Who was the guy who said, "I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it?" Voltaire? Yeah, he's a douche.
I believe in free speech. But I think there should be a lot more restrictions than what I believe most people would like. That's because words hurt and lead to violence. To be safe from harm, both physical and mental, is a basic human right, and there is too much latitude given to "freedom of speech" that violates the safety of a citizen, and many times leads to corporeal harm. That should never happen -- for the sake of human decency, it can't happen.
Which leads me to the Westboro Baptist Church. This was founded by some idiot; his idiot offspring form the vast majority of the membership, which is based in Topeka, Kans. They spend their time going around to the funerals of dead American soldiers and holding up signs celebrating the soldier's death. In what is the dumbest, most nonsensical, most fucked-up logic I've ever heard about anything, these human specimens, who are fervently homophobic, believe God is killing these soldiers because of America's acceptance of homosexuality. I don't fucking get that at all.
Besides, who the fuck are these people, and why the fuck do they spend their lives going around, invading the privacy of grieving families and inflicting unspeakable pain by letting them know that they want to tapdance on their lost loved one's grave? This should be illegal. This is outrageous, wrong, sick, and cruel. And I don't give a damn about public property, time and place, or protection of disagreeable speech. So good for Albert Snyder, the father of one KIA soldier, Lance Cpl. Matthew Snyder, who dared to fuck with these Westboro bullies when they ruined his final goodbye to his son. He sued these asses for inflicting emotional distress, among other charges. And he won.
But then he lost. On Friday, the 4th Circuit Court Of Appeals overturned a guilty verdict and compensatory and punitive damages awarded by a jury. What did they cite: The First Amendment, everybody's favorite law, the only guarantee in the Bill of Rights that most people know by heart. Moreover, the court is punishing Snyder by ordering him to pay $16,000 for the church's legal fees and costs.
Mr. Snyder calls it a "slap in the face" and that his son and other soldiers "have died to protect our rights and freedoms to have them degraded and spit upon like this church does." He's right. He's set up a website to pay for the costs of (I think) his legal fees. I hope I'll be able to give him some money. And in the interest of human justice and morality, I implore you to do the same if you can.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Dealing With Strangers Today
Maybe it's not a big deal, but if I reach out my hand after I asked for a paper funnel beyond my reach, wouldn't you hand it to me instead of lying it on the counter? You left me hangin' like a bitch.
And oh, sir, I apologize. Yes, that guy behind you, the one who followed you to the window when normal people would stay behind, ATM-style, was insane. I didn't mean to ignore you; I wanted to overhear what he said to the box office guy because I wanted to know if he was going to watch the same movie I was going to watch. If he did, brother, I was right behind you out the door. Again, sorry.
And oh, sir, I apologize. Yes, that guy behind you, the one who followed you to the window when normal people would stay behind, ATM-style, was insane. I didn't mean to ignore you; I wanted to overhear what he said to the box office guy because I wanted to know if he was going to watch the same movie I was going to watch. If he did, brother, I was right behind you out the door. Again, sorry.
Bad Driver: MJP 985
Man, I haven't been given the finger in a long time.
I'm trying to get home from "work" using a side street in the middle of afternoon rush. When going on a green, this stupid domestic car doesn't like the way I accelerate and goes around me. Oh, who preytell could this vehicle be? So I get on the other lane to see if I can beat it, lest I have to write it down and report it.
Luckily, this asshole car had some guy turning right in front of it, so it has to slow down, which means I blow past it. I win! Wait. The driver gets around the car as soon as possible, which means veering very close to me in order to speed back up. It was about to hit my car, so I honk my horn to back it off. I don't know if it worked because I was afraid I was going to hit the car in front of me.
Once I get to the stoplight, I look to my right. The car finally catches up with me. The driver is a woman -- blonde hair pulled up, glasses, kind of chubby. And by God, she gives me the finger as she passes. And she looks me straight in the eye while she does it! The balls of that bitch!! She must've really been in a serious meltdown, or seriously not give a fuck about anything, to do that. What is it, lady? Pissed about what you're driving away from? About what you're driving to? Both? Or are you angry that you drive a gray Olds and that you're plain-looking?
I really thought I'd be a lot angrier at the disrespect given to me, but I'm not for two reasons: 1) I did honk at her; it was necessary, but I've been on the other side and I was not in a good mood from it; and 2) I'm still amazed she had the guts to look at me and flick me off. I think a part of me is impressed, actually.
I did think about stalking her, just to get back at her for doing that to me. Alas, I choose to let it slide and reported her online. Hopefully, maybe, she'll get pinched by the law for what she did.
I'm trying to get home from "work" using a side street in the middle of afternoon rush. When going on a green, this stupid domestic car doesn't like the way I accelerate and goes around me. Oh, who preytell could this vehicle be? So I get on the other lane to see if I can beat it, lest I have to write it down and report it.
Luckily, this asshole car had some guy turning right in front of it, so it has to slow down, which means I blow past it. I win! Wait. The driver gets around the car as soon as possible, which means veering very close to me in order to speed back up. It was about to hit my car, so I honk my horn to back it off. I don't know if it worked because I was afraid I was going to hit the car in front of me.
Once I get to the stoplight, I look to my right. The car finally catches up with me. The driver is a woman -- blonde hair pulled up, glasses, kind of chubby. And by God, she gives me the finger as she passes. And she looks me straight in the eye while she does it! The balls of that bitch!! She must've really been in a serious meltdown, or seriously not give a fuck about anything, to do that. What is it, lady? Pissed about what you're driving away from? About what you're driving to? Both? Or are you angry that you drive a gray Olds and that you're plain-looking?
I really thought I'd be a lot angrier at the disrespect given to me, but I'm not for two reasons: 1) I did honk at her; it was necessary, but I've been on the other side and I was not in a good mood from it; and 2) I'm still amazed she had the guts to look at me and flick me off. I think a part of me is impressed, actually.
I did think about stalking her, just to get back at her for doing that to me. Alas, I choose to let it slide and reported her online. Hopefully, maybe, she'll get pinched by the law for what she did.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Tremendous Article
As long as there are people employed by newspapers who can write rigorous and thoughtful pieces like this story about the death of a Los Angeles Times sportswriter, newspapers should never die.
Mike Penner was a longtime columnist until 2007. He worked for the Times after that, but that year he announced that he was to undergo gender reassignment. In other words, Penner outed himself as a woman born as a man, and he would begin dressing, talking and acting like a woman in public.
I saw this as a blurb in a local paper and was floored. Of all the men to decide he really was a she, it's someone in the masculine world of sports? OK. ...
But according to Christopher Goffard's story, it turned out anything but for Penner. Living life under the name Christine Daniels, she began to see herself as an advocate for GLBT rights. But just as she couldn't stand all the years living as a man, Daniels couldn't take living as a woman either. Gay rights advocates were using Daniels, according to her. Meanwhile, Penner/Daniels's marriage of two decades, to Lisa Dillman (who also works at the Times, covering the Clippers), ended when Dillman filed for divorce two weeks after the column announcing his change. The article doesn't make clear if Dillman knew about Penner's private life.
Something, or a series of things, finally got to Daniels, and after living like a woman for a "real-life test" before having actual gender reassignment surgery, she switched back to being Mike Penner. The damage had been done, however -- to the marriage, which may or may not have been the major source of Penner/Daniels's pain, but also the confusion about who he or she really was. Finally, around Thanksgiving, he turned on his car, stuck a vacuum hose in the exhaust, led it to the passenger-side window, got in, and proceeded to kill himself. Mike Penner was 52.
Goffard fills the reader in with many details that illuminate his internal suffering. Shortly after he announced he was becoming a woman, Penner tried to take down and erase every single photo of him online. After she decided to switch back, Daniels decided to do the same. Near the end of his life he was committed to a psychiatric hospital and told a transgender friend he believed his employer broke into his house. Daniels also blogged about her life back on the beat, Woman In Transition; the Times no longer has archival records of the blog posts. The implication is strong in the piece that somehow Penner erased them.
For all the insight, I'm left with a lot of questions -- not necessarily with the story, but with the characters in them, foremost the main one. I obviously am no expert on gender dysphoria, the mental illness where you feel you're trapped in the body of the wrong sex. But I would think, or at least hope, that once Mike Penner became Christine Daniels she would feel free to be who she truly is. Also, there were many signs that Daniels herself wasn't comfortable in her newsskin in much the same way he professed not being himself in his old skin. There was a quashed article for Vanity Fair, and the photographer hired to shoot photos of Daniels couldn't calm her down after she saw them and thought she was ugly. She was so hysterical she pushed the photographer. I don't know if that's because she really thought she was ugly or if there was something deeper she was haunted by. Yes, it seems like people were using her as a way to raise money. It also seems like people didn't believe she passed as a woman. But if you finally are you who you want to be, who cares? Being able to stop lying to yourself and the world seems to be worth being exploited and ridiculed. So Penner/Daniels's suffering leads this uneducated man to guess that if gender reassignment couldn't heal the wounds, nothing could've prevented him/her to suicide.
I am also troubled by how Penner/Daniels was remembered. There was an open memorial to remember the life of Christine Daniels -- not Mike Penner, but Christine Daniels, the pastor conducted the service emphasized. Is that supposed to be the case? And would Mike have wanted that? There was a family memorial for family only, and I can guess they were mourning "Mike." But saying the public memorial was for "Christine" seems like a decision made by the people who organized the memorial, which veers dangerously close to the exploitation that bothered and embittered Daniels. This is about the mourners, not the mourned. What does Mike Penner say about not being eulogized in the public memorial? What were his last wishes, if he had any? It's quite possible that even he/she didn't know who he was at the time of his suicide, but last I heard he went by "Mike Penner" on his byline.
Lastly, though, I am saddened, even disturbed, by the silence of both Penner's ex-wife, Dillman, and his brother, John, who also works at the Times in the copy desk. For such a high-profile story (Penner's coming out was LAT's most viewed article in 2007), neither Dillman nor John Penner had anything to say for this story. Sort of ironic that in a place and industry where you're trying to get people to say something about even the most controversial and painful topics, two members of the media had no comment.
Mike Penner was a longtime columnist until 2007. He worked for the Times after that, but that year he announced that he was to undergo gender reassignment. In other words, Penner outed himself as a woman born as a man, and he would begin dressing, talking and acting like a woman in public.
I saw this as a blurb in a local paper and was floored. Of all the men to decide he really was a she, it's someone in the masculine world of sports? OK. ...
But according to Christopher Goffard's story, it turned out anything but for Penner. Living life under the name Christine Daniels, she began to see herself as an advocate for GLBT rights. But just as she couldn't stand all the years living as a man, Daniels couldn't take living as a woman either. Gay rights advocates were using Daniels, according to her. Meanwhile, Penner/Daniels's marriage of two decades, to Lisa Dillman (who also works at the Times, covering the Clippers), ended when Dillman filed for divorce two weeks after the column announcing his change. The article doesn't make clear if Dillman knew about Penner's private life.
Something, or a series of things, finally got to Daniels, and after living like a woman for a "real-life test" before having actual gender reassignment surgery, she switched back to being Mike Penner. The damage had been done, however -- to the marriage, which may or may not have been the major source of Penner/Daniels's pain, but also the confusion about who he or she really was. Finally, around Thanksgiving, he turned on his car, stuck a vacuum hose in the exhaust, led it to the passenger-side window, got in, and proceeded to kill himself. Mike Penner was 52.
Goffard fills the reader in with many details that illuminate his internal suffering. Shortly after he announced he was becoming a woman, Penner tried to take down and erase every single photo of him online. After she decided to switch back, Daniels decided to do the same. Near the end of his life he was committed to a psychiatric hospital and told a transgender friend he believed his employer broke into his house. Daniels also blogged about her life back on the beat, Woman In Transition; the Times no longer has archival records of the blog posts. The implication is strong in the piece that somehow Penner erased them.
For all the insight, I'm left with a lot of questions -- not necessarily with the story, but with the characters in them, foremost the main one. I obviously am no expert on gender dysphoria, the mental illness where you feel you're trapped in the body of the wrong sex. But I would think, or at least hope, that once Mike Penner became Christine Daniels she would feel free to be who she truly is. Also, there were many signs that Daniels herself wasn't comfortable in her newsskin in much the same way he professed not being himself in his old skin. There was a quashed article for Vanity Fair, and the photographer hired to shoot photos of Daniels couldn't calm her down after she saw them and thought she was ugly. She was so hysterical she pushed the photographer. I don't know if that's because she really thought she was ugly or if there was something deeper she was haunted by. Yes, it seems like people were using her as a way to raise money. It also seems like people didn't believe she passed as a woman. But if you finally are you who you want to be, who cares? Being able to stop lying to yourself and the world seems to be worth being exploited and ridiculed. So Penner/Daniels's suffering leads this uneducated man to guess that if gender reassignment couldn't heal the wounds, nothing could've prevented him/her to suicide.
I am also troubled by how Penner/Daniels was remembered. There was an open memorial to remember the life of Christine Daniels -- not Mike Penner, but Christine Daniels, the pastor conducted the service emphasized. Is that supposed to be the case? And would Mike have wanted that? There was a family memorial for family only, and I can guess they were mourning "Mike." But saying the public memorial was for "Christine" seems like a decision made by the people who organized the memorial, which veers dangerously close to the exploitation that bothered and embittered Daniels. This is about the mourners, not the mourned. What does Mike Penner say about not being eulogized in the public memorial? What were his last wishes, if he had any? It's quite possible that even he/she didn't know who he was at the time of his suicide, but last I heard he went by "Mike Penner" on his byline.
Lastly, though, I am saddened, even disturbed, by the silence of both Penner's ex-wife, Dillman, and his brother, John, who also works at the Times in the copy desk. For such a high-profile story (Penner's coming out was LAT's most viewed article in 2007), neither Dillman nor John Penner had anything to say for this story. Sort of ironic that in a place and industry where you're trying to get people to say something about even the most controversial and painful topics, two members of the media had no comment.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Needing to write, about 90 minutes before going to the Target Field opener/Gopher baseball game, Mother calls me to go to the bank, which is about 25 minutes away. It was 11:35. Really, Mother? Flummoxed in how I could get out of the house as soon as possible while preparing to get to the game (and staying out the whole day) slowed me down, of course. I got there about 3 minutes after noon; goddamn red lights, I swear! When I swung around the building the two girls who were working there were peeling off in their cars. Swear to fucking God they were at the front door waiting for the clock to strike noon, and when it did they immediately locked the doors and got the fuck out. You see, normal banks would still be around at, like, 12:05, and maybe they'd still help you.
Is Mother mad? Actually, no. She talked at me over dinner tonight. Mother accepted me not being able to rip a CD track as her ringtone. And she wasn't too mad when the food she prepared fell off the top of the recycling bins in which I just put more empty bottles and cans. She said I loaded it in a way that one corner of the small piece of metal siding we use to cover the bins was resting on the pile of empty recyclables and not the sides of the bin, therefore the milk carton on top of that piece of siding was not level, therefore the plate of food she was preparing slid off. Assuming she's right, I'm glad she forgave me for my mistake.
---
Felt good last night even though I did less than I planned on doing. First, I didn't get a good price on a ticket for the men's college hockey tournament game at the X last night, so instead of paying $55 for a ticket (of which many were available for sale at the box office), I took a seat at the arena bar. Paid $7.75 for a small cup of beer, felt screwed, so I leaned on my profligacy and only tipped him a quarter. He's probably pissed as hell, so I'll try and remember to never go back there again.
Once the game was decided (with about a couple minutes left to go), I jetted off. There were things I wanted to do: get coffee, go to the strip club, and eat at the Italian restaurant. But since the game started at 8 and I got out of there at a quarter to 11, there was only time to do two. And that's when my mind started paralyzing through analyzing: I want to go eat because I want to watch ESPN ... but, I lost the two games basketball games tonight, so why do I want to watch that? ... I'm hungry -- or am I? ... ooh-ooh, the money I didn't spend on the ticket I can spend on lapdances! ... but maybe she's there, and I don't think it's a good time to go back there without stirring something up ... and on and on it went. So I went to my de facto happy places: the coffeeshop. ...
... where I stayed a lot longer than I planned, which in the back of my mind I knew was going to happen because I was dinkin' around on my laptop. The strip club was out because I stayed out too long. Hell, the earliest I could get there was a quarter after 11, which was already late. And the large mocha I had ruined any appetite I did have for Italian, although in retrospect I didn't have much appetite to begin with from the beer I drank during the game. So the restaurant was out, too. So I stopped at 12:30 to make sure I listened to ESPN Radio's Bob Valvano conduct "The Match Game" and I drove not to the strip club or the restaurant, but all the way home.
That meant I didn't have to take that money out of the ATM last night, but I feel good for not spending it.
Is Mother mad? Actually, no. She talked at me over dinner tonight. Mother accepted me not being able to rip a CD track as her ringtone. And she wasn't too mad when the food she prepared fell off the top of the recycling bins in which I just put more empty bottles and cans. She said I loaded it in a way that one corner of the small piece of metal siding we use to cover the bins was resting on the pile of empty recyclables and not the sides of the bin, therefore the milk carton on top of that piece of siding was not level, therefore the plate of food she was preparing slid off. Assuming she's right, I'm glad she forgave me for my mistake.
