The latest silver bullet -- and the thing I need to turn my mood from upset to happy in an instant, like cocaine -- is this fix-it patch. Maybe what I'm dealing with is a Vista problem, and this patch is supposed to reconcile the DHCP ... oh, I don't fuckin' know, I just did, and now it works.
However ... while I am so fucking overjoyed that my laptop is connected to the Internet and I could all the surfing I need to do, I'm still holding my breath that this is not over. First of all, there's the home network I have to deal with. I tried to mess with it today before going out with my friend to the horsetrack. As has been the pattern, the modem is completely on the blink all night but OK during the day. Inbetween catching up on my Internet stuff, I looked and saw that my parents' desktop didn't say it was on our home network, but instead some generic-named public network. Neither of my parents didn't seem to notice because they could just get on. But when I looked for our network, I didn't see it listed. What scares me is that this systemic collapse of the home network is due not to just one but more than one problem. I hope to God my laptop's now good, but this has nothing to do with the desktop or the modem.
The other thing is something I just realized. How could I download this patch if I wasn't able to connect to the Internet in the first place? I was able to connect a minute prior to downloading the patch, somehow. Well, if I could connect, why would I need the patch? And if the patch fixed the problem for which it was intended, isn't it possible I have a different problem? In fact, who's to say that if I try this, say, at another coffeeshop, or even at home, it'd go back to not working again?
Fuck.
Stay tuned.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Friday, July 30, 2010
The Weekly Minnesota Sports Survey
#-1: Twins (Last Week: -1). That's more like it. This team, one with the talent to contend and even steal a World Series from the Yanks, responded to their 3-2 loss to Baltimore by ripping off five in a row, capped off with a dominating road sweep of hapless Kansas City. They have scored 53 runs during their winning streak, including 10, 19, and 11 in the sandwich three games, the first time they've scored in double digits thrice in a row since 1967.
And put me down as liking the trade for Matt Capps. Disregarding the inevitable truth that Major League Baseball is a business. The point is to win, right? Joe Nathan ain't walkin' through those doors. And Jon Rauch and his scary-ass neck tattoo wasn't getting it done. The Twinkies are locked into a huge battle in the A.L. Central with the White Sox and Detroit. What do you do? Trade for a closer, duh! And yeah, the team had to trade Wilson Ramos, who's poised to be a star player in the big leagues. It just so happens that we can't use this blue-chip stud because we already have an awesome catcher in front of him, Joe Mauer, who just might be the best player in the game right now.
Do we reject this trade because of value -- in other words, do the Twinks say no because they're giving up an almost can't-miss prospect for a guy who plays a position that many sabrematricians insist is a-dime-a-dozen? Fuck no! Why the fuck did we build these people a stadium for -- to not make moves before the deadline to prove they're pussies when it comes to competing?? I believe that sometimes you overpay in a trade to get what you want. This is one of those times, and it's perfectly acceptable. If Rauch can get back to first-half form by teaming up with Matt Guerrier as eighth-inning set-up men, then this is a good trade designed to help get this team closer to a title. (Of course, if Matt Capps is nothing like what he was with the Bastard Montreal Expos and keeps blowing saves just like Rauch did, then it's a bad trade. That's how evaluating trades works.)
This week they finish the softest part of their schedule with a three-game series versus Seattle at Republican-loving Target Field. They then go back into the shit by playing a workweek foursome at Tampa Bay.
#-2: Lynx (Last Week: -2). Went to see the Jynx play the L.A. Farmers Tuesday night -- what a fuckin' mistake. These guys, they can't do anything, especially shoot. Twenty-six percent from the field??? Their 13-point loss capped their season-longest homestand, a stretch where they really could have made hay, at 2-4. With their 18-point defeat at Phoenix last (Thursday) night, they have now lost five in a row, and they have now slipped below L.A. for the fourth and final playoff spot in the Western Conference. The only highlight this week: The Saturday night loss to the LifeLock was the highest-scoring contest in WNBA history, 127-124 in double OT. They can put that in the Wikipedia after the Jinks are folded after this season.
They do have another three-game homestand that starts Sunday against the juggernaut Seattle Bing and continues vs. Connecticut Tuesday.
#-3: Gopher men's hockey (Re-Entry!). And the talent drain continues this week. Nick Leddy decided to go pro and sign with the Stanley Cup champion Chicago Blackhawks, and Josh Birkholz, who was about to be suspended for drugs, quit the team and signed with some minor league outfit in Seattle. This is almost getting to be a goddamn joke.
And put me down as liking the trade for Matt Capps. Disregarding the inevitable truth that Major League Baseball is a business. The point is to win, right? Joe Nathan ain't walkin' through those doors. And Jon Rauch and his scary-ass neck tattoo wasn't getting it done. The Twinkies are locked into a huge battle in the A.L. Central with the White Sox and Detroit. What do you do? Trade for a closer, duh! And yeah, the team had to trade Wilson Ramos, who's poised to be a star player in the big leagues. It just so happens that we can't use this blue-chip stud because we already have an awesome catcher in front of him, Joe Mauer, who just might be the best player in the game right now.
Do we reject this trade because of value -- in other words, do the Twinks say no because they're giving up an almost can't-miss prospect for a guy who plays a position that many sabrematricians insist is a-dime-a-dozen? Fuck no! Why the fuck did we build these people a stadium for -- to not make moves before the deadline to prove they're pussies when it comes to competing?? I believe that sometimes you overpay in a trade to get what you want. This is one of those times, and it's perfectly acceptable. If Rauch can get back to first-half form by teaming up with Matt Guerrier as eighth-inning set-up men, then this is a good trade designed to help get this team closer to a title. (Of course, if Matt Capps is nothing like what he was with the Bastard Montreal Expos and keeps blowing saves just like Rauch did, then it's a bad trade. That's how evaluating trades works.)
This week they finish the softest part of their schedule with a three-game series versus Seattle at Republican-loving Target Field. They then go back into the shit by playing a workweek foursome at Tampa Bay.
#-2: Lynx (Last Week: -2). Went to see the Jynx play the L.A. Farmers Tuesday night -- what a fuckin' mistake. These guys, they can't do anything, especially shoot. Twenty-six percent from the field??? Their 13-point loss capped their season-longest homestand, a stretch where they really could have made hay, at 2-4. With their 18-point defeat at Phoenix last (Thursday) night, they have now lost five in a row, and they have now slipped below L.A. for the fourth and final playoff spot in the Western Conference. The only highlight this week: The Saturday night loss to the LifeLock was the highest-scoring contest in WNBA history, 127-124 in double OT. They can put that in the Wikipedia after the Jinks are folded after this season.
They do have another three-game homestand that starts Sunday against the juggernaut Seattle Bing and continues vs. Connecticut Tuesday.
#-3: Gopher men's hockey (Re-Entry!). And the talent drain continues this week. Nick Leddy decided to go pro and sign with the Stanley Cup champion Chicago Blackhawks, and Josh Birkholz, who was about to be suspended for drugs, quit the team and signed with some minor league outfit in Seattle. This is almost getting to be a goddamn joke.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Swear To Fuckin' God I'm Going To Kill Something That Has Something To Do With My Internet Connection
I'm thinking I'll take it out my laptop because it's the thing I use the most, but I can't use it at home because for some goddamn reason it and my modem aren't communicating. It's been this way since Sunday, and I don't know what the fuck happened to it.
The modem's been on the blink the past couple of weeks, but I figure it's because of the power in the house is being sapped to the air conditioning. But there hadn't been any issue from my laptop pinging with the modem. At all. Until this past weekend.
I've been on my parents' desktop trying to look for an answer. Shit, I brought the laptop down to put it up against the modem, and evenutally it works. But then I bring it back upstairs to my room, and the connection's all lost. That means there's some interference between it and the modem, but I don't know what it could be; the phone's been where it's always been, and there is no other device that's using the signal, at least I don't think.
That's why I'm pulling my fuckin' hair out figuring out what the fuck's going on. I need to use my computer at night, and now I fucking can't. What the hell's going on???
Gotta send this before it's too late.
The modem's been on the blink the past couple of weeks, but I figure it's because of the power in the house is being sapped to the air conditioning. But there hadn't been any issue from my laptop pinging with the modem. At all. Until this past weekend.
