don't need him bitching at me, so I'm going to call him before I buy this. So I find a place to put down this corner molding thing and call home but it says "Call Failed. Shit-shit-shit-shit-fuck-goddamn!!! I forget that the back half of this Menards is a fucking dead zone! So now I have to trudge all the way up to the front of the store with this eight-foot thing bending at the ends (a guy passing me by warned me it was going to break in half. If only) just to make the phone call. On my way there I see one of the first two guys who helped me doing something back at his computer. Did it occur to him that I was still looking around, and that he must have failed somehow if I still was? Anyway, My Father says it's OK.

I instinctively walk to the back of the store. Then I realize this thing is self-adhering. Does he still want the caulk? Sigh -- go back up to the front and call. No, he said, I don't need the caulk for anything else besides the thingy. So now I spend 10 minutes figuring out where to put back the caulk. I find it just as the other of the first two guys to help me was talking to someone else. Does he care that I'm still lost and looking for stuff?

So now to the locks. I wander yet another 10 minutes, eight-foot monster in tow, to get to the locks. Shit-shit-shit-shit-fuck-goddamn!!! I forget to check the shed for what size it lock he wanted before I left! All I know is he wants the cheapest lock possible -- no Master or Schlage for Father, his orders, just Tru-Lock[?]. What size lock does he want? Shit-shit-shit-shit-fuck-goddamn I have to go back to the front to call yet again. Get the same size lock, he said. I could've guessed that was what he was going to say. I make a guess and get the fuck out of the store.

After wrestling the 8' thing into my car, I look at its clock: It's 5:45. And after finally getting home, it took me two hours to escape the Vortex Of The Goddamn Hardware Store. That's the thing about home improvement: Half the time the thing you're looking for isn't there or doesn't even fucking exist.

I get home and am curious if I get the right lock. After one more delivery of the 8' thing to my parents' car, I go to the shed and compare locks. The one I bought is a wee bit bigger. Did I buy the wrong one? Shit-shit-shit-shit-fuck-goddamn. ...

I Knew My Fucking Father's Good Behavior Wouldn't Last

I wanted to get a Pepsi from downstairs, but he was outside eating a late-night snack. I knew there was a chance he'd ambush me, but I needed my Pepsi.

So of course when I come back up with a Pepsi, My Fucking Father asks me again about going back to school.

Fuck You, Father