---
Felt good last night even though I did less than I planned on doing. First, I didn't get a good price on a ticket for the men's college hockey tournament game at the X last night, so instead of paying $55 for a ticket (of which many were available for sale at the box office), I took a seat at the arena bar. Paid $7.75 for a small cup of beer, felt screwed, so I leaned on my profligacy and only tipped him a quarter. He's probably pissed as hell, so I'll try and remember to never go back there again.
Once the game was decided (with about a couple minutes left to go), I jetted off. There were things I wanted to do: get coffee, go to the strip club, and eat at the Italian restaurant. But since the game started at 8 and I got out of there at a quarter to 11, there was only time to do two. And that's when my mind started paralyzing through analyzing: I want to go eat because I want to watch ESPN ... but, I lost the two games basketball games tonight, so why do I want to watch that? ... I'm hungry -- or am I? ... ooh-ooh, the money I didn't spend on the ticket I can spend on lapdances! ... but maybe she's there, and I don't think it's a good time to go back there without stirring something up ... and on and on it went. So I went to my de facto happy places: the coffeeshop. ...
... where I stayed a lot longer than I planned, which in the back of my mind I knew was going to happen because I was dinkin' around on my laptop. The strip club was out because I stayed out too long. Hell, the earliest I could get there was a quarter after 11, which was already late. And the large mocha I had ruined any appetite I did have for Italian, although in retrospect I didn't have much appetite to begin with from the beer I drank during the game. So the restaurant was out, too. So I stopped at 12:30 to make sure I listened to ESPN Radio's Bob Valvano conduct "The Match Game" and I drove not to the strip club or the restaurant, but all the way home.
That meant I didn't have to take that money out of the ATM last night, but I feel good for not spending it.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
I Didn't Look Forward To This Birthday (Part II)
What did I do Birthday Night? Oh yes -- we ate early enough that I decided that I was depressed and deserved to go to go to the gym and then the strip club. I made sure to wear my porno pants so that when I was done exercising I could take off my underwear and go to the SC au naturale.
Think another person was there using some of the equipment, so I had time to drink some coffee. Then I went to the stripclub and got a dance from one of my All-Time Favorites, who just happened to be there. For some reason she was a hell of a lot friskier than before, letting me take her non-pierced nipple into her mouth and grabbing my hard dick through my pants. I hope she could tell I was naked underneath me pants. Maybe this will lead to something more, something better. I had to tell her the truth and come out as a birthday boy, and she kissed me, gently, on the cheek and slapped my ass on her way to her dressing room.
That was my birthday gift to myself: a lapdance from a stripper. For a long time that's been the only thing that has made me truly happy, paying beautiful women to get naked in front of me and, maybe, do naughty things to me. For that to continue I need money, and I am rapidly running out of that. But I still think work is beneath me. What to do?
Maybe I should be having better problems to worry about than that, or at least different ones. I'm square in the middle of middle age and the questions bedeviling me around this time are, when can I show my dick to a stripper again, and who's going to win the tournament? Sometimes I feel that those are the best questions to face; other times I feel so pathetic that my world has come down to that.
I understand that things have to change, but I really, really don't want them to. Yet with each single passing birthday I have to continue to think about it. It's like My Fucking Father asking me, "What's your planning? What are you going to do your whole life? You won job mei?" Except that he no longer has to ask those questions (although he does). Every March 17 amounts to a yearly performance review. And every single time I come up short in the categories of growth, direction, confidence and achievement. I fail, therefore I cannot be promoted.
Do I want to grow up? I'll have to, like it or not. And I don't. But I won't, not as long as I can stay safe, secure, and uncompromising in my belief that this life sucks and is unfair, and that work will be nothing except a daily ritual in degradation and humiliation, and that living by yourself in the Real World is a crapshoot where there is little to gain for your supposed independence.
No. I think I'm doing the right thing. Just looking for the next small score, looking for the next handjob fix. That's how I'll live. And it's just as good as any other way of living.
Think another person was there using some of the equipment, so I had time to drink some coffee. Then I went to the stripclub and got a dance from one of my All-Time Favorites, who just happened to be there. For some reason she was a hell of a lot friskier than before, letting me take her non-pierced nipple into her mouth and grabbing my hard dick through my pants. I hope she could tell I was naked underneath me pants. Maybe this will lead to something more, something better. I had to tell her the truth and come out as a birthday boy, and she kissed me, gently, on the cheek and slapped my ass on her way to her dressing room.
That was my birthday gift to myself: a lapdance from a stripper. For a long time that's been the only thing that has made me truly happy, paying beautiful women to get naked in front of me and, maybe, do naughty things to me. For that to continue I need money, and I am rapidly running out of that. But I still think work is beneath me. What to do?
Maybe I should be having better problems to worry about than that, or at least different ones. I'm square in the middle of middle age and the questions bedeviling me around this time are, when can I show my dick to a stripper again, and who's going to win the tournament? Sometimes I feel that those are the best questions to face; other times I feel so pathetic that my world has come down to that.
I understand that things have to change, but I really, really don't want them to. Yet with each single passing birthday I have to continue to think about it. It's like My Fucking Father asking me, "What's your planning? What are you going to do your whole life? You won job mei?" Except that he no longer has to ask those questions (although he does). Every March 17 amounts to a yearly performance review. And every single time I come up short in the categories of growth, direction, confidence and achievement. I fail, therefore I cannot be promoted.
Do I want to grow up? I'll have to, like it or not. And I don't. But I won't, not as long as I can stay safe, secure, and uncompromising in my belief that this life sucks and is unfair, and that work will be nothing except a daily ritual in degradation and humiliation, and that living by yourself in the Real World is a crapshoot where there is little to gain for your supposed independence.
No. I think I'm doing the right thing. Just looking for the next small score, looking for the next handjob fix. That's how I'll live. And it's just as good as any other way of living.
Angry Crazy Old People
Somewhat enjoyed the men's hockey regional games last night at the X. Both games were tight, especially the first one, won by St. Cloud St. over Northern Michigan in double OT. But the crowd ... could've been better.
It's not like they were rowdy. Hell, there were a lot of hot coeds watching the game, thank Buddha. But there was also a very old Wisconsin fan rallying the crowd throughout the Badgers' 3-2 victory over Vermont. But actually, he wasn't that bad. Who were bad were the ladies incessantly complaining about him, who were seated just behind me. These Golden Girls were absolutely pissed off about this guy standing yards away from them: "Sit down! Can you believe this! Somebody needs to do something about this!"
Apparently they have a problem with people cheering during a game. Or, people cheering for their opponents during a game. I think these ladies were Vermont fans because when they weren't bitching about this old fart, they were rooting on Vermont. Well, as best they can; everything coming out of their mouths proved they didn't know a goddamn thing about hockey: "Shoot! What's wrong! Come on, you ... guy! Let's go, green men! You green guys!" Come to think of it, they might be kind of dumb. Oh well -- I helped them show how "Catamount" is spelled, and they seemed nice, so God bless 'em.
What was scary, though, was the man across the aisle from me. I didn't notice him when he said "Down in front!" to a man trying to sit in the row ahead of me. But then this couple came through. I had seen them before; they were actually walking past me to get to their seats in my row right in the middle of a scramble on net. Well, these interlopers came through at yet another inopportune moment to sit in the row in front of me. In fact, they were standing on the aisle when Vermont scored, which prompted the man across the aisle from me to get up and scream at the male in the couple: "Thanks a lot!" Stunned by this brazen paroxysm of anger, the guy just waved his hand at him as he finally went through the row.
I can understand both sides. I don't like it when someone blocks my view, and these two pricks did came down to their seats in the middle of a game twice, so a punch to their face (yes, even the girl) wouldn't be totally inappropriate. But this asshole needs a beating for being such an asshole in public. And heck, might as well smack those two ladies behind me. And the Wisconsin fan too, while you're at it.
If the tickets are reasonable, I get to do this again tonight! Yippee!!
It's not like they were rowdy. Hell, there were a lot of hot coeds watching the game, thank Buddha. But there was also a very old Wisconsin fan rallying the crowd throughout the Badgers' 3-2 victory over Vermont. But actually, he wasn't that bad. Who were bad were the ladies incessantly complaining about him, who were seated just behind me. These Golden Girls were absolutely pissed off about this guy standing yards away from them: "Sit down! Can you believe this! Somebody needs to do something about this!"
Apparently they have a problem with people cheering during a game. Or, people cheering for their opponents during a game. I think these ladies were Vermont fans because when they weren't bitching about this old fart, they were rooting on Vermont. Well, as best they can; everything coming out of their mouths proved they didn't know a goddamn thing about hockey: "Shoot! What's wrong! Come on, you ... guy! Let's go, green men! You green guys!" Come to think of it, they might be kind of dumb. Oh well -- I helped them show how "Catamount" is spelled, and they seemed nice, so God bless 'em.
What was scary, though, was the man across the aisle from me. I didn't notice him when he said "Down in front!" to a man trying to sit in the row ahead of me. But then this couple came through. I had seen them before; they were actually walking past me to get to their seats in my row right in the middle of a scramble on net. Well, these interlopers came through at yet another inopportune moment to sit in the row in front of me. In fact, they were standing on the aisle when Vermont scored, which prompted the man across the aisle from me to get up and scream at the male in the couple: "Thanks a lot!" Stunned by this brazen paroxysm of anger, the guy just waved his hand at him as he finally went through the row.
I can understand both sides. I don't like it when someone blocks my view, and these two pricks did came down to their seats in the middle of a game twice, so a punch to their face (yes, even the girl) wouldn't be totally inappropriate. But this asshole needs a beating for being such an asshole in public. And heck, might as well smack those two ladies behind me. And the Wisconsin fan too, while you're at it.
If the tickets are reasonable, I get to do this again tonight! Yippee!!
Friday, March 26, 2010
The Weekly Minnesota Sports Survey
Positive Numbers: Twins (Re-Entry!). They win the week with off-field news, but oh, what news: The Pohlads finally loosen the pursestrings and pay Joe Mauer fair market value! The 8-year, $184-million contract extension will keep the hometown boy here for the peak and downside to his career. Which is a great thing!
Does this mean the Twins are now playing with the big boys, the Yankees and the Red Sox? No, definitely not. Does this mean the Twins can't play woe-is-me when it comes to salary inequity? No, definitely not, either. Look, I understand that an owner has the right not to lose money on his holdings if he doesn't want to. I also understand that any team can be competitive if the owner wants to be. Yet I also understand that if you don't have a salary cap, like MLB, spending on players generally correlates to success.
I don't know if the Twins of ten or even five years ago would make this deal. But I know that they should, and they would've caught hell if they didn't sign Mauer. It's not just the hometown angle, although signing the St. Paul kid forever forges Mauer as one of The Greatest Twins Of All-Time. But he's also a batting champ and the reigning MVP, and he's well on his way to becoming one of the greatest catchers baseball has ever seen. The bottom line is, it wouldn't've mattered if he was from Bumblefuck, Utah, the Twins couldn't let someone this prodigious on the field -- and so likable off it -- leave the franchise. Mauer was going to get paid; thankfully he didn't take a cutthroat approach to the contract talks and admitted that he wanted to be a Twin for life.
This still doesn't mean they won't get swept by the Yankees; they probably will because MLB lets the team that spends the most win the World Series, which still isn't fair. But what the Twins could do they had to do, and they had to sign their guy, the man they picked first overall, the person whom they believed could blossom into someone special and did. It's the obvious thing to do, but kudos anyway for doing the right thing because the cynic in me didn't believe it would happen for sure.
#-1: Wild (Last Week: -3). There's no one else. Our hockey team slides in the bridesmaid's spot on the heels of a 2-2 week. In a sign of how they stand in comparison to the rest of the NHL, San Jose came into the X on Tuesday and crushed them 4-1. The Sharks lead the Western Conference; the Wild are, like, nine points back for the final playoff spot. Yes, this was a transition period. But the same damn problem seem to be bedeviling this group: They just can't fucking score. They close out the month at Detroit, then at home versus Los Angeles and Chicago -- playoff-bound teams all.
#-2: Gopher baseball (Last Week: -4). They go 1-3 for the week, with one cancellation. The Sunday capper against Samford at Birmingham was rained out -- good thing, because otherwise the Gophs faced a three-game sweep against a team I can't pronounce without having the urge to say "And Son!" They then split against North Dakota St. at the Dome earlier this week. Shit, when they said this team was young, they weren't kidding. This week they have a special one-night-stand against Concordia-Moorhead Wednesday. But the thing is their weekend series here against Louisiana Tech. The Friday and Sunday games are at the Dome, but the Saturday game will be something special: It'll be the first official game played at Target Field. Tickets, of which there will only be 25,000 at a cost of $2 apiece, will be sold starting at 8 in the morning at the stadium. There should be an open house between 9 a.m. and 5 p.m. with the game against La. Tech at 1 p.m. I hope I can get there about a quarter to 1 and pass a person who went for the tour of Target Field but don't give a shit about the game. Wish me luck!
#-3: Timberwolves (Last Week: -7). What was the best game of their three losses this week -- the eight-point loss at the Lakers, the six-pointer at Target Center to Toronto, or the 13-point defeat at Charlotte (have they ever beaten the Bobcats in Charlotte, ever?)? That's now 14 losses in a row for the Woofie Dogs. OK, I understand there will be some hard knocks this team must take. But they haven't won in more than a month. Is there anything this team is learning now? Can they in the wake of such a long losing streak? They close out March at Orlando, then home to Phoenix and Sacramento. I will be at the Kings game on Wednesday. Hopefully they'll be able to break a 15-game losing streak then. Wish me (and them) luck!
#-Infinity (tie): Gopher men's basketball, women's hockey, and wrestling (Last Week: -1, -2, and -5, respectively). I've come to realize that since many winter tournaments end around the same time, I'll be posting a double, triple, maybe even a quadruple -Infinity spot for U. teams annually. This year is better than the five (I think) I grouped together last year, but this is just as bad. At least I can combine these into one relatively smaller post.
Where should I start? I guess chronologically. I was at the Hooters downtown to watch the Tournament Friday, specifically the male ballers. I picked Minnesota to get to the Sweet 16 because I thought they had congealed down low, I liked their path, and lately it seems that the lowest BCS seed somehow makes it to the second weekend. Well, I chose the wrong lowest seed; Washington was also an 11, and they beat Marquette and New Mexico. Meanwhile, I forgot something about the Gophs: They can't score. And midway through the second half it became obvious that the best player on the court, the one who has a shadow of a chance making it to the NBA, was Xavier's Jordan Crawford, who put the Musketeers on his back on the way to victory, sick finger roll and all. Another one-and-done. I underestimated Tubby Smith's impotence as a bad tournament coach.
Later that night I made it to Ridder and, because I forgot to buy tickets beforehand, I paid what I would have paid for all three games just for the two semifinals of the Frozen Four. Although it seemed that both the women's hockey team and their opponent, UMD, would wax whoever came out of the other side (turned out to be Cornell, which was unseeded and still beat #1 overall seed Mercyhurst), the Bulldogs were still miles and miles better than the Gophers, despite winning 3-2. The one thing that stood out to me: Minnesota had a bitch of a time getting out of their own defensive zone. UMD was just forechecking and forechecking all game. In particular the Bulldogs had this one bitch, Emmanuelle Blais; this cocky motherfucker, who stands only 5'4" so you know she's a load personally, was in their way the whole fucking game. (She did that in the final too, when she was named Most Outstanding Player of the Frozen Four was UMD won in triple overtime, 3-2 [and by the way, all three games in the Women's Frozen Four ended 3-2]). How did the Duluth campus of the University of Minnesota win their fifth championship while the Twin Cities campus has only two? One indication: the Gophers are fully stocked with Minnesotans; UMD recruit non-Minnesotans for their team. Coincidence?
And finally, although I feel bad for emphasizing the negative in light of one shining star, the wrestling team finished below their ranking in the weekly polls. Despite being considered fifth in the country, the NCAA Championships ended Saturday with the Gophs as a team finishing seventh, 71.5 points behind champions Iowa. Is that good enough? Really? At least Minnesota claims the Championships Outstanding Wrestler, Jayson Ness. The man came from behind to notch a near fall at the buzzer against his main rival, the Hawkeyes' Daniel Dennis, to win at 133 lb. championship and finish the season 31-0. That's impressive. J Robinson needs several more people like Ness next year.
Does this mean the Twins are now playing with the big boys, the Yankees and the Red Sox? No, definitely not. Does this mean the Twins can't play woe-is-me when it comes to salary inequity? No, definitely not, either. Look, I understand that an owner has the right not to lose money on his holdings if he doesn't want to. I also understand that any team can be competitive if the owner wants to be. Yet I also understand that if you don't have a salary cap, like MLB, spending on players generally correlates to success.