I've been on my parents' desktop trying to look for an answer. Shit, I brought the laptop down to put it up against the modem, and evenutally it works. But then I bring it back upstairs to my room, and the connection's all lost. That means there's some interference between it and the modem, but I don't know what it could be; the phone's been where it's always been, and there is no other device that's using the signal, at least I don't think.
That's why I'm pulling my fuckin' hair out figuring out what the fuck's going on. I need to use my computer at night, and now I fucking can't. What the hell's going on???
Gotta send this before it's too late.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
And Now I Forget My Laptop ... On The Front Stoop
Forgetting my keys in the trunk keyhole out in the middle of the street is bad enough. But this might be worse.
I had these orchestrated plans yesterday afternoon. I wanted to go to a Lynx game last night (don't even bother asking till the WMNSS later this week) and I had to go to "work" at the U. Although there was some time between them that I didn't really want to spend passing out in public, I decided to bring my laptop with me because it'd make no sense to drive back home and then downtown if I was going to be so close.
I also remembered to turn off the sprinkler in the backyard. So I opened the front door, put down my computer bag, went out to the back to turn off the sprinkler, come back, get in my car and drive off.
It took me until I popped open my trunk once I parked at "work" to realize that I didn't bring my laptop with me. For God's sake, it took me until I wanted to take my laptop to remember that I left it at the front stoop. With everyone able to see, and to take it.
What pisses me off and worries me so goddamn much is that I was telling myself as I was out the door, "Don't forget the laptop, don't forget the laptop ..." and that's exactly what I fuckin' do. I get into these phases sometimes, usually in the summer when it's hot and I lose all sense, where I misplace or outright lose things.
Thank Buddha I didn't move out of the house. On my way to the U. I called my Grandmother (who, luckily for me, had not gone to her dental appointment yet) and she was able to bring it back in. And since I think I needed to use my laptop after the game at least, I was forced to waste gas and money going back home, then going to the Lynx game. I had to make it worth my while, so I decided to turn on the air conditioning for my parents and take a nap. The nap, in particular, was awesome.
It takes me actually losing something before I finally pay enough attention and be careful of not forgetting things. I hope that doesn't happen to me now.
I had these orchestrated plans yesterday afternoon. I wanted to go to a Lynx game last night (don't even bother asking till the WMNSS later this week) and I had to go to "work" at the U. Although there was some time between them that I didn't really want to spend passing out in public, I decided to bring my laptop with me because it'd make no sense to drive back home and then downtown if I was going to be so close.
I also remembered to turn off the sprinkler in the backyard. So I opened the front door, put down my computer bag, went out to the back to turn off the sprinkler, come back, get in my car and drive off.
It took me until I popped open my trunk once I parked at "work" to realize that I didn't bring my laptop with me. For God's sake, it took me until I wanted to take my laptop to remember that I left it at the front stoop. With everyone able to see, and to take it.
What pisses me off and worries me so goddamn much is that I was telling myself as I was out the door, "Don't forget the laptop, don't forget the laptop ..." and that's exactly what I fuckin' do. I get into these phases sometimes, usually in the summer when it's hot and I lose all sense, where I misplace or outright lose things.
Thank Buddha I didn't move out of the house. On my way to the U. I called my Grandmother (who, luckily for me, had not gone to her dental appointment yet) and she was able to bring it back in. And since I think I needed to use my laptop after the game at least, I was forced to waste gas and money going back home, then going to the Lynx game. I had to make it worth my while, so I decided to turn on the air conditioning for my parents and take a nap. The nap, in particular, was awesome.
It takes me actually losing something before I finally pay enough attention and be careful of not forgetting things. I hope that doesn't happen to me now.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
I Vacillate Between Vindictiveness And Guilt
Have I said that before? Have I used that as a subject blog post before? Sorry, I may be repeated myself just 1 1/2 years after I started this.
Anyway, feeling defensive and sad most of the time takes a toll on your mind. Every day, especially as soon as my parents come home, is a mind game that I may be playing only with myself. But I just can't help the fact that I have to gird myself in case anything bad happens, because oftentimes it does. As I've said before, the anticipation about how my parents feel, in particular My Fucking Father, takes up a lot of my mental attention.
Take yesterday, for example. I wanted to grease any wheels that needed greasing by calling Mother and asking her is she needed anything from the grocer's (she wanted kiwis, which I got). I got home just after they did; in fact, they were getting out of their car when I drove up the driveway. As I was, and Mother was lifting a branch off one of the dead-looking flowers on the walkway, My Fucking Father looks at me. And I swear he gave me The Eye. That look, you know? That look that says, "Why do you haunt me? Why do you torment me by your presence? I have plans on turning your room into my gameroom -- why won't you move out?"
Why haven't I? Anyway, I'm in defensive mode. I assume, and I think correctly, that Father is in Vindictive Mode, so I have to keep my guard up. And such an approach was employed at the dinner table later that evening, when I told them that I won't be eating dinner Wednesday because I'm attending a Happy Hour. Mother asked, "Do you have to pay?" to which I say no, I don't think so. Then Father chimes in with a typically juvenile question: "Do they pay you?"
Now I know what he's thinking: Why don't you get a job? Actually, I do have a job, and to get My Fucking Father off my back I've told him I've got one. It is just two hours a day, three days a week, for ten bucks an hour, but it's still a job. I think I told him this, therefore his bitchy question wasn't warranted. Told him so with my tone, too; I said, "No. Why do you ask?" as I tilted my head to one side, the unspoken statement coming from which being, "Well that's a stupid thing to say." He didn't say anything afterward.
But then, to smooth things over, I drift downstairs to their computer, in case they need me to do anything. And sure enough, Father wanted me to do something, and without acting like an asshole while requesting it. He was confused about some form he needed yesterday, and I helped him open up the attachment and print it out. He's buying some property or something.
OK, so maybe the look and the question weren't intended to be as mean as I thought they were. But later, as I made them sign and initial the forms they needed to send back, Mother (who is a co-owner of this place) balked. I wanted to exercise, so I just left them alone to talk things out. I went to the bathroom and gathered my things, and as I get ready leave the house, I hear them arguing downstairs, then hear a door slam a couple times. OK, so maybe Father and Mother were being mean today. (Maybe not Mom, though; she didn't like that I wiped a rice bowl I got for her with the wrong towel. Instead of yelling at me, she just took the bowl and rinsed it herself. It'd be moments like that where I would be the one that would flip out, but this time, I just let it slide.)
Whatever, I get a good workout in and come back. I was in the mood for the apple juice that is just sitting in the downstairs refrigerator. All I wanted was some juice. I go downstairs, in the dark so as not to wake up the 'Rents past midnight, and get the juice. Again, I don't turn on the lights because they're sleeping and I've done this many times and I haven't run into anything in at least five years.
What I usually do to protect myself is to put my hand out in case I'm walking into a wall. I do that, hoping nothing will go wrong ... but then I push something over. And it shatters into what sounds like a million pieces.The measuring cup Mother drinks out of, goddammit!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
So now I have to turn on the lights and cause a commotion because of the mess I made. And I have to stay there until I clean it all up because my parents wake up frequently to piss and they're going to be walking on those bits of Pyrex.
I'm anticipating their rage when they open the door. It took them a couple minutes. Did they actually sleep through it? No, I figure, they're in a deep sleep and that crash was so loud it's taken them a couple minutes to figure out what the hell's going on, and once they realized it, and that I did it, I'm going to get it.
As I'm sweeping up the bits of fake glass, I finally hear the stirrings from their bedroom. Like I thought, My Father came out first. But instead of yelling at me for waking him up, he said, "Broke a glass, huh?"
Didn't say anything. For all shit I thought he was giving me tonight, I feel really awful about this. I'm such a klutz, and I just didn't want to bother anybody by what I did, and I ended up doing that and more. And all I wanted was some apple juice.
Well, either because he didn't think I did a good job or he actually wanted to help, he took the broom and started sweeping himself. Then Mother got up and pointed out that some of the glass got under their door and the door of the closet right next to it. Shit, man, this was everywhere. It took 10 minutes out of our lives, but I think everything's swept up. And thank God, they didn't give me any shit for breaking the glass measuring cup in the middle of the night and waking them up.
I will say this, only because I'm an asshole: In his insane mission to move everything out of the house, he moved the pool table to one corner of the current game room and the wicker chair to under the altar. Before, that wicker chair was in front of the ledge that I ran into; if I ran into the chair, I knew (in the dark) that I was too far to the right of the stairs. Now, not only do I not have that, the chair is to my left, so I had to veer right. I now have to zig-zag to make sure I get to the stairs, and I just didn't move to the left fast enough, and I met the ledge instead.
Of course, I also didn't have to stick my hand out right in front of me. If I put my hand out at, say, hip level, I wouldn't have knocked anything over. So ... yeah, it's my fault. Goddamn I hope they don't use this against me later. And I hope the measuring cup I bought this morning makes up for it.
Anyway, feeling defensive and sad most of the time takes a toll on your mind. Every day, especially as soon as my parents come home, is a mind game that I may be playing only with myself. But I just can't help the fact that I have to gird myself in case anything bad happens, because oftentimes it does. As I've said before, the anticipation about how my parents feel, in particular My Fucking Father, takes up a lot of my mental attention.
Take yesterday, for example. I wanted to grease any wheels that needed greasing by calling Mother and asking her is she needed anything from the grocer's (she wanted kiwis, which I got). I got home just after they did; in fact, they were getting out of their car when I drove up the driveway. As I was, and Mother was lifting a branch off one of the dead-looking flowers on the walkway, My Fucking Father looks at me. And I swear he gave me The Eye. That look, you know? That look that says, "Why do you haunt me? Why do you torment me by your presence? I have plans on turning your room into my gameroom -- why won't you move out?"
Why haven't I? Anyway, I'm in defensive mode. I assume, and I think correctly, that Father is in Vindictive Mode, so I have to keep my guard up. And such an approach was employed at the dinner table later that evening, when I told them that I won't be eating dinner Wednesday because I'm attending a Happy Hour. Mother asked, "Do you have to pay?" to which I say no, I don't think so. Then Father chimes in with a typically juvenile question: "Do they pay you?"
Now I know what he's thinking: Why don't you get a job? Actually, I do have a job, and to get My Fucking Father off my back I've told him I've got one. It is just two hours a day, three days a week, for ten bucks an hour, but it's still a job. I think I told him this, therefore his bitchy question wasn't warranted. Told him so with my tone, too; I said, "No. Why do you ask?" as I tilted my head to one side, the unspoken statement coming from which being, "Well that's a stupid thing to say." He didn't say anything afterward.
But then, to smooth things over, I drift downstairs to their computer, in case they need me to do anything. And sure enough, Father wanted me to do something, and without acting like an asshole while requesting it. He was confused about some form he needed yesterday, and I helped him open up the attachment and print it out. He's buying some property or something.
OK, so maybe the look and the question weren't intended to be as mean as I thought they were. But later, as I made them sign and initial the forms they needed to send back, Mother (who is a co-owner of this place) balked. I wanted to exercise, so I just left them alone to talk things out. I went to the bathroom and gathered my things, and as I get ready leave the house, I hear them arguing downstairs, then hear a door slam a couple times. OK, so maybe Father and Mother were being mean today. (Maybe not Mom, though; she didn't like that I wiped a rice bowl I got for her with the wrong towel. Instead of yelling at me, she just took the bowl and rinsed it herself. It'd be moments like that where I would be the one that would flip out, but this time, I just let it slide.)
Whatever, I get a good workout in and come back. I was in the mood for the apple juice that is just sitting in the downstairs refrigerator. All I wanted was some juice. I go downstairs, in the dark so as not to wake up the 'Rents past midnight, and get the juice. Again, I don't turn on the lights because they're sleeping and I've done this many times and I haven't run into anything in at least five years.
What I usually do to protect myself is to put my hand out in case I'm walking into a wall. I do that, hoping nothing will go wrong ... but then I push something over. And it shatters into what sounds like a million pieces.
So now I have to turn on the lights and cause a commotion because of the mess I made. And I have to stay there until I clean it all up because my parents wake up frequently to piss and they're going to be walking on those bits of Pyrex.
I'm anticipating their rage when they open the door. It took them a couple minutes. Did they actually sleep through it? No, I figure, they're in a deep sleep and that crash was so loud it's taken them a couple minutes to figure out what the hell's going on, and once they realized it, and that I did it, I'm going to get it.
As I'm sweeping up the bits of fake glass, I finally hear the stirrings from their bedroom. Like I thought, My Father came out first. But instead of yelling at me for waking him up, he said, "Broke a glass, huh?"
Didn't say anything. For all shit I thought he was giving me tonight, I feel really awful about this. I'm such a klutz, and I just didn't want to bother anybody by what I did, and I ended up doing that and more. And all I wanted was some apple juice.
Well, either because he didn't think I did a good job or he actually wanted to help, he took the broom and started sweeping himself. Then Mother got up and pointed out that some of the glass got under their door and the door of the closet right next to it. Shit, man, this was everywhere. It took 10 minutes out of our lives, but I think everything's swept up. And thank God, they didn't give me any shit for breaking the glass measuring cup in the middle of the night and waking them up.
I will say this, only because I'm an asshole: In his insane mission to move everything out of the house, he moved the pool table to one corner of the current game room and the wicker chair to under the altar. Before, that wicker chair was in front of the ledge that I ran into; if I ran into the chair, I knew (in the dark) that I was too far to the right of the stairs. Now, not only do I not have that, the chair is to my left, so I had to veer right. I now have to zig-zag to make sure I get to the stairs, and I just didn't move to the left fast enough, and I met the ledge instead.
Of course, I also didn't have to stick my hand out right in front of me. If I put my hand out at, say, hip level, I wouldn't have knocked anything over. So ... yeah, it's my fault. Goddamn I hope they don't use this against me later. And I hope the measuring cup I bought this morning makes up for it.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Delinquent Bunnies
Came home late Saturday night. Startled by the live animals on the street; can't have critters I ran over on my conscience, too much in it already.
I didn't hit them, but I drove past them. What were they? Turns out they were bunnies, two of them. One of them passed in front of me, the other just seemed to loiter on the side.
We have a lot of bunnies in the neighborhood, or at least in our backyard. Grandmother said a few months ago that one of the dogs from one of the houses close by us killed a rabbit, and the dead carcass ended up in our backyard; she somehow got the city to dispose of it. Saw another dig through our dirt and lie flat right on top of the hole he/she/it made. Guessing it was taking a shit.
Anyway, I'm fairly certain one of the neighbor kids got a bunny for a pet, decided he or she didn't want it, and just let it loose on the town. It met up with another abandoned rabbit, and they fucked like ... well, rabbits. And now we have these two lollygagging bunnies hanging out at 2 in the morning on the street.
I immediately thought that kids would do the same thing. What if they were teenage bunnies, doing nothing but ruttin' on a weekend summer night? What if they could talk?
"Dude, I'm bored."
"I know. I thought summer would be better than this."
"Shit, it's better than fuckin' homework and shit."
"Hey, you wanna root around the Asian family's backyard? They have no idea we'll be there."
"Already been. How about the Hispanic family down the street?"
"Which one?"
"Ummm ... don't know. Shoot, let's just go to the Somali family right over ..."
"Dude, watch out!"
"Shiiiiiiiiiiiit! Watch where you're fuckin' goin', asshole!"
"Goddamn, you don't see us rabbits hanging out in the dark?! Fucker."
"Dude, let's go."
"Where to?"
"Uh, let's go behind the church."
"And do what?"
"Well ... we are rabbits. Wanna fuck?"
"Sure. Gotta condom?"
"No, we're rabbits."
"Oh."
I didn't hit them, but I drove past them. What were they? Turns out they were bunnies, two of them. One of them passed in front of me, the other just seemed to loiter on the side.
We have a lot of bunnies in the neighborhood, or at least in our backyard. Grandmother said a few months ago that one of the dogs from one of the houses close by us killed a rabbit, and the dead carcass ended up in our backyard; she somehow got the city to dispose of it. Saw another dig through our dirt and lie flat right on top of the hole he/she/it made. Guessing it was taking a shit.
Anyway, I'm fairly certain one of the neighbor kids got a bunny for a pet, decided he or she didn't want it, and just let it loose on the town. It met up with another abandoned rabbit, and they fucked like ... well, rabbits. And now we have these two lollygagging bunnies hanging out at 2 in the morning on the street.
I immediately thought that kids would do the same thing. What if they were teenage bunnies, doing nothing but ruttin' on a weekend summer night? What if they could talk?
"Dude, I'm bored."
"I know. I thought summer would be better than this."
"Shit, it's better than fuckin' homework and shit."