I don't know if the Twins of ten or even five years ago would make this deal. But I know that they should, and they would've caught hell if they didn't sign Mauer. It's not just the hometown angle, although signing the St. Paul kid forever forges Mauer as one of The Greatest Twins Of All-Time. But he's also a batting champ and the reigning MVP, and he's well on his way to becoming one of the greatest catchers baseball has ever seen. The bottom line is, it wouldn't've mattered if he was from Bumblefuck, Utah, the Twins couldn't let someone this prodigious on the field -- and so likable off it -- leave the franchise. Mauer was going to get paid; thankfully he didn't take a cutthroat approach to the contract talks and admitted that he wanted to be a Twin for life.
This still doesn't mean they won't get swept by the Yankees; they probably will because MLB lets the team that spends the most win the World Series, which still isn't fair. But what the Twins could do they had to do, and they had to sign their guy, the man they picked first overall, the person whom they believed could blossom into someone special and did. It's the obvious thing to do, but kudos anyway for doing the right thing because the cynic in me didn't believe it would happen for sure.
#-1: Wild (Last Week: -3). There's no one else. Our hockey team slides in the bridesmaid's spot on the heels of a 2-2 week. In a sign of how they stand in comparison to the rest of the NHL, San Jose came into the X on Tuesday and crushed them 4-1. The Sharks lead the Western Conference; the Wild are, like, nine points back for the final playoff spot. Yes, this was a transition period. But the same damn problem seem to be bedeviling this group: They just can't fucking score. They close out the month at Detroit, then at home versus Los Angeles and Chicago -- playoff-bound teams all.
#-2: Gopher baseball (Last Week: -4). They go 1-3 for the week, with one cancellation. The Sunday capper against Samford at Birmingham was rained out -- good thing, because otherwise the Gophs faced a three-game sweep against a team I can't pronounce without having the urge to say "And Son!" They then split against North Dakota St. at the Dome earlier this week. Shit, when they said this team was young, they weren't kidding. This week they have a special one-night-stand against Concordia-Moorhead Wednesday. But the thing is their weekend series here against Louisiana Tech. The Friday and Sunday games are at the Dome, but the Saturday game will be something special: It'll be the first official game played at Target Field. Tickets, of which there will only be 25,000 at a cost of $2 apiece, will be sold starting at 8 in the morning at the stadium. There should be an open house between 9 a.m. and 5 p.m. with the game against La. Tech at 1 p.m. I hope I can get there about a quarter to 1 and pass a person who went for the tour of Target Field but don't give a shit about the game. Wish me luck!
#-3: Timberwolves (Last Week: -7). What was the best game of their three losses this week -- the eight-point loss at the Lakers, the six-pointer at Target Center to Toronto, or the 13-point defeat at Charlotte (have they ever beaten the Bobcats in Charlotte, ever?)? That's now 14 losses in a row for the Woofie Dogs. OK, I understand there will be some hard knocks this team must take. But they haven't won in more than a month. Is there anything this team is learning now? Can they in the wake of such a long losing streak? They close out March at Orlando, then home to Phoenix and Sacramento. I will be at the Kings game on Wednesday. Hopefully they'll be able to break a 15-game losing streak then. Wish me (and them) luck!
#-Infinity (tie): Gopher men's basketball, women's hockey, and wrestling (Last Week: -1, -2, and -5, respectively). I've come to realize that since many winter tournaments end around the same time, I'll be posting a double, triple, maybe even a quadruple -Infinity spot for U. teams annually. This year is better than the five (I think) I grouped together last year, but this is just as bad. At least I can combine these into one relatively smaller post.
Where should I start? I guess chronologically. I was at the Hooters downtown to watch the Tournament Friday, specifically the male ballers. I picked Minnesota to get to the Sweet 16 because I thought they had congealed down low, I liked their path, and lately it seems that the lowest BCS seed somehow makes it to the second weekend. Well, I chose the wrong lowest seed; Washington was also an 11, and they beat Marquette and New Mexico. Meanwhile, I forgot something about the Gophs: They can't score. And midway through the second half it became obvious that the best player on the court, the one who has a shadow of a chance making it to the NBA, was Xavier's Jordan Crawford, who put the Musketeers on his back on the way to victory, sick finger roll and all. Another one-and-done. I underestimated Tubby Smith's impotence as a bad tournament coach.
Later that night I made it to Ridder and, because I forgot to buy tickets beforehand, I paid what I would have paid for all three games just for the two semifinals of the Frozen Four. Although it seemed that both the women's hockey team and their opponent, UMD, would wax whoever came out of the other side (turned out to be Cornell, which was unseeded and still beat #1 overall seed Mercyhurst), the Bulldogs were still miles and miles better than the Gophers, despite winning 3-2. The one thing that stood out to me: Minnesota had a bitch of a time getting out of their own defensive zone. UMD was just forechecking and forechecking all game. In particular the Bulldogs had this one bitch, Emmanuelle Blais; this cocky motherfucker, who stands only 5'4" so you know she's a load personally, was in their way the whole fucking game. (She did that in the final too, when she was named Most Outstanding Player of the Frozen Four was UMD won in triple overtime, 3-2 [and by the way, all three games in the Women's Frozen Four ended 3-2]). How did the Duluth campus of the University of Minnesota win their fifth championship while the Twin Cities campus has only two? One indication: the Gophers are fully stocked with Minnesotans; UMD recruit non-Minnesotans for their team. Coincidence?
And finally, although I feel bad for emphasizing the negative in light of one shining star, the wrestling team finished below their ranking in the weekly polls. Despite being considered fifth in the country, the NCAA Championships ended Saturday with the Gophs as a team finishing seventh, 71.5 points behind champions Iowa. Is that good enough? Really? At least Minnesota claims the Championships Outstanding Wrestler, Jayson Ness. The man came from behind to notch a near fall at the buzzer against his main rival, the Hawkeyes' Daniel Dennis, to win at 133 lb. championship and finish the season 31-0. That's impressive. J Robinson needs several more people like Ness next year.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
This Bullshit Is Wrong
These people against health insurance reform are showing their true closers now that they've lost. These Tea Baggers ain't nothing but a bunch of racist extremist gunnut terrorists who can't stand that our President is black. If anybody dies because of these thugs, the blood is on the hands of any Republican who encouraged this violence.
Fuck them. Fuck them all.
Fuck them. Fuck them all.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
I thought I was good in resisting temptation by not going for a Coke at halftime of tonight's (very late-starting) women's basketball tournament game. My reasoning, such as it is: Nebraska had a five-point lead, but it seemed like they were starting to pull away, and I would only buy a drink if the game was close. Yeah, it doesn't make any sense to me.
Neither does eating afterward. I had a choice once I got back to my car: Go straight back home in time for the musical guest on Letterman or go to my favorite late-night spot to watch SportsCenter and see highlights of the game I watched in person. Went back and forth for various odd reasons:
I made sure I ate something cheap, so burger and fries for me, please. Unfortunately, it looked like I fell into the beginning of ESPN's nightly college basketball show. For men. And then they went into SportsCenter, where the only women's basketball-related story they reported on was, of course, UConn. I had been there an hour and it was getting late, so I decided not to stick around.
Why would I think there'd be highlights? Nebraska won by 13 and it wasn't that dazzling. Besides, I could see the highlights at home. Plus I'd be home at a decent time and maybe that would score points with My Fucking Father. Now I've gained more calories and wasted $6.50 on food I didn't need (although it was good), and I didn't even get to watch what I went to the restaurant to watch.
I can't afford this. Why am I doing this to myself???
Fuck me, and fuck my life.
Neither does eating afterward. I had a choice once I got back to my car: Go straight back home in time for the musical guest on Letterman or go to my favorite late-night spot to watch SportsCenter and see highlights of the game I watched in person. Went back and forth for various odd reasons:
- First of all, I'm paranoid enough to think that My Fucking Father, still pissed at me for lying to him last night, would get back at me by throwing all my stuff into his minivan while I'm away. So that means I need to go home as soon as the game's over so I can check and see if he did But ... I doubt he'll do that, and besides, if he did, it doesn't matter what time it is, I can check the minivan whether it's 1 or 11. If he really wants to be sadistic, he'll take it while I'm asleep in the morning.
- I could fully commit to my frugality and my fasting by going straight home ... but it's OK, because I won't be having lunch tomorrow, so I won't be full in the morning ... but I ate dinner about 4 1/2 hours ago, and had an iced mocha (mmm...) three hours before that -- aren't I already full?
- Finally, isn't there a chance that the game won't be on when I'm there? I mean, although ESPN exclusively covers all the games, wouldn't the highlights show start off with something different? Is it possible that they'd even bury the tournament till the back segment? I don't plan on being there all night waiting for it? And what happens if someone's already there and watching something else?
I made sure I ate something cheap, so burger and fries for me, please. Unfortunately, it looked like I fell into the beginning of ESPN's nightly college basketball show. For men. And then they went into SportsCenter, where the only women's basketball-related story they reported on was, of course, UConn. I had been there an hour and it was getting late, so I decided not to stick around.
Why would I think there'd be highlights? Nebraska won by 13 and it wasn't that dazzling. Besides, I could see the highlights at home. Plus I'd be home at a decent time and maybe that would score points with My Fucking Father. Now I've gained more calories and wasted $6.50 on food I didn't need (although it was good), and I didn't even get to watch what I went to the restaurant to watch.
I can't afford this. Why am I doing this to myself???
Fuck me, and fuck my life.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Caught Lying
"Have you sent the rebates in yet?" My Fucking Father asked me, in that Snappy, Cranky Old Man form he'll be in now until he dies. I don't need that bastard yelling at me, so I said yes.
After dinner Mother asked me the same thing. "Yes, I already sent it." But she kept going on and on about it; it's because she has a rebate that she wants to send and she wants to put them all together, thereby saving a stamp. Then she asked again: "Have you sent in the rebates yet?"
Yes I did, I insisted. And this is where I may have made my mistake: I asked if I could see the rebate. Maybe I could see it and secretly hand it over to her. No, she has it at the store. So she finally asks, one final time, "Did you send in the rebates or not?"
And I finally fucking relent. "Here," I asked, caught in a lie while My Fucking Father overheard the entire conversation while washing dishes in the kitchen. And in my bedroom Mother warned me about gathering up all my stuff that's on the floor in my room or else he'll get mad. Over a rebate, and a stamp.
Get mad? I should be the one who's pissed! I have to be afraid of his goddamn retailiation now that he caught me lying. He can't even fuckin' see I have to lie to him just so he won't yell at me, and he'll just fucking yell at me anyway. I have to be running scared now that he doesn't like that I don't close my closet doors??? Fuck him!!! Every question is an interrogation with that fuck. Is he going to get all bent out of shape now that he knows I lied to him about his stupid goddamn rebates? I shouldn't back down to him. What's he gonna do? I'll just throw all my shit in the closet while I'm gone -- does that make you happy, Father? Is that what you want? Because you are absolutely toxic, Father, a sorry, pathetic excuse for a human being. And I like that I piss you off to the point where you think you have to fuck my shit up. I should just bring back all the stuff you took out of my room back into my room to see what you'll do!
I await what manipulative bullshit you'll pull out of your fucking ass this time, Father. I'll blog about it here. And if it really gets bad, I think we'll have a "discussion" about it, man-to-man. Fuck you and your fucking goddamn mood swings and the petty attitude I learned from you, you son-of-a-bitch.
After dinner Mother asked me the same thing. "Yes, I already sent it." But she kept going on and on about it; it's because she has a rebate that she wants to send and she wants to put them all together, thereby saving a stamp. Then she asked again: "Have you sent in the rebates yet?"
Yes I did, I insisted. And this is where I may have made my mistake: I asked if I could see the rebate. Maybe I could see it and secretly hand it over to her. No, she has it at the store. So she finally asks, one final time, "Did you send in the rebates or not?"
And I finally fucking relent. "Here," I asked, caught in a lie while My Fucking Father overheard the entire conversation while washing dishes in the kitchen. And in my bedroom Mother warned me about gathering up all my stuff that's on the floor in my room or else he'll get mad. Over a rebate, and a stamp.
Get mad? I should be the one who's pissed! I have to be afraid of his goddamn retailiation now that he caught me lying. He can't even fuckin' see I have to lie to him just so he won't yell at me, and he'll just fucking yell at me anyway. I have to be running scared now that he doesn't like that I don't close my closet doors??? Fuck him!!! Every question is an interrogation with that fuck. Is he going to get all bent out of shape now that he knows I lied to him about his stupid goddamn rebates? I shouldn't back down to him. What's he gonna do? I'll just throw all my shit in the closet while I'm gone -- does that make you happy, Father? Is that what you want? Because you are absolutely toxic, Father, a sorry, pathetic excuse for a human being. And I like that I piss you off to the point where you think you have to fuck my shit up. I should just bring back all the stuff you took out of my room back into my room to see what you'll do!
I await what manipulative bullshit you'll pull out of your fucking ass this time, Father. I'll blog about it here. And if it really gets bad, I think we'll have a "discussion" about it, man-to-man. Fuck you and your fucking goddamn mood swings and the petty attitude I learned from you, you son-of-a-bitch.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Something I've Been Meaning To Blog About For A While Now
The day I was about to vacation in St. Louis my Grandmother wanted groceries -- stuck up on food for the weekend so she doesn't starve. So we go around and buy meat and water and milk. Here comes the dreaded decision: Which of two checkout lines do you take? I immediately go to one line where there were two old ladies asking the checkout woman some questions. Hmmm ... elderly lady, and there are two of them. ... On the other side is a woman with a lot of groceries. However, there's no one behind her, and it looks like she's nodding as if her checkout lady completely answered her question. I had to think on my feet, so I ditch the lane I just got into and move to the other one.
What a fucking bad choice. Turns out that that woman had another question about one of the items she was buying, baby food. It got to the point where the checkout lady had to find a supervisor, who didn't come around for several minutes. Meanwhile, on the other goddamn lane, those two ladies had their questions answered as soon as I realized I was going to be stuck behind this woman for a while. So the guy who was behind me got checked out before I did. As did the person after him, who wasn't even lined up when I switched. And the person after him ... and the person after him. ... All the while I was fucking waiting as these two women got the issue resolved.
When I finally got to the front, she asked me, "How are you doing?" I was visibly frustrated just standing there, pounding my fists on the conveyor belt and furrowing my brow. But I had to let it go when speaking to the checkout lady who was only doing her job and trying to do it well. "Not well," I admitted. "I have to leave very soon and I switched to this lane when I shouldn't have." (I'm sure the woman ahead of me was out of earshot. At least I hope.) Checkout Lady didn't snap at me or anything, she just shrugged and moved me through checkout as quickly as possible.
I got home in plenty of time; I certainly didn't miss my plane or anything. This just reinforces something I learned from a friend a long time ago: If you make a choice, you should stick with it.
What a fucking bad choice. Turns out that that woman had another question about one of the items she was buying, baby food. It got to the point where the checkout lady had to find a supervisor, who didn't come around for several minutes. Meanwhile, on the other goddamn lane, those two ladies had their questions answered as soon as I realized I was going to be stuck behind this woman for a while. So the guy who was behind me got checked out before I did. As did the person after him, who wasn't even lined up when I switched. And the person after him ... and the person after him. ... All the while I was fucking waiting as these two women got the issue resolved.
When I finally got to the front, she asked me, "How are you doing?" I was visibly frustrated just standing there, pounding my fists on the conveyor belt and furrowing my brow. But I had to let it go when speaking to the checkout lady who was only doing her job and trying to do it well. "Not well," I admitted. "I have to leave very soon and I switched to this lane when I shouldn't have." (I'm sure the woman ahead of me was out of earshot. At least I hope.) Checkout Lady didn't snap at me or anything, she just shrugged and moved me through checkout as quickly as possible.
I got home in plenty of time; I certainly didn't miss my plane or anything. This just reinforces something I learned from a friend a long time ago: If you make a choice, you should stick with it.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Saturday, March 20, 2010
I've Got The Bracket Blues
My bracket's already shot to shit. It probably was after the first day, but yesterday's shit job, especially in the first wave of game when two more of my Sweet 16 failed me, did me in for good. By wave, this is how I did chronologically: 1-2, 2-2, 0-1, 2-2, 3-1. I got all the favorites, but in every single goddamn 8-9, 7-10 matchup where the winner nobody expects to get into the third round, I whiffed on every single one of them. Every. Single. One. And in a pool where there are hundreds of entries, such as mine, I am already out of the money.
Woo-hoo! Now I guess I can hate the Big Dance now, huh?
Woo-hoo! Now I guess I can hate the Big Dance now, huh?
Friday, March 19, 2010
The Weekly Minnesota Sports Survey
#-1: Gopher men's basketball (Last Week: -1). Tubby's team takes the top spot simply because they exceeded expectations. Sure, major conference tournaments are at best of dubious utility, for many teams who know they're locks can't be trusted to bring their "A" game. I doubt Michigan St. did, and that's why the Gophs beat them in the quarters. Then they were lucky to see Purdue without their Robbie Hummel, and remembering how they let their game against the Boilermakers at Williams get away from them the club made sure that wasn't going to happen again. That was probably the win that got them in the NCAA Tournament; losing by 29 to Ohio St. in the final certainly did.