"Hey, you wanna root around the Asian family's backyard? They have no idea we'll be there."
"Already been. How about the Hispanic family down the street?"
"Which one?"
"Ummm ... don't know. Shoot, let's just go to the Somali family right over ..."
"Dude, watch out!"
"Shiiiiiiiiiiiit! Watch where you're fuckin' goin', asshole!"
"Goddamn, you don't see us rabbits hanging out in the dark?! Fucker."
"Dude, let's go."
"Where to?"
"Uh, let's go behind the church."
"And do what?"
"Well ... we are rabbits. Wanna fuck?"
"Sure. Gotta condom?"
"No, we're rabbits."
"Oh."
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Almost Had An Epically Bad Day Yesterday
I do not function when I'm tired. I hate that about myself, but when I'm run down not only am I useless, I become dangerous to myself and others. I didn't hit anybody with my car yesterday ... because I almost lost my car.
I was chilling at this teahouse whose guy was very nice when I dropped by to sample something. So I was cathing up on my Mafia Wars and hating myself that I was waiting for my laptop to fully charge before I work out (got my workout in, though I had to cut a few corners), so I bolted out the door as soon as it was done.
I don't know about you, but I usually frisk myself before I leave somewhere -- make sure I have my keys, cellphone, wallet, aka The Big Three. But leaving the tea place I couldn't find my keys. Where the hell were they? Checked the table but it wasn't there ... and then I realized that I was really, really tired after I took a nap in my car before getting a drink.
I raced back to my car, and there it was, dangling from the keyhole of the trunk. After getting out my laptop, I just left my keys there. That is something I worry about all the time, and I know I'm susceptible to just missing things other people remember to do just because I was exhausted. I had this huge (but successful) meeting yesterday, and I had nothing to do, and I had all these choices in front of me, and I was tired so I took a nap ... and then this happened.
I was not in the safest neighborhood. I was certain that someone saw the keys and took my car. I laid out free bait, for God's sake. For a few seconds there I even forgot where my car was and I actually assumed it was stolen. (That's when I reached for my cell to start calling 911.) But either people didn't notice it, people saw it but knew they couldn't get away with it, or people there were nice, since the keys were still there. It was there over an hour.
I got so goddamn lucky last night. But the bad thing about this is, I know I will do this again. Because there is nothing I can do to stop my forgetfulness.
I was chilling at this teahouse whose guy was very nice when I dropped by to sample something. So I was cathing up on my Mafia Wars and hating myself that I was waiting for my laptop to fully charge before I work out (got my workout in, though I had to cut a few corners), so I bolted out the door as soon as it was done.
I don't know about you, but I usually frisk myself before I leave somewhere -- make sure I have my keys, cellphone, wallet, aka The Big Three. But leaving the tea place I couldn't find my keys. Where the hell were they? Checked the table but it wasn't there ... and then I realized that I was really, really tired after I took a nap in my car before getting a drink.
I raced back to my car, and there it was, dangling from the keyhole of the trunk. After getting out my laptop, I just left my keys there. That is something I worry about all the time, and I know I'm susceptible to just missing things other people remember to do just because I was exhausted. I had this huge (but successful) meeting yesterday, and I had nothing to do, and I had all these choices in front of me, and I was tired so I took a nap ... and then this happened.
I was not in the safest neighborhood. I was certain that someone saw the keys and took my car. I laid out free bait, for God's sake. For a few seconds there I even forgot where my car was and I actually assumed it was stolen. (That's when I reached for my cell to start calling 911.) But either people didn't notice it, people saw it but knew they couldn't get away with it, or people there were nice, since the keys were still there. It was there over an hour.
I got so goddamn lucky last night. But the bad thing about this is, I know I will do this again. Because there is nothing I can do to stop my forgetfulness.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Friday, July 23, 2010
The Weekly Minnesota Sports Survey
#-1: Twins (Last Week: -2). I'm getting this out before Friday's game, so the Twinks go 4-2 this week and easily reclaim the top spot in the WMNSS. They have begun a 13-game stretch where they have a chance to feast on bottom-feeders Cleveland, Baltimore, Kansas City and Seattle, and yet they drop the first two games to the Indians at home. They stabilized by taking the getaway game and winning last (Thursday) night at Baltimore, and combined with the Saturday and Sunday wins over Chicago (the Sunday matinee being a weird, wild one), they are still in the thick of the A.L. Central race.
Delmon Young is the best player on the team right now; he's Top 15 in RBI. Manager Ron Gardenhire finally did the right thing and moved him up in the lineup. Not only is he now producing like the first overall pick is expected to do, but is there a chance he has gotten his name into the MVP race? (Well, probably not because of the defense, but you can't take his name out until after you reach "honorable mention" level.)
The pitching may be less of a worry now. I say that because Francisco Liriano and Carl Pavano are throwing consistently enough that I'm not worried about them the rest of the regular season. And Bill Smith finally pulled the trigger on both suggestions written here last week, putting Brian Duensing in the rotation and yanking Nick Blackburn into the bullpen, and calling up Anthony Slama (while sending down the struggling Alex Burnett). Slama looked real good in mopping up Wednesday against Cleveland, and Duensing pitches for his life tonight against the Orioles. Let's say if this solves the Twins' pitching woes. After finishing their series with Balmer this weekend, they visit the Royals.
#-2: Lynx (Last Week: -1). Yeah, turned out to be false hopes. They drop both their games this weekend when they had a chance to score at the end of regulation and send both into overtime. (Similar scores, too -- 73-71 to best team in the league Seattle, 74-72 to San Antonio.) They now have a 2-2 record in their very long Target Center homestand.
At least it seems as if they have finally found their roles. Seimone Augustus has played well enough to be the #1. But Rebekkah Brunson has now become the #2 and the inside force. Lindsay Whalen shouldn't be playing more than 25 minutes a game, but she's become a good starting Point Guard and a stabilizing force to get the team into their sets.
Nevertheless, the best thing for this squad is that they're in an incredibly mediocre Western Conference. The Jynx are in fourth place, but not only are they only 1 1/2 games behind second-place Phoenix, they are two games up on Los Angeles for the final playoff spot. (With the exception of the Seattle Bing, every other team out West would be dead last in the Eastern Conference.) It just so happens that the two teams I just mentioned will end the Lynx's homestand this week: Phoenix on Saturday, L.A. on Tuesday. I believe I shall to go to the Farmers Insurance game just to check the team out. They then go back on the road and play at the LifeLock on Thursday.
Delmon Young is the best player on the team right now; he's Top 15 in RBI. Manager Ron Gardenhire finally did the right thing and moved him up in the lineup. Not only is he now producing like the first overall pick is expected to do, but is there a chance he has gotten his name into the MVP race? (Well, probably not because of the defense, but you can't take his name out until after you reach "honorable mention" level.)
The pitching may be less of a worry now. I say that because Francisco Liriano and Carl Pavano are throwing consistently enough that I'm not worried about them the rest of the regular season. And Bill Smith finally pulled the trigger on both suggestions written here last week, putting Brian Duensing in the rotation and yanking Nick Blackburn into the bullpen, and calling up Anthony Slama (while sending down the struggling Alex Burnett). Slama looked real good in mopping up Wednesday against Cleveland, and Duensing pitches for his life tonight against the Orioles. Let's say if this solves the Twins' pitching woes. After finishing their series with Balmer this weekend, they visit the Royals.
#-2: Lynx (Last Week: -1). Yeah, turned out to be false hopes. They drop both their games this weekend when they had a chance to score at the end of regulation and send both into overtime. (Similar scores, too -- 73-71 to best team in the league Seattle, 74-72 to San Antonio.) They now have a 2-2 record in their very long Target Center homestand.
At least it seems as if they have finally found their roles. Seimone Augustus has played well enough to be the #1. But Rebekkah Brunson has now become the #2 and the inside force. Lindsay Whalen shouldn't be playing more than 25 minutes a game, but she's become a good starting Point Guard and a stabilizing force to get the team into their sets.