And it might just be me, but I was confident enough to put this team in the Sweet 16. Why? Xavier nor Pittsburgh have the inside muscle that the Gophers have with Ralph Sampson III and Colton Iverson. If they get on track, and if Lawrence Westbrook can stay on the floor, I think they can take two games. Now see them lose to the Musketeers tomorrow (Friday) morning by 20.
#-2: Gopher women's hockey (Last Week: -4). Because there's nobody else. They beat Clarkson, which is good, but they had to go to overtime to win, at home. They have to face the fact that they're not the premier program in women's hockey now. That's going to be a hard pill to swallow, especially if (when?) they lose either in the Frozen Four semifinal Friday (tomorrow) or the final Sunday.
OK, sorry to be so harsh and bitter. It's just that I meant to buy tickets to the Frozen Four today, and I was actually there, but I bought tickets to the women's basketball regional that I also planned on going to, and I remembered about halfway between the ticket office and my car, which are about 1 1/2 miles apart. I felt this huge need to go back, but I had shit to do and it was hot and I was tired and I am so pissed at myself for forgetting. And now I'm logging in and the cheapest ticket is $30, twice as much as it would have cost if only I remembered. I don't think I can go now. I can't remember a fucking thing anymore. ...
#-3: Wild (Last Week: -7). These guys went 3-1 last week? And they have somehow gotten (kind of) back into the playoff race?! Well, that's the NHL for you ... unless making up 6 points is more of a pipe dream that anything. That still could be the case, and now that I've stopped forgetting, I saw how hard this team has to work just to win with my own eyes. I was at the game Tuesday against Edmonton, which is by far the worst team in the league, and they were tied with Oilers at 2 before scoring two goals to coast to victory. You'd think they'd have a slightly easier time of it against such a horrible team. Anyway, they are so far behind that they need to win virtually every game to make it, so last night's (Thursday night's) 5-0 turd at Nashville might be fatal. They play four game this week: at Columbus, home to Calgary and San Jose, then at Philadelphia.
#-4: Gopher baseball (Last Week: -3). I'm glad I decided to go to the state boy's high school hocky big school championship game Saturday night instead of the Gopher game against Creighton at the Dome. They lost that game, which began a 4-game losing streak. They bookended the week with wins versus Harvard and Samford. Their measuring stick was a double-dip at ranked Alabama ... and they lost them both. Ah, the Big Ten as a mid-major. ... They continue their four-game series at Samford this weekend, then host North Dakota St. for two during the middle of next week.
#-5: Wrestling (Last Week: -2). They were 10th in the morning session of the first day of the NCAA Tournament today (Thursday), and reached 8th in the afternoon. So that's good, right? Well, it's better than backsliding, although they're supposed to be a Top Five school. Tourney and season ends Saturday.
#-6: Swarm (Re-Entry!). Lost 20-11 at Philadelphia, a team that has a worse record than them. The best teams manage to defeat bad teams at their place -- so says me and my ego. That's weird; they had two weeks off before this loss against the Wings, and they'll have two weeks off after it. What the heck kind of a schedule is this?
#-7: Timberwolves (Last Week: -6). They lost all four of their games this week -- like hell you say! They have now lost 11 in a row. My Buddha, this team blows. But I have to say this: They are making tickets as fucking cheap as possible, and many people, seeking a bargain for their entertainment, are taking the Woofie Dogs up on this offer. Everybody knows that this franchise will suck for a while, but the organization is doing all they can to make the fan feel appreciated as they're going through this sucky time. The fans will need a lot of patience, including in the short term: They visit the Bastard Minneapolis Lakers, host Toronto, then visit Charlotte. Expect the streak to reach 14.
#-Infinity: Gopher men's hockey (Last Week: -5). Should I give them credit for stealing a win in the play-in series against North Dakota Saturday? OK, I won't. For the first time in a dozen years and for only the second time ever, the host of the WCHA Final Five won't actually be in the Final Five; the Gophs, who finished seventh in the regular season, lost 2 games to 1 in their best-of-three to the hated Fighting Sioux. Good fucking God, now what'll this team do? They keep recruiting all this talent with nothing to show for it. Did you hear the list of the finalists for the Hobey Baker Award is out -- and surprise, not a single Gopher is on it! Is Don Lucia the problem for al? I don't even want to think about this abomination of a program. ...
And it might just be me, but I was confident enough to put this team in the Sweet 16. Why? Xavier nor Pittsburgh have the inside muscle that the Gophers have with Ralph Sampson III and Colton Iverson. If they get on track, and if Lawrence Westbrook can stay on the floor, I think they can take two games. Now see them lose to the Musketeers tomorrow (Friday) morning by 20.
#-2: Gopher women's hockey (Last Week: -4). Because there's nobody else. They beat Clarkson, which is good, but they had to go to overtime to win, at home. They have to face the fact that they're not the premier program in women's hockey now. That's going to be a hard pill to swallow, especially if (when?) they lose either in the Frozen Four semifinal Friday (tomorrow) or the final Sunday.
OK, sorry to be so harsh and bitter. It's just that I meant to buy tickets to the Frozen Four today, and I was actually there, but I bought tickets to the women's basketball regional that I also planned on going to, and I remembered about halfway between the ticket office and my car, which are about 1 1/2 miles apart. I felt this huge need to go back, but I had shit to do and it was hot and I was tired and I am so pissed at myself for forgetting. And now I'm logging in and the cheapest ticket is $30, twice as much as it would have cost if only I remembered. I don't think I can go now. I can't remember a fucking thing anymore. ...
#-3: Wild (Last Week: -7). These guys went 3-1 last week? And they have somehow gotten (kind of) back into the playoff race?! Well, that's the NHL for you ... unless making up 6 points is more of a pipe dream that anything. That still could be the case, and now that I've stopped forgetting, I saw how hard this team has to work just to win with my own eyes. I was at the game Tuesday against Edmonton, which is by far the worst team in the league, and they were tied with Oilers at 2 before scoring two goals to coast to victory. You'd think they'd have a slightly easier time of it against such a horrible team. Anyway, they are so far behind that they need to win virtually every game to make it, so last night's (Thursday night's) 5-0 turd at Nashville might be fatal. They play four game this week: at Columbus, home to Calgary and San Jose, then at Philadelphia.
#-4: Gopher baseball (Last Week: -3). I'm glad I decided to go to the state boy's high school hocky big school championship game Saturday night instead of the Gopher game against Creighton at the Dome. They lost that game, which began a 4-game losing streak. They bookended the week with wins versus Harvard and Samford. Their measuring stick was a double-dip at ranked Alabama ... and they lost them both. Ah, the Big Ten as a mid-major. ... They continue their four-game series at Samford this weekend, then host North Dakota St. for two during the middle of next week.
#-5: Wrestling (Last Week: -2). They were 10th in the morning session of the first day of the NCAA Tournament today (Thursday), and reached 8th in the afternoon. So that's good, right? Well, it's better than backsliding, although they're supposed to be a Top Five school. Tourney and season ends Saturday.
#-6: Swarm (Re-Entry!). Lost 20-11 at Philadelphia, a team that has a worse record than them. The best teams manage to defeat bad teams at their place -- so says me and my ego. That's weird; they had two weeks off before this loss against the Wings, and they'll have two weeks off after it. What the heck kind of a schedule is this?
#-7: Timberwolves (Last Week: -6). They lost all four of their games this week -- like hell you say! They have now lost 11 in a row. My Buddha, this team blows. But I have to say this: They are making tickets as fucking cheap as possible, and many people, seeking a bargain for their entertainment, are taking the Woofie Dogs up on this offer. Everybody knows that this franchise will suck for a while, but the organization is doing all they can to make the fan feel appreciated as they're going through this sucky time. The fans will need a lot of patience, including in the short term: They visit the Bastard Minneapolis Lakers, host Toronto, then visit Charlotte. Expect the streak to reach 14.
#-Infinity: Gopher men's hockey (Last Week: -5). Should I give them credit for stealing a win in the play-in series against North Dakota Saturday? OK, I won't. For the first time in a dozen years and for only the second time ever, the host of the WCHA Final Five won't actually be in the Final Five; the Gophs, who finished seventh in the regular season, lost 2 games to 1 in their best-of-three to the hated Fighting Sioux. Good fucking God, now what'll this team do? They keep recruiting all this talent with nothing to show for it. Did you hear the list of the finalists for the Hobey Baker Award is out -- and surprise, not a single Gopher is on it! Is Don Lucia the problem for al? I don't even want to think about this abomination of a program. ...
Thursday, March 18, 2010
I Didn't Look Forward To This Birthday
Never noticed till now that I really, really anticipated the milestone of my birth every year. That is, until this year's. I was quite nonplussed about my 34th birthday today/yesterday. I believe I was busy, even though I didn't work or anything. But I think, deep down inside of me, I was dreading this birthday.
There are many reasons for the combination of ennui and fear. Things at home, especially with My Fucking Father, are not well; he continues to ride my ass on keeping the room he cleaned up without my opinion clean. Yeah, that'll be the day. But there's more to it than that. Moreso than any of the birthdays I've experienced while virtually unemployed, I am resigned to a directionlessness that is codified for all posterity upon my birthday. And at 34, I feel now more than ever the inevitability of my death.
I kind of have a routine that I followed the day of my birthday. Instead of braving the bars and parades and inviting the potential of someone talking to me while I'm alone, I did things that amused myself without attracting attention. First I went to the library, logged in and went to the I went to Matt's Bar and ate a Jucy Lucy. Then I made sure I got out of there in time to reach my car by 2:17, the minute I was born. I turn the radio on and check what songs are playing on the radio then. Don't know why I started or why it matters to me, but it does. Best song: "Whaddaya Want From Me," by Adam Lambert.
The only birthday deal I know of that doesn't involve eating and/or calling attention to myself was at a car wash, so I went there. Afterward I wanted to go to a movie, but I arrived at 3 and the closest times for films I wanted to see was 3:30. I thought of waiting, but I realized that I had shit I could be doing instead -- namely, shopping for a new modem. We need a new modem, but subconsiously this was a way to placate My Fucking Father. So for the rest of the afternoon I went to Best Buy and Target and finally got down to some serious researching for modems online. Then I went home for dinner.
(sigh) I'm not done yet, but I'm tired and there's basketball on, so I'll get back to this some other time -- maybe. Besides, I have to devote my blogging attention to the Survey for tonight/tomorrow.
There are many reasons for the combination of ennui and fear. Things at home, especially with My Fucking Father, are not well; he continues to ride my ass on keeping the room he cleaned up without my opinion clean. Yeah, that'll be the day. But there's more to it than that. Moreso than any of the birthdays I've experienced while virtually unemployed, I am resigned to a directionlessness that is codified for all posterity upon my birthday. And at 34, I feel now more than ever the inevitability of my death.
I kind of have a routine that I followed the day of my birthday. Instead of braving the bars and parades and inviting the potential of someone talking to me while I'm alone, I did things that amused myself without attracting attention. First I went to the library, logged in and went to the I went to Matt's Bar and ate a Jucy Lucy. Then I made sure I got out of there in time to reach my car by 2:17, the minute I was born. I turn the radio on and check what songs are playing on the radio then. Don't know why I started or why it matters to me, but it does. Best song: "Whaddaya Want From Me," by Adam Lambert.
The only birthday deal I know of that doesn't involve eating and/or calling attention to myself was at a car wash, so I went there. Afterward I wanted to go to a movie, but I arrived at 3 and the closest times for films I wanted to see was 3:30. I thought of waiting, but I realized that I had shit I could be doing instead -- namely, shopping for a new modem. We need a new modem, but subconsiously this was a way to placate My Fucking Father. So for the rest of the afternoon I went to Best Buy and Target and finally got down to some serious researching for modems online. Then I went home for dinner.
(sigh) I'm not done yet, but I'm tired and there's basketball on, so I'll get back to this some other time -- maybe. Besides, I have to devote my blogging attention to the Survey for tonight/tomorrow.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Before I Get Too Depressed ... My Horny Analysis Of The Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue
I still miss Marisa Miller and her killer California attitude and her big, fake tits. God, how I long to bite into those titties. But Brooklyn Decker -- sounds like Black & Decker, doesn't it? -- will soon succeed her as the next SI Hall Of Famer if she keeps turning in performances like she has in this year's edition. She straddles the flipside of the busty and curvaceous Miller, but her slim, athletic figure is just as All-American. So her tits may not be as huge, but they're big enough, and she has a killer smile. And I haven't ever noticed an SI model shave her pubes as much as Decker does. It's the cover photo; that bikini bottom is hanging so low it might as well be off. If that photo were from 20 or even 15 years ago, we'd be seeing some pubes climbing out of that thing. Actually, I'd really want to see that!
Besides Decker, however, I'm afraid to say that the models' pictures, overall, were kind of weak. Nothing that made my eyes bulge out and my dick hard. Sure, all the babes are beautiful. And some had some very good overall spreads, like Hilary Rhoda and Irina Shayk. But the poses are too tame. It has to be raunchy, kind-of-vintage-Penthouse-like, or at the very least Maxim-like. Maybe I've seen too much porn to be fazed by what could be seen as very sexy pictures. But it's the same old, same old.
Oh, and by the way, drop the bodypainting. The soccer WAGs are fucking bangable, but if you're going to misled me into thinking I can see something that I really can't, then do me a favor and just shoot them fucking naked. Please.
Bar Rafaeli? She is walking sex, but after last year's disastrous interview with Letterman after she got the cover I am totally turned off by her. You don't have to be a cunt, Bar. Take notes on Brooklyn, all funny and cool with Dave for her interview with him last month.
The most shocking think about the Swimsuit Issue? The hottest chicks there aren't the models -- they're the Winter Olympic athletes! Every one of them, including aerialist Lacy Schnoor, snowboarder Clair Bediz (who actually didn't make the Olympic team) and snowboarder Hannah Teeter, had the hottest bods and posed in the hottest shots! I am a sucker for photos that make it seem like the girls are peeling out of their clothes, and all of them have one pic of that! Jeepers-creepers!
But the best of all of them, models included, is skier and gold medalist Lindsay Vonn. The World Cup Champion (and Minnesota native!) gives off a professional, quiet vibe, but in her shots she proves that the quietest ones are the naughtiest! She has her getting-naked shot, her often-overused hands-over-titties shot which is really awesome (putting on sunglasses makes Vonn look like a nympho!), and her lying-on-her-side-in-a-bikini shot. This one is in a sauna, but I swear this is the fucking sexiest goddamn pic in the whole issue, even better than Decker's. It's that smile of Vonn's, that faint Mona Lisa-like smirk, that reels me in and makes me want to wank my dick. Yeah, that and her thumb pulling down the side of her bikiki bottom, which is already low in the first place. Seems like despite all those long hours training, Vonn still has time to shave her pubes!
So overall: A once-every-four-years pictorial saves this otherwise mediocre SI S.I. But yes, I'd still fuck every single woman in the mag.
Besides Decker, however, I'm afraid to say that the models' pictures, overall, were kind of weak. Nothing that made my eyes bulge out and my dick hard. Sure, all the babes are beautiful. And some had some very good overall spreads, like Hilary Rhoda and Irina Shayk. But the poses are too tame. It has to be raunchy, kind-of-vintage-Penthouse-like, or at the very least Maxim-like. Maybe I've seen too much porn to be fazed by what could be seen as very sexy pictures. But it's the same old, same old.
Oh, and by the way, drop the bodypainting. The soccer WAGs are fucking bangable, but if you're going to misled me into thinking I can see something that I really can't, then do me a favor and just shoot them fucking naked. Please.
Bar Rafaeli? She is walking sex, but after last year's disastrous interview with Letterman after she got the cover I am totally turned off by her. You don't have to be a cunt, Bar. Take notes on Brooklyn, all funny and cool with Dave for her interview with him last month.
The most shocking think about the Swimsuit Issue? The hottest chicks there aren't the models -- they're the Winter Olympic athletes! Every one of them, including aerialist Lacy Schnoor, snowboarder Clair Bediz (who actually didn't make the Olympic team) and snowboarder Hannah Teeter, had the hottest bods and posed in the hottest shots! I am a sucker for photos that make it seem like the girls are peeling out of their clothes, and all of them have one pic of that! Jeepers-creepers!
But the best of all of them, models included, is skier and gold medalist Lindsay Vonn. The World Cup Champion (and Minnesota native!) gives off a professional, quiet vibe, but in her shots she proves that the quietest ones are the naughtiest! She has her getting-naked shot, her often-overused hands-over-titties shot which is really awesome (putting on sunglasses makes Vonn look like a nympho!), and her lying-on-her-side-in-a-bikini shot. This one is in a sauna, but I swear this is the fucking sexiest goddamn pic in the whole issue, even better than Decker's. It's that smile of Vonn's, that faint Mona Lisa-like smirk, that reels me in and makes me want to wank my dick. Yeah, that and her thumb pulling down the side of her bikiki bottom, which is already low in the first place. Seems like despite all those long hours training, Vonn still has time to shave her pubes!
So overall: A once-every-four-years pictorial saves this otherwise mediocre SI S.I. But yes, I'd still fuck every single woman in the mag.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
My Fucking God, I'm Pissed Off With The World Right Now
I am running on red tonight. I hate everybody and everything.
It started when I came home for dinner. I thought I'd be home at around 5, maybe 5:30, but I needed to get Grandmother's meds. Plus I have all this shit I need to do -- write for my company, call this person, fill this out, fill that out -- that I was kind of overwhelmed. Having coffee and dinking around wasn't what I planned to do and not what I should have done, but it was nice nonetheless. But I use the excuse of waiting till my laptop completely recharged as the reason I leave the coffeehouse so late. That means I get to Target at 5:30 and, because of a mix-up at the pharmacy, I get home around 6:15.
Well, they're probably not home; my parents are just getting back, if they're back at all, and if they are, they're whipping up something that's ordinary, not special. That's what I thought -- and I was wrong. I come home and hear Mother say something to the effect of, "Well, now he comes home." And she sits down to eat noodles. Good, beautiful noodles, my favorite home-cooked meal. Goddamn, I'm late for this dinner?!
She offers to get up and make it for me, but I didn't want her to do that. Besides, assembling noodles, meatballs, beef and soup seems to be easy enough -- I need to learn how to do this, and I think I can, I think I can! Here is where I see the worst of both My Fucking Father and, sadly, My Fucking Grandmother.
First, my Grandmother volunteers to help. Then, with My Mother barking orders from her seat at the dining table, my Grandmother once again repeats everythiing she says, sometimes sprinkling in trite elaborations on Mother's instructions, such as putting more noodles in my bowl and shit. This is when Grandmother is at her repetitive worst; already kind of embarrassed I'm late to a "big" dinner, I was so annoyed by her nattering that I snapped at her. Then My Fucking Father, who may or may not have been done with his soup (depending on whether or not he felt like drinking the whole broth) went into our kitchen (which, after so many run-ins and blow-ups, I've come to conclude is way too small for modern demands) and pushes me away from the bowl; he made it for me. Fuck him -- he's a nanny who can't help himself. First he cleans my room, then he makes my soup, asking me neither time.
My Fucking Father was at his most preeningly juvenile tonight -- repeating himself in order to shush me away and do what he wanted, whining instead of speaking. He had a headache tonight, which he clearly communicated by the way he slouched on the chairs next to the dining room, bowed his head and closed his eyes. He didn't want to eat the birthday cake we planned on eating last night, but he did anyway. Oh, and he reminded me to clean my room. Sure I will -- why don't you do it for me instead?
---
Couldn't wait to go to the gym. Would've gone anywhere, but I need to make sure that I go, otherwise I'd be wasting my monthly pass. I bought it for $15 when a daily pass is $3, so I need to go at least five times in 30 days to make it worth it, though I should go more if I'm buying them in a block like that because then I'd save, and that's kind of the point of buying a monthly pass, right? Right??
What I've been afraid of is that there are other people there exercising. I like my peace, having the whole exercise room to myself, and the first few times I went no one was there to bother me. I thought it was only because the citizens of the city didn't want to take advantage of the tax dollars spent to create it.
But it was just the weather, because ever since, say, early last month there have been people there. And the further we escape the doldrums of winter, more and more people are there when I'm there. That bothers me because I'm losing my privacy, but at least most of them are civil, or at least not obnoxious. I didn't have that luck last night.
There were two people there, a man and a woman, not together. They were using two of the three treadmills available. The woman, who was wearing a stretch knit hat that had a lot of hair in it (it made her kind of look like Cleopatra), was on the treadmill I usually use; it's the one right in front of the right TV. I have a rule, something I might need to break because it could get completely ridiculous: If I see someone using "my" treadmill, "my" ellipitical, "my" bike or the single weight machine there, I won't use it that night. It's just too gross; what if there's MRSA on it, and what if the person doesn't wipe it down? I just don't want to deal with it, so I stay away. Yes, sweat and viruses and bacteria can stay on those machines for hours, even days. I ... I stay away for that night. Which means "my" treadmill is off-limits. Fuck.
But the elliptical is free -- yippee! I clean it off with a liberal dose of alcohol. This machine is in front of the left TV, so I want the remote ... which the woman has. I ask for it, per exercise room etiquette. She hands it to me without saying anything or giving me a smile. If I were in a worse frame of mind, I would think she was kind of perturbed that I borrowed the remote. Whatever.
Also because it's The Way It's Done, once I select a channel, I go and give it back to her. Every other time they say, "No, keep it!" or "Thank you!" But I intercept this woman as she was taking a break. When I give the remote back to her, she is stone-faced. No thanks, no nothing. Cunt.
And the guy? God, what a motherfucking slob. I've seen him a couple times, and he's one of, like, two men I've seen use the weight machine. And sadly, he used it while I was on the elliptical. Toning my arm muscles is out. But the thing that grossed me out was something I've seen him do before. He has his own small towel he takes around with him, and when used the weight machine he throws that fucking towel on the back of the bike I use! Aargh!!! You fucking contaminated two of my machines with your own goddamn sweat!!
That's it -- I can't use the treadmill, nor the weight machine, nor the bike. I thought about trying some of the other machines ... ah, but I couldn't. This is a sign that I should do something new. If I'm not staying in the exercise room for more than an hour now, I might as well fill up my gas tank, get the paper so I can fill out my bracket, and get some coffee to work on my article. Meanwhile, this fucking asshole gets on a mat on the floor and stretches -- showing off his fat belly!! Goddamn!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
The kicker: After he gets on the treadmill and read his book a second fucking time and then do some light stretching, this son-of-a-bitch has the audacity to leave just before I plan to. Oh great, leave all this slimy destruction in your wake and then leave me all alone in the room, you piece of shit. And by the way, I saw you didn't wipe down any of the machines you used, you gross fat fuck!!! Really, goddamn him to hell. ...
---
Coffeeshop was just as bad. I didn't want to drive all the way down Uptown, so I went to the other place -- the one with the waxy counters that confuse my optical mouse so the cursor doesn't move, the one with the awful esoteric music, the one with too many people and too few seats, the one with the bitter mochas, and the one with the sometimes-indifferent customer service. This hadn't happened here yet, however.
So I was standing behind this guy who just gave his order. This disheveled chick with the confused look on her face -- she'd be a female version of me, I guess -- saunters up to the other side of the cash register. After the coffee chick gives the guy in front of me his drink, the stupid fuck goes and grabs this girl's order!! Hello, I'm right here, waiting in line like you're supposed to! This bitch cuts in line and she gets to get her order in before me?! Fuck that. I'm starting to hate this coffeehouse more than I did before.
Yeah, another girl took my order, but so what? I should've been in front of her. And look, she's pulling change out of a plastic bag. A plastic bag!! For a plastic fucking bag she gets to cut in front of me?
---
There are still potholes on the roads, Minnesota. Oh, and I don't appreciate that thing I ran over just before I got home, either.
---
What do I see coming across the dining room? Ants!!! I saw this black circle on the ground and knew exactly what it was -- damn insects coming out from underground, searching for any piece of food. Well, we ... no, I can't assemble my own bowl of noodles so they keep making a mess and dropping the oily pieces of food that the ants want. Goddamn, I didn't need these fucking things in the house.
So I break out the bug spray that was placed under the piano and I spray the hell out of the whole area, both the mass of ants devouring the piece of whatever-that-was and the stray ants going towards or away from it. I made a hell of a mess, but I had to make damn sure I got every single fucking insect in my Raid.
The bug spray smells noxious, plus there's this oil on the floor now. And, of course, there are all these dead (and drowning) ants. So I decide to sweep them all up and then Swiffer the whole fucking area. While I was doing the cleaning My Fucking Father wants me to do (why don't you do it yourself? You know you're just going to do it yourself, right?), my Grandmother comes out to see what's going on. Hoo boy, she was at her most infuriatingly subservient here. She talked about, "Why are you so loud? Father's going to get mad! He yelled at me for walking out here past midnight? I'll just do it tomorrow!" I wanted to say something to the effect of it's fine, there were ants here and I need to clean it up, but again -- language barrier. So after I tried to spit out the words "ants" and "don't worry about it," I shooed her away. Just like My Fucking Father does. My God, I am him.
Oh, and speaking of that hovering black hole ... he comes up, probably to see what the commotion is all about. For once he didn't lose his mind over what I was doing; instead, he was back to beating around Grandmother again by lecturing her on not dropping food, even though tonight she deserved it for being an all-around ditz.
Oh, and I'm supposed to buy a new mat for the dining room table. Huh?
---
Finally, I try and work on my laptop again in my sister's room. I'm tooling away, not bothering anybody or the pace of the world ... and then something buzzes by my right ear very closely. I see a box elder beetle land on my screen. Fuck, you've got to be kidding me!!!
I fucking take all my shit and just move it into my room. My desk isn't long enough for my laptop, and I had a hell of a hard time just making sure I had everything I wanted and was within reach of everything I needed while I was working in bedroom, but it worked, somehow. Maybe this is what I'll have to do from now on. It means I won't have to miss late-night news, for one thing.
It started when I came home for dinner. I thought I'd be home at around 5, maybe 5:30, but I needed to get Grandmother's meds. Plus I have all this shit I need to do -- write for my company, call this person, fill this out, fill that out -- that I was kind of overwhelmed. Having coffee and dinking around wasn't what I planned to do and not what I should have done, but it was nice nonetheless. But I use the excuse of waiting till my laptop completely recharged as the reason I leave the coffeehouse so late. That means I get to Target at 5:30 and, because of a mix-up at the pharmacy, I get home around 6:15.
Well, they're probably not home; my parents are just getting back, if they're back at all, and if they are, they're whipping up something that's ordinary, not special. That's what I thought -- and I was wrong. I come home and hear Mother say something to the effect of, "Well, now he comes home." And she sits down to eat noodles. Good, beautiful noodles, my favorite home-cooked meal. Goddamn, I'm late for this dinner?!
She offers to get up and make it for me, but I didn't want her to do that. Besides, assembling noodles, meatballs, beef and soup seems to be easy enough -- I need to learn how to do this, and I think I can, I think I can! Here is where I see the worst of both My Fucking Father and, sadly, My Fucking Grandmother.
First, my Grandmother volunteers to help. Then, with My Mother barking orders from her seat at the dining table, my Grandmother once again repeats everythiing she says, sometimes sprinkling in trite elaborations on Mother's instructions, such as putting more noodles in my bowl and shit. This is when Grandmother is at her repetitive worst; already kind of embarrassed I'm late to a "big" dinner, I was so annoyed by her nattering that I snapped at her. Then My Fucking Father, who may or may not have been done with his soup (depending on whether or not he felt like drinking the whole broth) went into our kitchen (which, after so many run-ins and blow-ups, I've come to conclude is way too small for modern demands) and pushes me away from the bowl; he made it for me. Fuck him -- he's a nanny who can't help himself. First he cleans my room, then he makes my soup, asking me neither time.
My Fucking Father was at his most preeningly juvenile tonight -- repeating himself in order to shush me away and do what he wanted, whining instead of speaking. He had a headache tonight, which he clearly communicated by the way he slouched on the chairs next to the dining room, bowed his head and closed his eyes. He didn't want to eat the birthday cake we planned on eating last night, but he did anyway. Oh, and he reminded me to clean my room. Sure I will -- why don't you do it for me instead?
---
Couldn't wait to go to the gym. Would've gone anywhere, but I need to make sure that I go, otherwise I'd be wasting my monthly pass. I bought it for $15 when a daily pass is $3, so I need to go at least five times in 30 days to make it worth it, though I should go more if I'm buying them in a block like that because then I'd save, and that's kind of the point of buying a monthly pass, right? Right??
What I've been afraid of is that there are other people there exercising. I like my peace, having the whole exercise room to myself, and the first few times I went no one was there to bother me. I thought it was only because the citizens of the city didn't want to take advantage of the tax dollars spent to create it.
But it was just the weather, because ever since, say, early last month there have been people there. And the further we escape the doldrums of winter, more and more people are there when I'm there. That bothers me because I'm losing my privacy, but at least most of them are civil, or at least not obnoxious. I didn't have that luck last night.
There were two people there, a man and a woman, not together. They were using two of the three treadmills available. The woman, who was wearing a stretch knit hat that had a lot of hair in it (it made her kind of look like Cleopatra), was on the treadmill I usually use; it's the one right in front of the right TV. I have a rule, something I might need to break because it could get completely ridiculous: If I see someone using "my" treadmill, "my" ellipitical, "my" bike or the single weight machine there, I won't use it that night. It's just too gross; what if there's MRSA on it, and what if the person doesn't wipe it down? I just don't want to deal with it, so I stay away. Yes, sweat and viruses and bacteria can stay on those machines for hours, even days. I ... I stay away for that night. Which means "my" treadmill is off-limits. Fuck.
But the elliptical is free -- yippee! I clean it off with a liberal dose of alcohol. This machine is in front of the left TV, so I want the remote ... which the woman has. I ask for it, per exercise room etiquette. She hands it to me without saying anything or giving me a smile. If I were in a worse frame of mind, I would think she was kind of perturbed that I borrowed the remote. Whatever.
Also because it's The Way It's Done, once I select a channel, I go and give it back to her. Every other time they say, "No, keep it!" or "Thank you!" But I intercept this woman as she was taking a break. When I give the remote back to her, she is stone-faced. No thanks, no nothing. Cunt.
And the guy? God, what a motherfucking slob. I've seen him a couple times, and he's one of, like, two men I've seen use the weight machine. And sadly, he used it while I was on the elliptical. Toning my arm muscles is out. But the thing that grossed me out was something I've seen him do before. He has his own small towel he takes around with him, and when used the weight machine he throws that fucking towel on the back of the bike I use! Aargh!!! You fucking contaminated two of my machines with your own goddamn sweat!!
That's it -- I can't use the treadmill, nor the weight machine, nor the bike. I thought about trying some of the other machines ... ah, but I couldn't. This is a sign that I should do something new. If I'm not staying in the exercise room for more than an hour now, I might as well fill up my gas tank, get the paper so I can fill out my bracket, and get some coffee to work on my article. Meanwhile, this fucking asshole gets on a mat on the floor and stretches -- showing off his fat belly!! Goddamn!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
The kicker: After he gets on the treadmill and read his book a second fucking time and then do some light stretching, this son-of-a-bitch has the audacity to leave just before I plan to. Oh great, leave all this slimy destruction in your wake and then leave me all alone in the room, you piece of shit. And by the way, I saw you didn't wipe down any of the machines you used, you gross fat fuck!!! Really, goddamn him to hell. ...
---
Coffeeshop was just as bad. I didn't want to drive all the way down Uptown, so I went to the other place -- the one with the waxy counters that confuse my optical mouse so the cursor doesn't move, the one with the awful esoteric music, the one with too many people and too few seats, the one with the bitter mochas, and the one with the sometimes-indifferent customer service. This hadn't happened here yet, however.
So I was standing behind this guy who just gave his order. This disheveled chick with the confused look on her face -- she'd be a female version of me, I guess -- saunters up to the other side of the cash register. After the coffee chick gives the guy in front of me his drink, the stupid fuck goes and grabs this girl's order!! Hello, I'm right here, waiting in line like you're supposed to! This bitch cuts in line and she gets to get her order in before me?! Fuck that. I'm starting to hate this coffeehouse more than I did before.
Yeah, another girl took my order, but so what? I should've been in front of her. And look, she's pulling change out of a plastic bag. A plastic bag!! For a plastic fucking bag she gets to cut in front of me?
---
There are still potholes on the roads, Minnesota. Oh, and I don't appreciate that thing I ran over just before I got home, either.
---
What do I see coming across the dining room? Ants!!! I saw this black circle on the ground and knew exactly what it was -- damn insects coming out from underground, searching for any piece of food. Well, we ... no, I can't assemble my own bowl of noodles so they keep making a mess and dropping the oily pieces of food that the ants want. Goddamn, I didn't need these fucking things in the house.
So I break out the bug spray that was placed under the piano and I spray the hell out of the whole area, both the mass of ants devouring the piece of whatever-that-was and the stray ants going towards or away from it. I made a hell of a mess, but I had to make damn sure I got every single fucking insect in my Raid.
The bug spray smells noxious, plus there's this oil on the floor now. And, of course, there are all these dead (and drowning) ants. So I decide to sweep them all up and then Swiffer the whole fucking area. While I was doing the cleaning My Fucking Father wants me to do (why don't you do it yourself? You know you're just going to do it yourself, right?), my Grandmother comes out to see what's going on. Hoo boy, she was at her most infuriatingly subservient here. She talked about, "Why are you so loud? Father's going to get mad! He yelled at me for walking out here past midnight? I'll just do it tomorrow!" I wanted to say something to the effect of it's fine, there were ants here and I need to clean it up, but again -- language barrier. So after I tried to spit out the words "ants" and "don't worry about it," I shooed her away. Just like My Fucking Father does. My God, I am him.
Oh, and speaking of that hovering black hole ... he comes up, probably to see what the commotion is all about. For once he didn't lose his mind over what I was doing; instead, he was back to beating around Grandmother again by lecturing her on not dropping food, even though tonight she deserved it for being an all-around ditz.