Nevertheless, the best thing for this squad is that they're in an incredibly mediocre Western Conference. The Jynx are in fourth place, but not only are they only 1 1/2 games behind second-place Phoenix, they are two games up on Los Angeles for the final playoff spot. (With the exception of the Seattle Bing, every other team out West would be dead last in the Eastern Conference.) It just so happens that the two teams I just mentioned will end the Lynx's homestand this week: Phoenix on Saturday, L.A. on Tuesday. I believe I shall to go to the Farmers Insurance game just to check the team out. They then go back on the road and play at the LifeLock on Thursday.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
More Unbearable Dealings With My Fucking Father
Motherfuckin' goddamn Father didn't call me this morning and I didn't hear it. I knew that would fucking happen when I was rushing to go to sleep after My Fucking Father went up to the kitchen to start his day before 5 in the fucking morning. I forget to take my cellphone off of silent before going to bed, and so I wake up only when its alarm goes off, at 10:45. He called a bit after 10. At least I now know the cell's alarm will go off no matter what the setting.
And thank goodness My Fucking Father wasn't being a brat about what he left a message for. I could totally see him bitching about his computer not working and leaving four, eight voicemails. But no, just the one message about his laptop needing fixing at the store. Well, Grandmother is outside, so there's no way I could sneak out and grab the food I want to donate, so I might as well call (reception is kind of spotty today, wait till tomorrow, she said) and then head off to my parent's work.
There I saw a peeved and petualant father sitting down, legs crossed. I was taking another call at the time, but I heard him say, "The computer at home." At home? I went to the store for nothing? (At least it was on the way to "work" at the U. and I was right on time, otherwise I would've cut a bitch [I'll explain in a bit]). And that's where I get the pathetic Father I've grown to know and hate.
Seriously, he's 66 years old acting 6 during this sniping back-and-forth we had. He went into this snit after I asked told him what was going on with reception at the store by asking questions as a way of speaking to me, but this time he added a patina of self-pity: "I haven't been able to use it the past month-and-a-half because Uncle's been away. Where do I have the time? How can I go upstairs if nobody's here?" And when I "reminded" him Uncle will try to be back next week he said the most juvenile thing he's ever said: "I don't care, you guys. ..." You guys? What the fuck did you mean by that???
I hate to admit this, but I have to admit this: I brought a kitchen knife with me to my parent's work. Normally, My Fucking Father would be apoplectic when I don't answer him back on something he feels needs to be done immediately, like fixing his laptop. I have been so fearful of what he has done that I took the step of arming myself. I really felt that if he launched into one of his patented tirades again, I would have to ... well, have to come at him with that knife, either to put defend myself or show that motherfucker I mean business.
Why didn't I just fuckin' shiv the bastard when he started asking/complaining/accusing me? I ... don't know. Maybe it was fear that somebody would walk in on me. Maybe he didn't trigger my crazy mode because he wasn't being hostile, just puerile. Or maybe a part of me realized I brought a knife with me to talk to My Fucking Father.
Shit, man, I even brought the knife even though I expecting Mother to be there. I am desparate enough to fuckin' brandish a knife in front of my mom. Luckily I didn't take it out of my back pocket, and luckily Mother wasn't there to witness anything I could have done. Instead, My Fucking Father quickly took back his allegations like the bitch he is and asked me to get something at fuckin' Menards. I said OK and I left.
And then later for dinner we had, like, OK conversations and shit about the news. No brattiness at all.
Am I related to this guy? Have to be -- I'm just as fucked up as he is.
And thank goodness My Fucking Father wasn't being a brat about what he left a message for. I could totally see him bitching about his computer not working and leaving four, eight voicemails. But no, just the one message about his laptop needing fixing at the store. Well, Grandmother is outside, so there's no way I could sneak out and grab the food I want to donate, so I might as well call (reception is kind of spotty today, wait till tomorrow, she said) and then head off to my parent's work.
There I saw a peeved and petualant father sitting down, legs crossed. I was taking another call at the time, but I heard him say, "The computer at home." At home? I went to the store for nothing? (At least it was on the way to "work" at the U. and I was right on time, otherwise I would've cut a bitch [I'll explain in a bit]). And that's where I get the pathetic Father I've grown to know and hate.
Seriously, he's 66 years old acting 6 during this sniping back-and-forth we had. He went into this snit after I asked told him what was going on with reception at the store by asking questions as a way of speaking to me, but this time he added a patina of self-pity: "I haven't been able to use it the past month-and-a-half because Uncle's been away. Where do I have the time? How can I go upstairs if nobody's here?" And when I "reminded" him Uncle will try to be back next week he said the most juvenile thing he's ever said: "I don't care, you guys. ..." You guys? What the fuck did you mean by that???
I hate to admit this, but I have to admit this: I brought a kitchen knife with me to my parent's work. Normally, My Fucking Father would be apoplectic when I don't answer him back on something he feels needs to be done immediately, like fixing his laptop. I have been so fearful of what he has done that I took the step of arming myself. I really felt that if he launched into one of his patented tirades again, I would have to ... well, have to come at him with that knife, either to put defend myself or show that motherfucker I mean business.
Why didn't I just fuckin' shiv the bastard when he started asking/complaining/accusing me? I ... don't know. Maybe it was fear that somebody would walk in on me. Maybe he didn't trigger my crazy mode because he wasn't being hostile, just puerile. Or maybe a part of me realized I brought a knife with me to talk to My Fucking Father.
Shit, man, I even brought the knife even though I expecting Mother to be there. I am desparate enough to fuckin' brandish a knife in front of my mom. Luckily I didn't take it out of my back pocket, and luckily Mother wasn't there to witness anything I could have done. Instead, My Fucking Father quickly took back his allegations like the bitch he is and asked me to get something at fuckin' Menards. I said OK and I left.
And then later for dinner we had, like, OK conversations and shit about the news. No brattiness at all.
Am I related to this guy? Have to be -- I'm just as fucked up as he is.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
And Now I'm Pissed At My Grandmother
My Grandmother has a bad penchant for buying food she doesn't eat. She's done it a lot for the past several years -- I fear it's a sign of her oncoming senility -- yet I've only really noticed it lately, whenever My Fucking Father has bitched at her and at me about her.
This happened when I came home from coffee this morning after yet another "normal" cycle of sleep. I see all these bags with vegetables in them. Oh no, not again; Father yelled at her about buying so many veggies because she doesn't eat them all and it ends up being thrown away after it goes bad. I remind Grandmother about this; she dismisses that and him. OK; I'm so upset at My Fucking Father nowadays, I'm kind of glad to see her stand up to him. I draw inspiration from it, in fact.
But it kind of turned on me tonight. After I got home I was a tad hungry. I remembered Grandmother, for some godforsaken reason, bought Cheesecake Factory cheesecake. Hmmm, chessecake, and I didn't see anyone else touch it besides her a few days ago, so I thought I'd take a piece or two.
As usual, Grandmother comes out whenever she hears commotion in the kitchen. I was short-tempered when I heard her open her bedroom door, so I just stood there, looking at the archway from the hall to the kitchen, waitiing for her to sidle through like nothing's going on.
Instead she poked her head around and saw the cheesecake on the stove. "Eat it!" she said. Well, no shit I'm eating it. If I weren't eating it, it wouldn't be on the oven, now would it? Did you think I wanted to just bring it out to let it breathe? Sorry, I was being very short when it comes to stupid comments like that. I just didn't want to hear it tonight.
She then started to wax nostalgic about the cheesecake. Mind you, there are 12 slices in a pie, and there were 11 pieces left. No one touched it. We may like the cheesecake, it's just that no one wanted to eat it, no matter how many times Grandmother buys food, no matter how much she cajoles us. Still, Buddha bless her (I guess), she tries: "Tell Father to eat it!" she cries. Uh, I'm in no better speaking terms with him than you are, Grandmother.
Then, she utters the comment that really set me off. "It's too sweet for me." Too sweet? One slice of cheesecake and you decide it's too sweet. We have an excuse not to eat it. Yours is, "It's too sweet." Is that why you haven't eaten any more? And are you then saying that we should eat our share, else just throw it away?? No, that can't be true, because that would affirm exactly what My Fucking Father's talking about: You buy shit, then don't use it. She has done this before, but tonight it felt like, to me, she was assuming that I was just going to pitch in and help consume it.
I saw the bottom of the box after I took out two slices. One of them has 510 calories. I just ate one-third of my daily caloric intake a few hours ago, and that doesn't include the coffee and cookie I had this morning, the banana this afternoon, and the popcorn and Coke I had watching Despicable Me this evening (verdict on the movie: Good, touching at points, but cut away from the story too often. B). I am panicking right now because I feel like I swallowed a fucking pygmy and will be shitting its entrails come morning. I am mentally beating myself over the head because I regret having not exercised today and instead decided to take in a movie. And all the while, three-quarters of a whole cheesecake will slowly rot because I'm watching my weight, my parents don't have the appetite, and my Grandmother just decided she didn't like it.
I hate seeing this My Fucking Father's way, but it's inescapable -- he's right on this one. So, after Grandmother retires to her bedroom at 11 in the morning, I'm taking a fucking bag, throwing the cheesecake in there, throwing the angel food cake in there (she always buys angel food, but I don't ever eat it, because it's like eating one of the scouring pads she leaves on the kitchen sink), throwing one of the seventy-million bags of fucking Doritos she bought in there (what so goddamn many -- seriously, why?), drive off under cover of the day, and giving it to a food shelter on my way to the U. Get that shit out of our house, and hopefully give it to someone who'd actually appreciate it.
Goddamn, so much fucking food. What. A. Waste.
This happened when I came home from coffee this morning after yet another "normal" cycle of sleep. I see all these bags with vegetables in them. Oh no, not again; Father yelled at her about buying so many veggies because she doesn't eat them all and it ends up being thrown away after it goes bad. I remind Grandmother about this; she dismisses that and him. OK; I'm so upset at My Fucking Father nowadays, I'm kind of glad to see her stand up to him. I draw inspiration from it, in fact.
But it kind of turned on me tonight. After I got home I was a tad hungry. I remembered Grandmother, for some godforsaken reason, bought Cheesecake Factory cheesecake. Hmmm, chessecake, and I didn't see anyone else touch it besides her a few days ago, so I thought I'd take a piece or two.
As usual, Grandmother comes out whenever she hears commotion in the kitchen. I was short-tempered when I heard her open her bedroom door, so I just stood there, looking at the archway from the hall to the kitchen, waitiing for her to sidle through like nothing's going on.
Instead she poked her head around and saw the cheesecake on the stove. "Eat it!" she said. Well, no shit I'm eating it. If I weren't eating it, it wouldn't be on the oven, now would it? Did you think I wanted to just bring it out to let it breathe? Sorry, I was being very short when it comes to stupid comments like that. I just didn't want to hear it tonight.
She then started to wax nostalgic about the cheesecake. Mind you, there are 12 slices in a pie, and there were 11 pieces left. No one touched it. We may like the cheesecake, it's just that no one wanted to eat it, no matter how many times Grandmother buys food, no matter how much she cajoles us. Still, Buddha bless her (I guess), she tries: "Tell Father to eat it!" she cries. Uh, I'm in no better speaking terms with him than you are, Grandmother.
Then, she utters the comment that really set me off. "It's too sweet for me." Too sweet? One slice of cheesecake and you decide it's too sweet. We have an excuse not to eat it. Yours is, "It's too sweet." Is that why you haven't eaten any more? And are you then saying that we should eat our share, else just throw it away?? No, that can't be true, because that would affirm exactly what My Fucking Father's talking about: You buy shit, then don't use it. She has done this before, but tonight it felt like, to me, she was assuming that I was just going to pitch in and help consume it.
I saw the bottom of the box after I took out two slices. One of them has 510 calories. I just ate one-third of my daily caloric intake a few hours ago, and that doesn't include the coffee and cookie I had this morning, the banana this afternoon, and the popcorn and Coke I had watching Despicable Me this evening (verdict on the movie: Good, touching at points, but cut away from the story too often. B). I am panicking right now because I feel like I swallowed a fucking pygmy and will be shitting its entrails come morning. I am mentally beating myself over the head because I regret having not exercised today and instead decided to take in a movie. And all the while, three-quarters of a whole cheesecake will slowly rot because I'm watching my weight, my parents don't have the appetite, and my Grandmother just decided she didn't like it.
I hate seeing this My Fucking Father's way, but it's inescapable -- he's right on this one. So, after Grandmother retires to her bedroom at 11 in the morning, I'm taking a fucking bag, throwing the cheesecake in there, throwing the angel food cake in there (she always buys angel food, but I don't ever eat it, because it's like eating one of the scouring pads she leaves on the kitchen sink), throwing one of the seventy-million bags of fucking Doritos she bought in there (what so goddamn many -- seriously, why?), drive off under cover of the day, and giving it to a food shelter on my way to the U. Get that shit out of our house, and hopefully give it to someone who'd actually appreciate it.
Goddamn, so much fucking food. What. A. Waste.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
I am not like most people in that I don't sleep like other people do. In fact, it's pissing me off that I'm going to be at a decent hour (1 o'clock last night, for example) and waking up -- gasp! -- in the morning (5:30 this morning, for example).
I've done this for most of the past week-and-a-half, and I hate it. I like being up by myself when the rest of the world is unconscious. Sure I just look at porn most of the time, but I feel like I'm being productive. Best of all, I don't feel like I'm like other people. I don't want to be like other people.
At the very least, if I have to wake up early, let it be Thursdays. That way I can check and see if My Fucking Father tried to throw away my magazines. But I usually stay home and watch So You Think You Can Dance, and when I don't do anything but stay home the night before, I usually have enough energy to make it through the night. Why can't the show be on Mondays and Tuesdays so I can shut off the TV Wednesdays and Thursdays? That's when I'll work out that night and come home so tired that I have to pass out and wake up the same hours and other people.
Pissing me off, I tell you. ...
I've done this for most of the past week-and-a-half, and I hate it. I like being up by myself when the rest of the world is unconscious. Sure I just look at porn most of the time, but I feel like I'm being productive. Best of all, I don't feel like I'm like other people. I don't want to be like other people.
At the very least, if I have to wake up early, let it be Thursdays. That way I can check and see if My Fucking Father tried to throw away my magazines. But I usually stay home and watch So You Think You Can Dance, and when I don't do anything but stay home the night before, I usually have enough energy to make it through the night. Why can't the show be on Mondays and Tuesdays so I can shut off the TV Wednesdays and Thursdays? That's when I'll work out that night and come home so tired that I have to pass out and wake up the same hours and other people.
Pissing me off, I tell you. ...
Monday, July 19, 2010
The Night Ride That Could Have Been, That Should Have Been
Holy shitballs, do you know what My Fucking Father just said on the phone to me today? My uncle's still at home recuperating, and My Fucking Father told me to go over there today and, not see how he's doing, but find out if he can come back to work. This is obviously fucked up because he doesn't really give a shit about his kid brother's health unless it pertains to lightening his workload at the store. What was even more bothersome, yet typical of My Fucking Father's behavior, is he wants me to visit instead of calling him his goddamn self. I bring it up and he says: "You going over there is easier." Oh, by far it is.
But the most juvenile, hateful thing that really pushes my buttons was one of the things he was saying while complaining to me about my uncle. He has stuff to do, he says -- and "I'm doing all of these things for you!"
For me? For me??? Listen, asshole, if that's too much goddamn work, don't do it for me or us. No, I don't want you being so "nice" about doing it if it's too hard for you. And I certainly don't want you to do it if you think you have to tell us that you're nice. Please, take a rest. Relax. Chill, Father, chill. And while you're at it, stop yelling at me. Stop throwing my shit away. And stop acting like we owe you anything. Because we didn't ask you to remodel homes. If this is the rearrangment you set up, where you close on your properties (real estate, by the way, is a pain in the ass, and I did not ask you to do that shit, let alone do that shit for me) in exchange for some angst you're entitled to lay on us, don't bother. Please don't fuckin' bother. Because you're not getting anywhere because of it. Whine all you want, you baby, you do this on your own.
---
I wished against logic that he wouldn't be like this so quickly. And yet My Fucking Father represents a problem that never goes away and never is manageable.
What I mean is, last night during dinner Mother said: "Close the doors and open the air conditioning, otherwise Father will get mad." And that's it. When he's away he's never really away. He dominates most of our thinking, most of my thinking, and I hate that about him, and myself. We're always walking on eggshells to please him, or more importantly, to not make him mad. I really don't want to give a fuck, but I'm in no position to be financially independent, so I tell myself in my head that I need to compromise in order to keep the peace. That sounds reasonable in other families, but for some reason that feels like giving in in this one.
That angered me. The fact that I let him throw my magazines away still angered me. So I was in no mood to talk to him last night when I picked him up at the airport. Then again, I usually don't talk to him when I pick him up at the airport.