Oh, and I'm supposed to buy a new mat for the dining room table. Huh?
---
Finally, I try and work on my laptop again in my sister's room. I'm tooling away, not bothering anybody or the pace of the world ... and then something buzzes by my right ear very closely. I see a box elder beetle land on my screen. Fuck, you've got to be kidding me!!!
I fucking take all my shit and just move it into my room. My desk isn't long enough for my laptop, and I had a hell of a hard time just making sure I had everything I wanted and was within reach of everything I needed while I was working in bedroom, but it worked, somehow. Maybe this is what I'll have to do from now on. It means I won't have to miss late-night news, for one thing.
Monday, March 15, 2010
And Now I Feel Guilty
My birthday's on Wednesday. Don't remind me, please. It's supposed to be a joyous occasion, but with each passing year without me being truly happy, I just see it more and more as another year step closer to death.
Today, after watching a little college basketball and checking my car, I made a point of walking to the coffeeshop and dink around on my laptop (and re-file my previous blog post). I needed the exercise, but it was more just avoiding my parents, particularly My Father, when they come home. Seems to me the biggest blowups happen just after they return. I just wanted to make sure I came back in time for Selection Sunday.
I come home not to yelling and angry accusations, thank Buddha. What I did come back to are the big flat plates we use for "special" dinners. Wish I had known beforehand that they were celebrating my birthday today. Guess I could've assumed they were going to do that next weekend, but in reality, my parents doing something special for my birthday was something that didn't cross my mind at all.
Mother toasted me and wished me to find a good job, to which My Father started giggling. Couple snide comments from me and that was it. Steak was good, salad as good as it's ever been, bread wonderful, and we all horked down the champagne quicker than we ever have before.
Mother told me we could have cake afterwards; just tell us, she said, and we'll toast your birthday. I was too full to do it right afterward, and in the back of my mind I didn't think we could do it later in the evening. After watchng The Amazing Race and the first hour of Celebrity Apprentice, I could feel myself losing consciousness. At around 9, I shut off the TV and closed my eyes.
And I woke up at 11:12. Caught the middle of Seinfeld, flossed my teeth, heard rumblings in the master bed downstairs then went downstairs to make absolutely sure they were asleep, otherwise I guess we can have cake. Father called out from the other side of the door that we can do it tomorrow. Maybe; I really, really want to go to the gym because I paid for a month's worth of visits the day I came back from STL and saw you fucked with my room, and the next visit will be the one that'll match what I usually pay for a one-time pass. Since I'll be busy the next few weeks, if I don't make it tomorrow, I essentially will be wasting money for visits to exercise I didn't take.
I feel kind of guilty that I was unenthused for the celebration over my birthday. I want to say I was tired, or that My Father's being an asshole, or that I'm still mad about him "cleaning" my room. But maybe I'm truly depressed that I'll be 34 on Wednesday and that I'm still just a kid, except that I'm really not.
And to think I should be happy that March Madness is about to begin.
Today, after watching a little college basketball and checking my car, I made a point of walking to the coffeeshop and dink around on my laptop (and re-file my previous blog post). I needed the exercise, but it was more just avoiding my parents, particularly My Father, when they come home. Seems to me the biggest blowups happen just after they return. I just wanted to make sure I came back in time for Selection Sunday.
I come home not to yelling and angry accusations, thank Buddha. What I did come back to are the big flat plates we use for "special" dinners. Wish I had known beforehand that they were celebrating my birthday today. Guess I could've assumed they were going to do that next weekend, but in reality, my parents doing something special for my birthday was something that didn't cross my mind at all.
Mother toasted me and wished me to find a good job, to which My Father started giggling. Couple snide comments from me and that was it. Steak was good, salad as good as it's ever been, bread wonderful, and we all horked down the champagne quicker than we ever have before.
Mother told me we could have cake afterwards; just tell us, she said, and we'll toast your birthday. I was too full to do it right afterward, and in the back of my mind I didn't think we could do it later in the evening. After watchng The Amazing Race and the first hour of Celebrity Apprentice, I could feel myself losing consciousness. At around 9, I shut off the TV and closed my eyes.
And I woke up at 11:12. Caught the middle of Seinfeld, flossed my teeth, heard rumblings in the master bed downstairs then went downstairs to make absolutely sure they were asleep, otherwise I guess we can have cake. Father called out from the other side of the door that we can do it tomorrow. Maybe; I really, really want to go to the gym because I paid for a month's worth of visits the day I came back from STL and saw you fucked with my room, and the next visit will be the one that'll match what I usually pay for a one-time pass. Since I'll be busy the next few weeks, if I don't make it tomorrow, I essentially will be wasting money for visits to exercise I didn't take.
I feel kind of guilty that I was unenthused for the celebration over my birthday. I want to say I was tired, or that My Father's being an asshole, or that I'm still mad about him "cleaning" my room. But maybe I'm truly depressed that I'll be 34 on Wednesday and that I'm still just a kid, except that I'm really not.
And to think I should be happy that March Madness is about to begin.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Selection Sunday Eve
I love Bracketology and Bubble Watching. I am looking forward to 5 p.m., when I can see what the field is like. Seriously, I can forget the bad shit in my life for one hour, and possibly the rest of the evening, as I break down which Davids can pull the upset.
But this being the last day before the field is set, I want to take a look at who the prognosticators are thinking are in the Big Dance and aren't. I startedt this late last night, but with four very important title games today (three of which is done), I should've just done this now. Anyway, I'll list all the predictors I can find here:
Joe Lunardi, ESPN.com:
Synthesizing all the bracketologists, the order at the cutline seems to be something like:
But this being the last day before the field is set, I want to take a look at who the prognosticators are thinking are in the Big Dance and aren't. I startedt this late last night, but with four very important title games today (three of which is done), I should've just done this now. Anyway, I'll list all the predictors I can find here:
Joe Lunardi, ESPN.com:
- Last Three In: Minnesota, Utah St., Illinois
- Last Three Out: Virginia Tech, Mississippi St., Florida
- Last Six In: UTEP, Georgia Tech, Minnesota, Illinois, Utah St., Cal
- Last Two Out: Virginia Tech, Florida
- Last Four In: Florida, Minnesota, Utah St., UTEP
- Last Four Out: Mississippi St., Rhode Island, Seton Hall, Virginia Tech
- Last Four In: Illinois, Wake Forest, Minnesota, Utah St.
- Last Four Out: Virginia Tech, Mississippi St., Florida, Mississippi
- Last Four In: Minnesota, UTEP, Utah St., Virginia Tech
- Last Four Out: Florida, Illinois, Mississippi St., Seton Hall
- Last Four In: Cal, Utah St., Minnesota, Illinois
- Last Four Out: Mississippi St., Florida, Virginia Tech, Seton Hall
- Last Four In: Illinois, Virginia Tech, Utah St., Cal
- Last Four Out: Minnesota, Mississippi St., Mississippi, Florida
- Last Three In: Mississippi St., Illinois, Minnesota
- Last Four Out: Mississippi, Virginia Tech, South Florida, Cal
- Last Four In: UTEP, Utah St., Illinois, Georgia Tech
- Last Four Out: Mississippi St., Florida, Virginia Tech, Mississippi
Synthesizing all the bracketologists, the order at the cutline seems to be something like:
- Minnesota, Utah St., Illinois, Virginia Tech, Mississippi St., Florida, Mississippi
Saturday, March 13, 2010
My Grandmother Hit Me Yesterday
Such a drastic development is the destination of a series of coincidentally bad breaks. But the aftereffects of such a move reverberates still, and therefore I have yet another thing I have to contend with.
I am trying to make a point of getting to "work" on time; this is all the money I have, and I don't want to do anything to lose my "job," even if I've been chronically late for years now and my "boss" doesn't seem to care. But I dinked around the Internet too long, and I had about a half hour before I had to be there, which is, once again, too late.
So I hurriedly say goodbye to my Grandmother and put my shoes on. I was about out the door until she stops me and asks me to help with the backdoor. I act like a brat by heaving my shoulders and sighing, but I stomp up the stairs, shoes on like I'm not supposed to.
She asks me to fix the door because ... because. At some point she says, again, that our parents might use it and they might get mad if they can't. And that's one of those triggers that get to me; who gives a shit that they'll get mad over a stupid door/window thingy? So, with my patience already wearing thing and my subconscious on red over my Grandmother's fear over what my 'Rents think, I jar both backdoors loose. I then head to the propane stove. There's a little door that was askew, and I placed it on these tiny pads that keep it in place.
I go back inside where Grandmother says, "Don't put it so tight." So I poke my head out again and try and readjust the thing so it's looser, to which she replied, after I go back inside, "Not that, the door!"
This is where the language barrier led once again to a failure to communicate. I feel I can't do anything right, so I just explode. "You told me to move that thing, not the door! You want me to fix the backdoor, you point to the backdoor!" And I slam the backdoor shut.
And that's when she hits me ... across the arm. But stronger than she ever has since she waylayed me regular back in the day. And my Grandmother screamed, "TOO HARD!!!" in a voice I haven't heard since she waylayed me regular back in the day. Instinctively I returned back into meek child mode and calmed down. Well, more like quieted myself; I'm never calm. I bolted through the front door, slamming it shut, without saying goodbye. I was 5-10 minutes late to "work" instead of being 10-5.
All day, when I got up to when I got back, Grandmother was unusually industrious. I woke up early in the morning to the sound of splashes in the dining room. That's her splashing detergent-filled water out of a shallow bowl onto the floor in order to mop. And before I left for the Auto Show she was in the bathroom, feverishly doing something over the bathtub. Is she cleaning her clothes in there? Or is she cleaning the tub? Most important, why?
I realize that she probably was as stressed as I was, even more so. But I need to know why. I need to understand what caused this confrontation from her end. There are very serious implications either way. If she had some shit she needed to do, and she was just pissed off, that means she is no longer the sanguine Grandmother I remember her as since I came back from El Paso. She now believes that she can push me around, and that is a diametric change in how I perceive her. However, if she's cleaning and doing all this unnecessary bullshit because My Fucking Father yelled at her to do so -- and that's quite possible -- then she's passing along the stress that was laid on her by him. Which means he's being controlling once again, only this time it made my Grandmother snap. This too is a new predicament, and sadly, I don't know how to thwart this vicious attack from him, too.
Haven't really spoken to Grandmother since yesterday. She's probably still mad at me.
I am trying to make a point of getting to "work" on time; this is all the money I have, and I don't want to do anything to lose my "job," even if I've been chronically late for years now and my "boss" doesn't seem to care. But I dinked around the Internet too long, and I had about a half hour before I had to be there, which is, once again, too late.
So I hurriedly say goodbye to my Grandmother and put my shoes on. I was about out the door until she stops me and asks me to help with the backdoor. I act like a brat by heaving my shoulders and sighing, but I stomp up the stairs, shoes on like I'm not supposed to.
She asks me to fix the door because ... because. At some point she says, again, that our parents might use it and they might get mad if they can't. And that's one of those triggers that get to me; who gives a shit that they'll get mad over a stupid door/window thingy? So, with my patience already wearing thing and my subconscious on red over my Grandmother's fear over what my 'Rents think, I jar both backdoors loose. I then head to the propane stove. There's a little door that was askew, and I placed it on these tiny pads that keep it in place.
I go back inside where Grandmother says, "Don't put it so tight." So I poke my head out again and try and readjust the thing so it's looser, to which she replied, after I go back inside, "Not that, the door!"
This is where the language barrier led once again to a failure to communicate. I feel I can't do anything right, so I just explode. "You told me to move that thing, not the door! You want me to fix the backdoor, you point to the backdoor!" And I slam the backdoor shut.
And that's when she hits me ... across the arm. But stronger than she ever has since she waylayed me regular back in the day. And my Grandmother screamed, "TOO HARD!!!" in a voice I haven't heard since she waylayed me regular back in the day. Instinctively I returned back into meek child mode and calmed down. Well, more like quieted myself; I'm never calm. I bolted through the front door, slamming it shut, without saying goodbye. I was 5-10 minutes late to "work" instead of being 10-5.
All day, when I got up to when I got back, Grandmother was unusually industrious. I woke up early in the morning to the sound of splashes in the dining room. That's her splashing detergent-filled water out of a shallow bowl onto the floor in order to mop. And before I left for the Auto Show she was in the bathroom, feverishly doing something over the bathtub. Is she cleaning her clothes in there? Or is she cleaning the tub? Most important, why?
I realize that she probably was as stressed as I was, even more so. But I need to know why. I need to understand what caused this confrontation from her end. There are very serious implications either way. If she had some shit she needed to do, and she was just pissed off, that means she is no longer the sanguine Grandmother I remember her as since I came back from El Paso. She now believes that she can push me around, and that is a diametric change in how I perceive her. However, if she's cleaning and doing all this unnecessary bullshit because My Fucking Father yelled at her to do so -- and that's quite possible -- then she's passing along the stress that was laid on her by him. Which means he's being controlling once again, only this time it made my Grandmother snap. This too is a new predicament, and sadly, I don't know how to thwart this vicious attack from him, too.
Haven't really spoken to Grandmother since yesterday. She's probably still mad at me.
Friday, March 12, 2010
The Weekly Minnesota Sports Survey
#-1: Gopher men's basketball (Last Week: -6). In what is yet another very weak week for the survey, Tubby's team, which still seems destined for the NIT, dog-paddles long enough to be on top. (Aside: Looking back, Minnesota sports has completely blown the past few winters. In fact ... it's been a virtual wasteland since the grapplers won it all in '07. Shitty.) They finished the regular season with a Senior Day win at home over Iowa, then ripped bottom-of-the-barrel Penn St. (with their soon-to-be-excused Head Coach, Ed DeChellis) by 21 Thursday to begin the Big Ten Tournament.
They face Michigan St. Friday; they will probably lose, and even a win won't put them into the Big Dance, according to all the bracketologists out there. But if you're a college basketball junkie this time of year, you know that there was a lot of carnage that happened on Thursday. Several bubble teams from the Big East and Conference USA lost, which might open the door for the Gophers to back into the NCAAs. But a defeat of the Spartans would strengthen that possibility. The final, by the way, is Sunday afternoon, the last conference title game to be played, which should end just after they begin announcing the field. Way to really fuck with the committee, guys.
#-2: Wrestling (Last Week: -2). Look, it is better to be 2nd than dead last, and this year's finish is a hell of a lot better than last year's 5th-place flameout. But they lost to Big Ten champion (and presumptive national favorite) Iowa by 37 fucking points. 37! They could finish third in next week's NCAA Tournament and be nowhere near the top spot. That's why I'm so underwhelmed by this team, that and the fact that I still remember their three national belts from the previous decade. Oh well. At least they have nine wrestlings going into the tourney, led by Big Ten Wrestler Of The Year (and 26-0) Jayson Ness at 133 pounds.
#-3: Gopher baseball (Last Week: -7). This is a young team, Manager John Anderson keeps saying, and he's right. They finished 1-2 in their annual Dairy Queen Classic, their only win over Northwestern, who for some reason is playing in this supposedly non-conference tournament even though they'll play the Gophers in Big Ten play. The Gophs they defeated St. Thomas, my brother's alma mater, but they needed a dozen innings to do it.
How weird is it that the main tenant at the Metrodome, once the epicenter of the sports universe, when it hosted the Super Bowl and Final Four, currently is the Minnesota baseball program? Anyhoo, they follow up their annual DQ Classic with their annual, non-sponsored Metrodome Tournament. They'll play Harvard and South Dakota St., but hopefully I'll get there Saturday to see them play Creighton.
#-4: Gopher women's hockey (Last Week: -4). The program's days of being the only major program in the WCHA are over. UMD, the higher seed, buried that notion forever with their 3-2 win over the U. on the Gophs' home ice in the Final Faceoff Final Saturday afternoon. It's a sad day indeed. At least the spread of good players hasn't meant a complete collapse; they were safely in the NCAA Tournament, placed as the 3-seed and given a home game against Clarkson this Saturday. Win that, and once again they're in the Frozen Four -- and this one will be played at Ridder. But what happens if they face the Bulldogs again?
Also, congratulations to Noora Räty; the Gopher netminder has been named one of three finalists for the Patty Kazmaier Trophy, given to the best player in women's college hockey. Doubt she'll win, however; the award will probably go to Vicki Bendus, the forward from the best team in the country, Mercyhurst. It might be because Bendus is a junior while Räty is only a freshman. It might also be because, even though Räty was the only goaltender between the pipes for Team Finland in the Winter Olympics, she dropped 11 goals to both the Canadians and Americans.
#-5: Gopher men's hockey (Last Week: -5). For only the third time in the past 11 years -- but for the second season in a row -- the male skaters will play their first-round conference tournament series on the road. That's due to their embarrassing 3-2 loss to Wisconsin in a special game at Target Center Friday. Apologists will point to their 6-1 win Sunday afternoon back at Mariucci that they're coming into postseason play on a high note, but so what? It was fucking Senior Day; the Badgers laid down so the home team could look good.