His flight was delayed by 15 minutes, but there was a potential detour on the highway. I went out the same times as I usually do in case the detour actually did affect my path to the airport. It didn't, so I spent my time looking for this cell phone lot, a space of free parking where you're supposed to go and wait instead of waiting by the side of the airport. Found it, tilited the driver's seat of my parent's minivan, and waited.
Five minutes later, he called. I figure it always takes him another five minutes to get curbside -- for some reason, this is a small terminal -- so I listened to the end of the BBC World Service's "The World Today" before heading out. Saw him waiting. Was he waiting long? A part of me said, "Should've been here sooner!" Another part said, "Serves him right!" Somebody help me.
My Father didn't yell at me for driving up; he could've suspected that I wasn't at the airport at all, like I said, but I guess he figured I drove up from the other end, or maybe he didn't care. Anyway, he got in, said thank you -- see, when you take me on guilt trips my whole life because you think you're entitled to them, these thank you's mean nothing to me -- and I tried to begin our silence.
But there was this damn condo he went out to Vegas for, and I had this urge to say it because, well, that's the whole reason he went out there this weekend. Luckily in the interests of piercing the silence we enveloped the car a little too much, he started on, of all things, the weather down there:
"Really hot down there."
"Yeah, I heard 110."
"118."
"Oh."
"The condo looks pretty good!"
"Really?"
"Yeah. We might even buy the condo in the corner instead."
"OK."
"$100,000 more."
"$100,000?"
And that was the end of our conversation until we got home and told him that noodles are ready to be eaten.
What he didn't know was that the part of me who just wanted to take him home and be done with this chore won this internal battle raging inside me. Because there was another person inside me who wanted to pick a fight with My Fucking Father. This one was going to argue with him, show him up, bring up all the Entertainment Weeklys he threw away except the one last week which he saved due to his quick thinking, and the comment Mother made about turning on the AC so as not to make him mad. This was nighttime and there was no one driving with us. I easily could've punched him in the face, or driven us off the road. Would that stop your bitching, Father?! Do you see that everything's worse now that you're back? Fucker.
And now he acted like a bitch about complaining when Uncle's coming back to work, a part of me regrets that I didn't get us into an accident. Anything to stop this goddamn nonsense.
But the most juvenile, hateful thing that really pushes my buttons was one of the things he was saying while complaining to me about my uncle. He has stuff to do, he says -- and "I'm doing all of these things for you!"
For me? For me??? Listen, asshole, if that's too much goddamn work, don't do it for me or us. No, I don't want you being so "nice" about doing it if it's too hard for you. And I certainly don't want you to do it if you think you have to tell us that you're nice. Please, take a rest. Relax. Chill, Father, chill. And while you're at it, stop yelling at me. Stop throwing my shit away. And stop acting like we owe you anything. Because we didn't ask you to remodel homes. If this is the rearrangment you set up, where you close on your properties (real estate, by the way, is a pain in the ass, and I did not ask you to do that shit, let alone do that shit for me) in exchange for some angst you're entitled to lay on us, don't bother. Please don't fuckin' bother. Because you're not getting anywhere because of it. Whine all you want, you baby, you do this on your own.
---
I wished against logic that he wouldn't be like this so quickly. And yet My Fucking Father represents a problem that never goes away and never is manageable.
What I mean is, last night during dinner Mother said: "Close the doors and open the air conditioning, otherwise Father will get mad." And that's it. When he's away he's never really away. He dominates most of our thinking, most of my thinking, and I hate that about him, and myself. We're always walking on eggshells to please him, or more importantly, to not make him mad. I really don't want to give a fuck, but I'm in no position to be financially independent, so I tell myself in my head that I need to compromise in order to keep the peace. That sounds reasonable in other families, but for some reason that feels like giving in in this one.
That angered me. The fact that I let him throw my magazines away still angered me. So I was in no mood to talk to him last night when I picked him up at the airport. Then again, I usually don't talk to him when I pick him up at the airport.
His flight was delayed by 15 minutes, but there was a potential detour on the highway. I went out the same times as I usually do in case the detour actually did affect my path to the airport. It didn't, so I spent my time looking for this cell phone lot, a space of free parking where you're supposed to go and wait instead of waiting by the side of the airport. Found it, tilited the driver's seat of my parent's minivan, and waited.
Five minutes later, he called. I figure it always takes him another five minutes to get curbside -- for some reason, this is a small terminal -- so I listened to the end of the BBC World Service's "The World Today" before heading out. Saw him waiting. Was he waiting long? A part of me said, "Should've been here sooner!" Another part said, "Serves him right!" Somebody help me.
My Father didn't yell at me for driving up; he could've suspected that I wasn't at the airport at all, like I said, but I guess he figured I drove up from the other end, or maybe he didn't care. Anyway, he got in, said thank you -- see, when you take me on guilt trips my whole life because you think you're entitled to them, these thank you's mean nothing to me -- and I tried to begin our silence.
But there was this damn condo he went out to Vegas for, and I had this urge to say it because, well, that's the whole reason he went out there this weekend. Luckily in the interests of piercing the silence we enveloped the car a little too much, he started on, of all things, the weather down there:
"Really hot down there."
"Yeah, I heard 110."
"118."
"Oh."
"The condo looks pretty good!"
"Really?"
"Yeah. We might even buy the condo in the corner instead."
"OK."
"$100,000 more."
"$100,000?"
And that was the end of our conversation until we got home and told him that noodles are ready to be eaten.
What he didn't know was that the part of me who just wanted to take him home and be done with this chore won this internal battle raging inside me. Because there was another person inside me who wanted to pick a fight with My Fucking Father. This one was going to argue with him, show him up, bring up all the Entertainment Weeklys he threw away except the one last week which he saved due to his quick thinking, and the comment Mother made about turning on the AC so as not to make him mad. This was nighttime and there was no one driving with us. I easily could've punched him in the face, or driven us off the road. Would that stop your bitching, Father?! Do you see that everything's worse now that you're back? Fucker.
And now he acted like a bitch about complaining when Uncle's coming back to work, a part of me regrets that I didn't get us into an accident. Anything to stop this goddamn nonsense.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Haven't Stayed Home On A Saturday Night In A Long Time
Original plan was to see this band I like, Mercurial Rage, throw a fifth anniversary concert in Uptown. It would be late enough that I could eat dinner and take a nap, and I would be home soon enough that I'd have enough rest for work tomorrow morning.
The storm pretty much ended those plans. I saw that there were storms coming later this evening; I didn't think they would come earlier, would grow to become a few storms, and become severe. I thought that there was a space around the time I planned to leave home for the concert where the heaviest stuff was gone and the new storms coming in weren't going to be as bad, but then a) the rains returned pretty strong; b) inertia set in and then; c) I saw that the Saturday Night Live rerun was going to be Joseph Gordon-Leavitt with the Dave Matthews Band, and I just saw him in Inception, and I thought he was good in it, and I thought the movie was good and great in some places, and I appreciate that SNL coordinated with the movie studio to rerun his episode to coincide with the release of his movie, even though the studio oddly didn't purchase time to run an advertisement.
Anyway, I stayed home. A few things I drew from it as I stirred in my room:
One mistake: I usually take out the trash after dinner and put in my parents' minivan. Tonight, however, I thought that I could leave it outside because I would be using the car to go to the concert, and it'd be nice if I didn't have to drive around with garbage emanating its stench. I knew it was going to rain, but I thought I put it in a place underneath the front awning that would shield it from the precipitation. But then it rained so damn hard the whole awning got wet. And Mother locked the front door, and I couldn't think up a good explanation as to why I unlocked it without her knowing. So the wet bag of garbage is on our front stoop, just waiting to jettison its soggy shit water all over the back of my parents' minivan.
Maybe it'll dry off by the time I go out in the morning and put it in the van before Mother finds out. Hopefully she doesn't yell at me. Or maybe she knows not to care because it's garbage. Damn, I'm anticipating what My Fucking Father would say again. ...
The storm pretty much ended those plans. I saw that there were storms coming later this evening; I didn't think they would come earlier, would grow to become a few storms, and become severe. I thought that there was a space around the time I planned to leave home for the concert where the heaviest stuff was gone and the new storms coming in weren't going to be as bad, but then a) the rains returned pretty strong; b) inertia set in and then; c) I saw that the Saturday Night Live rerun was going to be Joseph Gordon-Leavitt with the Dave Matthews Band, and I just saw him in Inception, and I thought he was good in it, and I thought the movie was good and great in some places, and I appreciate that SNL coordinated with the movie studio to rerun his episode to coincide with the release of his movie, even though the studio oddly didn't purchase time to run an advertisement.