So the Gophs finish as the seventh team in the WCHA and now have to win two out of three games at hated rival North Dakota this weekend. Then they have to win the whole damn tournament to get to the NCAA Tournament. In other words, fuck and no. The boys' state high school hockey tournament is at the X this weekend; Xcel's also hosting regional games for the NCAAs. I'm hearing a lot of talk that the best players on the teams making it to state will go to the U. If the program continues to recruit so many good goddamn blue-chippers, why is this team fucking sucking?
#-6: Timberwolves (Last Week: -8). And yet for all the putridity going on at the U., all of the teams, every single program, had a better week than either pro team currently playing. I'm putting the Woofie Dogs as the penultimate team only because they played one less game, and therefore lost one less loss. They had a three-game homestand and went down in defeat in every single one. I was at the game Wednesday against Denver. They looked pretty good through the midpoint of the third quarter, but they turned it on after that. The Wolves got sloppy, J.R. Smith went nuts from behind the line and on that sick 360 alley-oop, and once the Nuggets were in control the home team packed it in. They have now lost seven in a row. They are by far the worst team in the West and the team with the second-worst record overall. Which means they'll pick fifth in this year's draft. And somehow fuck it up by drafting a guard.
This week: They finish up their homestand by completing their hosting of the Texas teams bylosing to playing San Antonio Friday, then going on the road against Sacramento, Phoenix and Utah.
#-7: Wild (Last Week: -3). This team shut down with their loss to Atlanta before the Olympic Break, but they really, really shut it down after their 0-4 pissaway for the week. Oh, sure, two of the losses were in a shootout, but after the loss to Edmonton Friday they gave up. Disgusting losses vs. Calgary (5-2) and at Detroit (5-1) sandwich the worst of the four losses, a shootout loss to the should-be-folded Florida Panthers wherein they blew a 2-0 lead. They had a third of the shots the Panthers got. Some offense there, guys.
They too have four games to play for the week. My friend invited me to see them host St. Louis. It'd be great. I wanted to see the Blues when I was vacationing in St. Louis but couldn't because I was going during the break. Plus, one of their best players went to my high school. But dude, it's Selection Sunday! They'll announce the field just as the game starts!! And right now I'd rather eat my own shit than see the Wild!!!
They face Michigan St. Friday; they will probably lose, and even a win won't put them into the Big Dance, according to all the bracketologists out there. But if you're a college basketball junkie this time of year, you know that there was a lot of carnage that happened on Thursday. Several bubble teams from the Big East and Conference USA lost, which might open the door for the Gophers to back into the NCAAs. But a defeat of the Spartans would strengthen that possibility. The final, by the way, is Sunday afternoon, the last conference title game to be played, which should end just after they begin announcing the field. Way to really fuck with the committee, guys.
#-2: Wrestling (Last Week: -2). Look, it is better to be 2nd than dead last, and this year's finish is a hell of a lot better than last year's 5th-place flameout. But they lost to Big Ten champion (and presumptive national favorite) Iowa by 37 fucking points. 37! They could finish third in next week's NCAA Tournament and be nowhere near the top spot. That's why I'm so underwhelmed by this team, that and the fact that I still remember their three national belts from the previous decade. Oh well. At least they have nine wrestlings going into the tourney, led by Big Ten Wrestler Of The Year (and 26-0) Jayson Ness at 133 pounds.
#-3: Gopher baseball (Last Week: -7). This is a young team, Manager John Anderson keeps saying, and he's right. They finished 1-2 in their annual Dairy Queen Classic, their only win over Northwestern, who for some reason is playing in this supposedly non-conference tournament even though they'll play the Gophers in Big Ten play. The Gophs they defeated St. Thomas, my brother's alma mater, but they needed a dozen innings to do it.
How weird is it that the main tenant at the Metrodome, once the epicenter of the sports universe, when it hosted the Super Bowl and Final Four, currently is the Minnesota baseball program? Anyhoo, they follow up their annual DQ Classic with their annual, non-sponsored Metrodome Tournament. They'll play Harvard and South Dakota St., but hopefully I'll get there Saturday to see them play Creighton.
#-4: Gopher women's hockey (Last Week: -4). The program's days of being the only major program in the WCHA are over. UMD, the higher seed, buried that notion forever with their 3-2 win over the U. on the Gophs' home ice in the Final Faceoff Final Saturday afternoon. It's a sad day indeed. At least the spread of good players hasn't meant a complete collapse; they were safely in the NCAA Tournament, placed as the 3-seed and given a home game against Clarkson this Saturday. Win that, and once again they're in the Frozen Four -- and this one will be played at Ridder. But what happens if they face the Bulldogs again?
Also, congratulations to Noora Räty; the Gopher netminder has been named one of three finalists for the Patty Kazmaier Trophy, given to the best player in women's college hockey. Doubt she'll win, however; the award will probably go to Vicki Bendus, the forward from the best team in the country, Mercyhurst. It might be because Bendus is a junior while Räty is only a freshman. It might also be because, even though Räty was the only goaltender between the pipes for Team Finland in the Winter Olympics, she dropped 11 goals to both the Canadians and Americans.
#-5: Gopher men's hockey (Last Week: -5). For only the third time in the past 11 years -- but for the second season in a row -- the male skaters will play their first-round conference tournament series on the road. That's due to their embarrassing 3-2 loss to Wisconsin in a special game at Target Center Friday. Apologists will point to their 6-1 win Sunday afternoon back at Mariucci that they're coming into postseason play on a high note, but so what? It was fucking Senior Day; the Badgers laid down so the home team could look good.
So the Gophs finish as the seventh team in the WCHA and now have to win two out of three games at hated rival North Dakota this weekend. Then they have to win the whole damn tournament to get to the NCAA Tournament. In other words, fuck and no. The boys' state high school hockey tournament is at the X this weekend; Xcel's also hosting regional games for the NCAAs. I'm hearing a lot of talk that the best players on the teams making it to state will go to the U. If the program continues to recruit so many good goddamn blue-chippers, why is this team fucking sucking?
#-6: Timberwolves (Last Week: -8). And yet for all the putridity going on at the U., all of the teams, every single program, had a better week than either pro team currently playing. I'm putting the Woofie Dogs as the penultimate team only because they played one less game, and therefore lost one less loss. They had a three-game homestand and went down in defeat in every single one. I was at the game Wednesday against Denver. They looked pretty good through the midpoint of the third quarter, but they turned it on after that. The Wolves got sloppy, J.R. Smith went nuts from behind the line and on that sick 360 alley-oop, and once the Nuggets were in control the home team packed it in. They have now lost seven in a row. They are by far the worst team in the West and the team with the second-worst record overall. Which means they'll pick fifth in this year's draft. And somehow fuck it up by drafting a guard.
This week: They finish up their homestand by completing their hosting of the Texas teams by
#-7: Wild (Last Week: -3). This team shut down with their loss to Atlanta before the Olympic Break, but they really, really shut it down after their 0-4 pissaway for the week. Oh, sure, two of the losses were in a shootout, but after the loss to Edmonton Friday they gave up. Disgusting losses vs. Calgary (5-2) and at Detroit (5-1) sandwich the worst of the four losses, a shootout loss to the should-be-folded Florida Panthers wherein they blew a 2-0 lead. They had a third of the shots the Panthers got. Some offense there, guys.
They too have four games to play for the week. My friend invited me to see them host St. Louis. It'd be great. I wanted to see the Blues when I was vacationing in St. Louis but couldn't because I was going during the break. Plus, one of their best players went to my high school. But dude, it's Selection Sunday! They'll announce the field just as the game starts!! And right now I'd rather eat my own shit than see the Wild!!!
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Can I Talk About Two More Things That Are Pissing Me Off?
In the middle of regaling you with My Worst Day Ever yesterday, I forgot another stupid thing that astounded me. While dinkin' around on my computer at the coffeehouse (the one where I fielded the phone call from the insurance company) I wanted to check my phone bill. Last week I texted and was texted a lot of times for this job I got, and since I don't have a plan, I wanted to see how much more money above my usual monthly bill I would have to pay for them.
Well, the first thing that pissed me off about T-Mobile is that the period just ended the day after my job was done on Saturday. For some reason it just seems like that's the worse time for the period to cut off, just after I have this huge extra expense on my phone service, like of course that's when the cycle's over, thanks, God!
But the main thing that pisses me off, and still does, is that I can't find a record of last month's phone bill anywhere on the site -- not the bill for the month that was sent to me last, but the just completed phone bill, the one whose cycle ended back on Sunday. Obviously I don't have that bill in front of me, so I wanted to check it online. That information is nowhere to be seen, anywhere. Nowhere! I have records of the previous month's bill, how much I paid for it, how I paid for it, and the calls I made and received, line by line. Shit, I have that for the 11 bills before then. But goddammit, not last month's bill, the one I need to fucking know about, the one goddamn bill that only matters to someone who wants to know how much he's about to pay!!!
Seriously, how is that so goddamn motherfucking hard to do? So the cycle ended; just show me how much I have to pay for last month before you send you me the paper bill. What's the hangup? And it has to be a month where I'll pay a hell of a lot more than I usually do, and by some goddamn coincidence I can't find out by how much!! It's like T-Mobile is trying to keep it a secret from me so they can really stick it to me good when the time comes. Fuck you, T-Mobile, why are you doing this to me?
---
The other pissing me off: After coming home from the Wolves game I see three bags on the landing. One of the bags is garbage. The other two are filled with papers from My Fucking Father's computer room. Most of it is my brother's old car stereo magazines. The others, though, are way more important. There were a couple Doctor Who books we bought a long time ago, some of my brother's old high school notebooks and bluebooks, and some envelopes.
That's the thing I really hate about that bastard right now: There is no peace at home with him cleaning stuff away. I have no idea why he just can't leave shit lie. It's like he's about to die with the way he keeps moving old papers and still-usuable items out of the house. What's the fucking matter with him?
So I mutter "Goddamn ..." take out the envelopes from one bag, and bring up the other bag up to the dining room so I can sift through them. I took out the Doctor Who books and, in an odd fit of sentimentality, saved some of my brother's papers and notebooks. I don't know why I did, and I probably will never look through them ever again. But I think it's important to keep them around and not get them recycled. It's a part of his past that should be preserved, even if it's locked away, out of sight and mind, for the rest of his life, and mine. I don't think that makes me a bad guy.
Now I think My Fucking Father's going to retaliate by throwing all my stuff away.
Well, the first thing that pissed me off about T-Mobile is that the period just ended the day after my job was done on Saturday. For some reason it just seems like that's the worse time for the period to cut off, just after I have this huge extra expense on my phone service, like of course that's when the cycle's over, thanks, God!
But the main thing that pisses me off, and still does, is that I can't find a record of last month's phone bill anywhere on the site -- not the bill for the month that was sent to me last, but the just completed phone bill, the one whose cycle ended back on Sunday. Obviously I don't have that bill in front of me, so I wanted to check it online. That information is nowhere to be seen, anywhere. Nowhere! I have records of the previous month's bill, how much I paid for it, how I paid for it, and the calls I made and received, line by line. Shit, I have that for the 11 bills before then. But goddammit, not last month's bill, the one I need to fucking know about, the one goddamn bill that only matters to someone who wants to know how much he's about to pay!!!
Seriously, how is that so goddamn motherfucking hard to do? So the cycle ended; just show me how much I have to pay for last month before you send you me the paper bill. What's the hangup? And it has to be a month where I'll pay a hell of a lot more than I usually do, and by some goddamn coincidence I can't find out by how much!! It's like T-Mobile is trying to keep it a secret from me so they can really stick it to me good when the time comes. Fuck you, T-Mobile, why are you doing this to me?
---
The other pissing me off: After coming home from the Wolves game I see three bags on the landing. One of the bags is garbage. The other two are filled with papers from My Fucking Father's computer room. Most of it is my brother's old car stereo magazines. The others, though, are way more important. There were a couple Doctor Who books we bought a long time ago, some of my brother's old high school notebooks and bluebooks, and some envelopes.
That's the thing I really hate about that bastard right now: There is no peace at home with him cleaning stuff away. I have no idea why he just can't leave shit lie. It's like he's about to die with the way he keeps moving old papers and still-usuable items out of the house. What's the fucking matter with him?
So I mutter "Goddamn ..." take out the envelopes from one bag, and bring up the other bag up to the dining room so I can sift through them. I took out the Doctor Who books and, in an odd fit of sentimentality, saved some of my brother's papers and notebooks. I don't know why I did, and I probably will never look through them ever again. But I think it's important to keep them around and not get them recycled. It's a part of his past that should be preserved, even if it's locked away, out of sight and mind, for the rest of his life, and mine. I don't think that makes me a bad guy.
Now I think My Fucking Father's going to retaliate by throwing all my stuff away.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
I have to remind myself that whatever bullshit you're going through, tomorrow is a new day. And it is -- sort of.
Good news was I woke up by my alarm, which meant I didn't get up early today. Bad news was I did have to get to "work." Good news I can earn money today, money that I need. Bad news is I was late, again, despite the fact that I decided not to have lunch partly so I can get to "work" on time. I wound up 10-5 minutes, like I usually am.
Good news is the U. was crawling with hot chicks. Hot chicks always makes me feel better. Bad news is I am not at the library, where I just tried to copy one rebate form for My Fucking Father and I copied out a blank page. Seems like they can't read an original if one of the lead corners is torn off, but I hit the "print" button again and it wouldn't feed. I needed that dime. I thought about demanding change from the helpdesk, but I don't want things to get ugly if he or she says no.
Fuck my life.
Good news was I woke up by my alarm, which meant I didn't get up early today. Bad news was I did have to get to "work." Good news I can earn money today, money that I need. Bad news is I was late, again, despite the fact that I decided not to have lunch partly so I can get to "work" on time. I wound up 10-5 minutes, like I usually am.
Good news is the U. was crawling with hot chicks. Hot chicks always makes me feel better. Bad news is I am not at the library, where I just tried to copy one rebate form for My Fucking Father and I copied out a blank page. Seems like they can't read an original if one of the lead corners is torn off, but I hit the "print" button again and it wouldn't feed. I needed that dime. I thought about demanding change from the helpdesk, but I don't want things to get ugly if he or she says no.
Fuck my life.
Today Was The Worst Fucking Day Of My Life
It was a cloudy day today. I love cloudy days. Sure, I need the sun as much as other people, and there have been times when it wouldn't be out for a week and I'd go mad. But sometimes the sun is so hot as to be oppressive. The clouds, to me, oftentimes represent a security blanket for me as I drive around. It's not only cooler with no sun, but nothing gives me glare that blinds me. Maybe that's why I love overcast skies. So when I was driving around today doing errands, I actually felt kind of good.
But then I actually went through my day.
I first went to my friend's house. He's kind of in bad shape; a couple weeks ago he fell down and fractured his right arm. Since his job is typing and answering phones and generally using his arms, he's out of work for the next month. I'm worried for his money flow and his job. He gave me tickets to the next two Wolves games we planned on going to together. If I can't find somebody, hopefully I can scalp his.
I had to go over to AAA headquarters for help in figuring out how to fill out the claim form I received yesterday. But before I did that, I decided I needed a little pick-me-up. I debated about calling Amber after I was done, but I thought that if I could talk to her beforehand and clear everything up -- or, even better, if she said she was turned on by me cock -- I would feel better going into AAA. Instead, I got her voicemail, and I'm afraid I rambled on and on about being sorry if she was offended. I invited her to call me back; hope she does. But maybe she saw my name and has decided to ignore me. Maybe she told?
I like clouds but I don't like rain, and it was starting to come down hard when I walked across the parking lot without a hat on into AAA. I was greeted by someone who thought my last name was my first. Then she told me she was having trouble finding my policy. When she looked at my card she figured it out: My policy isn't with AAA ... even though the AAA logo is on the insurance policy. Something about the ... oh, I don't fucking know what she meant, bottom line is these guys don't have my insurance.
But I needed to bitch to someone anyway, so I told her my plight. I hold up the claim form. "Does this mean I'm screwed?"
"Probably," she said.
Fuck. I am running out of money as it is now, but this just about kills me. I was afraid of this: the rental car company gouging me through the nose for damage and taking advantage of every single word in the fine print to wring more money out of my checking account. They're just scuff marks, for fuck's sake!!! You can probably drive it around now!!!
I should've stayed quiet. I should've stayed quiet! Why did I think I had to announce this to them? They might not have noticed, and I could be home, scott free towels, but now I have to fill this out and wait for them to fuck me in the ass. And it's Alamo, too! I use these guys all the time while I'm down in St. Louis! Now I can't use them anymore because they fucked with me.
The insurance agent who was not my insurance agent did give me some advice. There is a lot of danger in filing a claim because you will all your discounts and be painted as someone unreliable. There's another thing that I didn't realize until I went through this meeting: I told my parents, whose names head my policy, that I wasn't renting a car in the Loo. (I always seem to remember things only when I'm about to do something serious that requires me to focus. That's when this fog I subconsciously bring down on me lifts; I literally stop forgetting. It's been that way ever since I was young.) Now it's clear: Under no circumstances can I put a claim on this because my parents will find out. But now I'm afraid that the amount I'm quoting for buffing out scuff marks on a Bug -- come on, it's just godddamn scuff marks!!! -- makes that decision untenable.
Called Alamo; they don't have the estimate yet. Hey, maybe they don't care. God, why am I trying to fool myself?
Got a voicemail. Hey, it's Amber? No, it's not! It's even worse than Amber yelling at me, telling me my dick is small even for an Asian man, and threatening to tell everyone what I did and ordering her regulars to kick my ass. It's my boss at the personal care agency, you know, the one job I actually have. My PCA hours, which were cut almost in half by the nurse assessing my Grandmother, was sent to the insurance company -- which halved them again. If this stands, the hours I get paid for taking care of my Grandmother will be cut by 70%. Ah, fuck no.
She told me to call the insurance agency (I want to name it but I do not want to piss them off) and appeal; after she gave me a non-working number and then the fax number -- idiot -- I left a message. That's when I realized that I had been stuck in my car, in the parking lot of AAA, a place where I thought my insurance was when it was actually a different AAA (huh?), in the middle of a rainstorm, making long calls that didn't resolve a single goddamn thing. I was playing office in my parked car for a half-hour. I guess I could be stuck in worse places, but I was very fucking unproductive.
Just to make sure I haven't lost all my bearings, I checked my day planner. Once again, now that I'm in motion of doing something, the veil of forgetfulness lifts. When I opened up my Franklin Quest, I had a suspicion I forgot something, and I did: my dental appointment, the one I had planned for a month. All the shit I've had to deal with ever since I came back -- the fucking phantom damage to the rental, my loss of a paycheck, My Fucking Father rearranging my room without fucking telling me -- I'm using all of them as excuses that I was too goddamn depressed to remember something I had scheduled four weeks ago. I called the U.; thank Buddha they don't charge for not cancelling in time, although they have a three-strikes-and-you're-out policy (specifically, you're barred from the dental department for a year if you do it three times). Fingers crossed that I'm not this suicidal April 12!
The insurance company returned my call while I was drinking coffee. While pleading my case that my PCA hours need to remain as high as they do now, the barista was grinding coffee and making small talk with the customers. Did she hear that? Is she thinking that, if I'm complaining so much about needing to take care of my Grandmother, I should be at home taking care of her instead of being at a coffeeshop? (My ready-made excuse: I'm off the clock, and when I left her she seemed OK.) Just my luck, she'll use that against me when she denies my appeal. At least this appeal means I'll be on our current number of hours -- no decrease in hours according to either the nurse or the insurance company -- until they rule. The person taking my appeal seemed nice, but ... she works for an insurance company. She's evil.
I'm fucking at the end of my rope. It's this claim that's over my head like the Sword of Damocles. I have to tighten my belt -- well, after I fill up my gas tank the next couple days; is it going to dip below $2.75 tomorrow? -- but the damages I'm not going to be able to wiggle out of is going to blow a permanent hole in whatever money I have left. It's like God is punishing me for something. I don't know for what, I don't think it's for exposing myself to strippers, and I don't know how I'm going to get out of this. I wish I could just stay in my bed and not spend money, but that's impossible with all the tournament games and committments I made to friends the rest of this month.
And where the hell is my tabs reminder? Goddamn you, Father.
---
So before dinner I go on facebook one more time. There's that guy from high school friending me. Like the other "frenemy," the one I eventually added, I have no fucking idea why he thinks I'm his friend. Unlike this other "frenemy" though, this guy owes me money. I don't remember since this was from high school, but it's between $30 and $50. It's part of a very elaborate NBA playoff pool he agreed to be a part of. I paid out to the winner but didn't get the losers to pay their share, and this fucking asshole was one of them.
Do I want to let bygones be bygones? You know, we were in high school. And maybe he forgot. Maybe this veil of forgetfulness troubles him too. In the end, however, I have to stand by my principles. Plus, I'm about to be broke. So if you walk into my life, be prepared to settle debts. Instead of confirming him, I told him he owed me thirty bucks. I'm an asshole, but I goddamn I will not be pushed around. Not now.
So let's see what he's said on my facebook. ... OK, he doesn't remember, but he's not being a dick about it. He wanted me to explain.
I hope this doesn't get ugly. I just didn't want to give in again.
But then I actually went through my day.
I first went to my friend's house. He's kind of in bad shape; a couple weeks ago he fell down and fractured his right arm. Since his job is typing and answering phones and generally using his arms, he's out of work for the next month. I'm worried for his money flow and his job. He gave me tickets to the next two Wolves games we planned on going to together. If I can't find somebody, hopefully I can scalp his.
I had to go over to AAA headquarters for help in figuring out how to fill out the claim form I received yesterday. But before I did that, I decided I needed a little pick-me-up. I debated about calling Amber after I was done, but I thought that if I could talk to her beforehand and clear everything up -- or, even better, if she said she was turned on by me cock -- I would feel better going into AAA. Instead, I got her voicemail, and I'm afraid I rambled on and on about being sorry if she was offended. I invited her to call me back; hope she does. But maybe she saw my name and has decided to ignore me. Maybe she told?
I like clouds but I don't like rain, and it was starting to come down hard when I walked across the parking lot without a hat on into AAA. I was greeted by someone who thought my last name was my first. Then she told me she was having trouble finding my policy. When she looked at my card she figured it out: My policy isn't with AAA ... even though the AAA logo is on the insurance policy. Something about the ... oh, I don't fucking know what she meant, bottom line is these guys don't have my insurance.
But I needed to bitch to someone anyway, so I told her my plight. I hold up the claim form. "Does this mean I'm screwed?"
"Probably," she said.
Fuck. I am running out of money as it is now, but this just about kills me. I was afraid of this: the rental car company gouging me through the nose for damage and taking advantage of every single word in the fine print to wring more money out of my checking account. They're just scuff marks, for fuck's sake!!! You can probably drive it around now!!!
I should've stayed quiet. I should've stayed quiet! Why did I think I had to announce this to them? They might not have noticed, and I could be home, scott free towels, but now I have to fill this out and wait for them to fuck me in the ass. And it's Alamo, too! I use these guys all the time while I'm down in St. Louis! Now I can't use them anymore because they fucked with me.
The insurance agent who was not my insurance agent did give me some advice. There is a lot of danger in filing a claim because you will all your discounts and be painted as someone unreliable. There's another thing that I didn't realize until I went through this meeting: I told my parents, whose names head my policy, that I wasn't renting a car in the Loo. (I always seem to remember things only when I'm about to do something serious that requires me to focus. That's when this fog I subconsciously bring down on me lifts; I literally stop forgetting. It's been that way ever since I was young.) Now it's clear: Under no circumstances can I put a claim on this because my parents will find out. But now I'm afraid that the amount I'm quoting for buffing out scuff marks on a Bug -- come on, it's just godddamn scuff marks!!! -- makes that decision untenable.
Called Alamo; they don't have the estimate yet. Hey, maybe they don't care. God, why am I trying to fool myself?
Got a voicemail. Hey, it's Amber? No, it's not! It's even worse than Amber yelling at me, telling me my dick is small even for an Asian man, and threatening to tell everyone what I did and ordering her regulars to kick my ass. It's my boss at the personal care agency, you know, the one job I actually have. My PCA hours, which were cut almost in half by the nurse assessing my Grandmother, was sent to the insurance company -- which halved them again. If this stands, the hours I get paid for taking care of my Grandmother will be cut by 70%. Ah, fuck no.
She told me to call the insurance agency (I want to name it but I do not want to piss them off) and appeal; after she gave me a non-working number and then the fax number -- idiot -- I left a message. That's when I realized that I had been stuck in my car, in the parking lot of AAA, a place where I thought my insurance was when it was actually a different AAA (huh?), in the middle of a rainstorm, making long calls that didn't resolve a single goddamn thing. I was playing office in my parked car for a half-hour. I guess I could be stuck in worse places, but I was very fucking unproductive.
Just to make sure I haven't lost all my bearings, I checked my day planner. Once again, now that I'm in motion of doing something, the veil of forgetfulness lifts. When I opened up my Franklin Quest, I had a suspicion I forgot something, and I did: my dental appointment, the one I had planned for a month. All the shit I've had to deal with ever since I came back -- the fucking phantom damage to the rental, my loss of a paycheck, My Fucking Father rearranging my room without fucking telling me -- I'm using all of them as excuses that I was too goddamn depressed to remember something I had scheduled four weeks ago. I called the U.; thank Buddha they don't charge for not cancelling in time, although they have a three-strikes-and-you're-out policy (specifically, you're barred from the dental department for a year if you do it three times). Fingers crossed that I'm not this suicidal April 12!
The insurance company returned my call while I was drinking coffee. While pleading my case that my PCA hours need to remain as high as they do now, the barista was grinding coffee and making small talk with the customers. Did she hear that? Is she thinking that, if I'm complaining so much about needing to take care of my Grandmother, I should be at home taking care of her instead of being at a coffeeshop? (My ready-made excuse: I'm off the clock, and when I left her she seemed OK.) Just my luck, she'll use that against me when she denies my appeal. At least this appeal means I'll be on our current number of hours -- no decrease in hours according to either the nurse or the insurance company -- until they rule. The person taking my appeal seemed nice, but ... she works for an insurance company. She's evil.
I'm fucking at the end of my rope. It's this claim that's over my head like the Sword of Damocles. I have to tighten my belt -- well, after I fill up my gas tank the next couple days; is it going to dip below $2.75 tomorrow? -- but the damages I'm not going to be able to wiggle out of is going to blow a permanent hole in whatever money I have left. It's like God is punishing me for something. I don't know for what, I don't think it's for exposing myself to strippers, and I don't know how I'm going to get out of this. I wish I could just stay in my bed and not spend money, but that's impossible with all the tournament games and committments I made to friends the rest of this month.
And where the hell is my tabs reminder? Goddamn you, Father.
---
So before dinner I go on facebook one more time. There's that guy from high school friending me. Like the other "frenemy," the one I eventually added, I have no fucking idea why he thinks I'm his friend. Unlike this other "frenemy" though, this guy owes me money. I don't remember since this was from high school, but it's between $30 and $50. It's part of a very elaborate NBA playoff pool he agreed to be a part of. I paid out to the winner but didn't get the losers to pay their share, and this fucking asshole was one of them.
Do I want to let bygones be bygones? You know, we were in high school. And maybe he forgot. Maybe this veil of forgetfulness troubles him too. In the end, however, I have to stand by my principles. Plus, I'm about to be broke. So if you walk into my life, be prepared to settle debts. Instead of confirming him, I told him he owed me thirty bucks. I'm an asshole, but I goddamn I will not be pushed around. Not now.
So let's see what he's said on my facebook. ... OK, he doesn't remember, but he's not being a dick about it. He wanted me to explain.
I hope this doesn't get ugly. I just didn't want to give in again.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Update: OK, So Here's What Happened
Got out of the gym 45 minutes later than I planned because the Southern Conference Championship Game became much tighter. Should've changed before the game was over; the lobby TV just after the front door is reachable, so I could have changed its channels and been out of there earlier.
The one thing that would've convinced me to not go to the house party happened ... sort of. In the mail today I got a claim form from the rental company. Now, I don't really know the vagaries of car insurance, but this tells me that I will be held responsible for the cosmetic damage to the rental I had in St. Louis, despite the fact that I don't know what happened, or how it happened, or even when it happened, or even if it happened while I had it. I'll need to go to my insurance agent to help me fill this out; hope I don't crash along the way. Maybe I should just ignore this. Actually, what I should have done is just not report it to the rental agency. Add another thing to my list of bills.
Called Amber. There was a lot of music playing in the background. Shoot, it wasn't going to be a flop of a party where only she and another stripper's going to be there so I can freely whip it out? I took out $100 just in case, but I quickly extinguished the flights of fancy in my head that caused my heart to race wildly before working out. Still, I could've just said I couldn't come, but I was really horny tonight, so despite my impending deductible, I went anyway.
It wasn't far, thank goodness. The party was at a cul-de-sac. The path to this community was replete with condos that look completely alike, and instead of names the signposts just list the number range that go down each dead end. These new developments are weird.
I wanted to park at the garage of the condo across the way, but I didn't need more car trouble, so I parked outside the cul-de-sac. I didn't want to wake anybody up, so I called inside and a guy opened the door for me. Nice guy, but damn, I wish he weren't there.
The condo's a nice place -- well, except for all the men there. It was dark, but the living room was lit with the visual montages accompanying the songs playing on the cable radio channels. That served as the jukebox and DJ for the dancers giving lapdances in the living room. Everybody else (and there were about four girls and a dozen customers) were in the dining room and kitchen, hanging out, eating pizza and smoking.
Amber greeted me in a small blue bikini. It was loud and she's sometimes incomprehensible, so I decided right then and there that my visit was going to be short, quick and cheap. I didn't want to be rude, however, so I asked her for one dance.
She was lovely and understanding. I could get away with a lot more here than at the strip club, obviously, but I just wish it were me and her, one-on-one. Or maybe her and another girl. Or all four girls and me, just the five of us. Anyway, there's more contact with hand and mouth, but for a guy who gets around like me, I've gotten much hotter.
Still, I was more jacked up than I was before the evening began, and I felt emboldened to at least get some rise out of Amber for my own selfish obsessions. So after I was done with my one dance I tricked her into escorting me down to the foyer on my way out. With us at a lower level and mingling with their custy or fellow pathetic loser, we were all alone, no prying eyes espying me leaving. Which meant that after I gave her my $20, I said, "Forgive me," and unbuttoned myself. It was really dark, so I had to look down to make her look down. She kind of bolted up the stairs and said, "I won't tell." She didn't seem upset, so I'll take her at her word. But just in case she immediately told someone at the party, I ran to my car and drove off, a mere 15 minutes after I arrived.
Remembering me showing Amber how I feel, I was able to touch myself to orgasm. Ah! But as so often happens, as soon as my urge passes I start to feel completely unhorny, and even concerned. Now I feel like I should call her and apologize, just to make sure she isn't traumatized or anything. Of course, if she's cool with it, maybe I can show her again!
Verdict: Mixed. When I have more money, I'll try again.
The one thing that would've convinced me to not go to the house party happened ... sort of. In the mail today I got a claim form from the rental company. Now, I don't really know the vagaries of car insurance, but this tells me that I will be held responsible for the cosmetic damage to the rental I had in St. Louis, despite the fact that I don't know what happened, or how it happened, or even when it happened, or even if it happened while I had it. I'll need to go to my insurance agent to help me fill this out; hope I don't crash along the way. Maybe I should just ignore this. Actually, what I should have done is just not report it to the rental agency. Add another thing to my list of bills.
Called Amber. There was a lot of music playing in the background. Shoot, it wasn't going to be a flop of a party where only she and another stripper's going to be there so I can freely whip it out? I took out $100 just in case, but I quickly extinguished the flights of fancy in my head that caused my heart to race wildly before working out. Still, I could've just said I couldn't come, but I was really horny tonight, so despite my impending deductible, I went anyway.
It wasn't far, thank goodness. The party was at a cul-de-sac. The path to this community was replete with condos that look completely alike, and instead of names the signposts just list the number range that go down each dead end. These new developments are weird.
I wanted to park at the garage of the condo across the way, but I didn't need more car trouble, so I parked outside the cul-de-sac. I didn't want to wake anybody up, so I called inside and a guy opened the door for me. Nice guy, but damn, I wish he weren't there.
The condo's a nice place -- well, except for all the men there. It was dark, but the living room was lit with the visual montages accompanying the songs playing on the cable radio channels. That served as the jukebox and DJ for the dancers giving lapdances in the living room. Everybody else (and there were about four girls and a dozen customers) were in the dining room and kitchen, hanging out, eating pizza and smoking.
Amber greeted me in a small blue bikini. It was loud and she's sometimes incomprehensible, so I decided right then and there that my visit was going to be short, quick and cheap. I didn't want to be rude, however, so I asked her for one dance.
She was lovely and understanding. I could get away with a lot more here than at the strip club, obviously, but I just wish it were me and her, one-on-one. Or maybe her and another girl. Or all four girls and me, just the five of us. Anyway, there's more contact with hand and mouth, but for a guy who gets around like me, I've gotten much hotter.
Still, I was more jacked up than I was before the evening began, and I felt emboldened to at least get some rise out of Amber for my own selfish obsessions. So after I was done with my one dance I tricked her into escorting me down to the foyer on my way out. With us at a lower level and mingling with their custy or fellow pathetic loser, we were all alone, no prying eyes espying me leaving. Which meant that after I gave her my $20, I said, "Forgive me," and unbuttoned myself. It was really dark, so I had to look down to make her look down. She kind of bolted up the stairs and said, "I won't tell." She didn't seem upset, so I'll take her at her word. But just in case she immediately told someone at the party, I ran to my car and drove off, a mere 15 minutes after I arrived.
Remembering me showing Amber how I feel, I was able to touch myself to orgasm. Ah! But as so often happens, as soon as my urge passes I start to feel completely unhorny, and even concerned. Now I feel like I should call her and apologize, just to make sure she isn't traumatized or anything. Of course, if she's cool with it, maybe I can show her again!
Verdict: Mixed. When I have more money, I'll try again.
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