Anyway, I stayed home. A few things I drew from it as I stirred in my room:
I actually sat on the steps for the strongest part of the storm. I heard a weatherwoman say that this storm "meant business," and that got me all scared that I would lay in my bedroom and all of a sudden a huge branch from the tree in the backyard would crash through my window and impale me in the throat. It looked scary bad outside for several minutes.- Contrasting the storminess outside, the morale in the house was quite quiet, even tranquil. I think we're all relaxed these two days because My Fucking Father is out of town. Does that asshole know we have to walk on eggshells when he's around? I can listen to my satellite radio through my laptop without plugging in headphones. I can use the motor on my toothbrush. I don't have to act like I'm sneaking around the house at night because no one is there to give a fuck.
- While trying to take a nap while it was raining outside I thought, Wouldn't this be one of the times I could use to read my newspapers and box my magazines? Wouldn't taking advantage of times like these prevent My Fucking Father from throwing them away? Nah, it's still his fault.
One mistake: I usually take out the trash after dinner and put in my parents' minivan. Tonight, however, I thought that I could leave it outside because I would be using the car to go to the concert, and it'd be nice if I didn't have to drive around with garbage emanating its stench. I knew it was going to rain, but I thought I put it in a place underneath the front awning that would shield it from the precipitation. But then it rained so damn hard the whole awning got wet. And Mother locked the front door, and I couldn't think up a good explanation as to why I unlocked it without her knowing. So the wet bag of garbage is on our front stoop, just waiting to jettison its soggy shit water all over the back of my parents' minivan.
Maybe it'll dry off by the time I go out in the morning and put it in the van before Mother finds out. Hopefully she doesn't yell at me. Or maybe she knows not to care because it's garbage. Damn, I'm anticipating what My Fucking Father would say again. ...
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Do you know what I hate? Typing with long fingernails. I bang my fingers on the keys and my fingertips hurt. Do that long enough, such as my opus yesterday on this blog, and the pain multiplies. You run into mistakes too.
They weren't too long the last time I noticed. It's as if it grew yesterday early evening when I was watching Inception. Freaky.
Have to stop typing now. Ouch.
They weren't too long the last time I noticed. It's as if it grew yesterday early evening when I was watching Inception. Freaky.
Have to stop typing now. Ouch.
Friday, July 16, 2010
The Weekly Minnesota Sports Survey
#-1: Lynx (Last Week: -1). Oh, no. It can't be. False hopes, has to be. Shit, I buried this team, like, two weeks ago. But, even though it's only one game, I'll be damned how things have turned around for this team.
Wednesday in their annual weekday afternoon/camp game, the Jynx beat the leaders of the Eastern Conference, the Atlanta Dream, 83-81. And they did in gutsy, last-minute fashion. Down two with 38.1 seconds left, Nicky Anosike stole a Dream pass, was fouled, and hit both her free throws to tie the game. After a Dream airball, Anosike hit Rebekkah Brunson on the down low with 7.2 seconds left for the winning points. (Atlanta had two shots to send the game into overtime but they missed both their shot and the ensuing putback.)
Amazingly, the Phoenix Mercury lost in triple overtime to the Seattle Storm that evening. That means that the Lynx -- the Lynx! -- rose to second place in the Western Conference, where they sit as of right now. Sure, they trail the Storm by 9 1/2 games, and if they were in the East, they'd be in dead last by 1 1/2 games. But shoot, man, they're 5-2 in their last seven. Who thought they'd be able to take themselves out of the abyss? They continue their homestand with a Saturday matinee against the best team in the WNBA, Seattle, followed by a game against current fourth-place team San Antonio.
#-2: Twins (Last Week: -2). I apologize for not getting my WMNSS out before Friday night's games; shit's been crazy lately. This is the second week I've been able to incorporate the Twins' Friday result. At least this week it was a win, versus Chicago, to give them a 2-2 week. Pitching is still giving the squad fits, but at least with tonight's stunning performance, Francisco Liriano has proven he's a #2, maybe even a #1A, with Carl Pavano at the top of the rotation.
At the bottom however ... yeesh, if Scott Baker, Nick Blackburn and Kevin Slowey were all sent to the bullpen, demoted to Triple-A, or traded, I wouldn't mind. They've been terrible, so terrible that many seamheads have demanded Brian Duensing replace Blackburn as a starter and this guy named Anthony Slama -- awesome name, the stadium crew will have a field day with his name -- take a chance in the Big Show. Shit, why not? Crazier ideas have propelled teams to championships. This week, they finish their four-game series against the ChiSox, complete their homestand with three against Cleveland, then start a series at Baltimore.
#-3: Timberwolves (Last Week: -3). OK, I had thought for a while the Woofie Dogs knew what they were doing. But clearly, I now have to differentiate. The marketing and fan relations departments know what they're doing when they sell tickets for a song and offer concession deals on the cheap. That's what'll get the fans coming back to watch an inferior product.
And it will stay inferior so long as David Kahn keeps making bullshit moves like the ones he made this week. Kahn may not know what he's doing, and some in the organization appear to have to cover for him. This week's moves that may have a point, although I don't see one from here: Al Jefferson, far and away the best player on the team, traded to Utah for Kosta Koufos, two first-round draft picks and Traded Player Exception (whatever that is), and the signing of Point Guard Luke Ridnour.
Both moves are baffling because, in one sense, they cancel each other out. It became clear to me the past season that both Big Al and Kevin Love are Power Forwards, and if both are to reach their potential, one of them would have to go. Obviously that's Jefferson because he's older. (The trade represents the flag over the coffin of the Kevin Garnett trade and, thus, the regime of former VP of Player Personnel Kevin McHale.) But Love has yet to prove he can play defense. He has tremendous vision and can rebound like a motherfucker, but there's going to be a plateau to him if he doesn't become more three-dimensional. Meanwhile, although Big Al has only one dimension, post offense (he couldn't D up worth shit either), that dimension was awesome. I'll miss the guy, a high school draftee who was the discarded centerpiece of not one but two aborted rebuilding plans.
But if the Jefferson trade tried to eliminate duplication, the Ridnour signing added to it. They now have four PG's: Ridnour, Jonny Flynn, Ramon Sessions (which they're trying to trade), and the non-extradited Ricky Rubio. Why the fuck do you need three PG's? And why are you trading Sessions when you signed him just last year? Most importantly, is there a gas station between here and any pride for the Woofie Dogs?
Wednesday in their annual weekday afternoon/camp game, the Jynx beat the leaders of the Eastern Conference, the Atlanta Dream, 83-81. And they did in gutsy, last-minute fashion. Down two with 38.1 seconds left, Nicky Anosike stole a Dream pass, was fouled, and hit both her free throws to tie the game. After a Dream airball, Anosike hit Rebekkah Brunson on the down low with 7.2 seconds left for the winning points. (Atlanta had two shots to send the game into overtime but they missed both their shot and the ensuing putback.)
Amazingly, the Phoenix Mercury lost in triple overtime to the Seattle Storm that evening. That means that the Lynx -- the Lynx! -- rose to second place in the Western Conference, where they sit as of right now. Sure, they trail the Storm by 9 1/2 games, and if they were in the East, they'd be in dead last by 1 1/2 games. But shoot, man, they're 5-2 in their last seven. Who thought they'd be able to take themselves out of the abyss? They continue their homestand with a Saturday matinee against the best team in the WNBA, Seattle, followed by a game against current fourth-place team San Antonio.
#-2: Twins (Last Week: -2). I apologize for not getting my WMNSS out before Friday night's games; shit's been crazy lately. This is the second week I've been able to incorporate the Twins' Friday result. At least this week it was a win, versus Chicago, to give them a 2-2 week. Pitching is still giving the squad fits, but at least with tonight's stunning performance, Francisco Liriano has proven he's a #2, maybe even a #1A, with Carl Pavano at the top of the rotation.
At the bottom however ... yeesh, if Scott Baker, Nick Blackburn and Kevin Slowey were all sent to the bullpen, demoted to Triple-A, or traded, I wouldn't mind. They've been terrible, so terrible that many seamheads have demanded Brian Duensing replace Blackburn as a starter and this guy named Anthony Slama -- awesome name, the stadium crew will have a field day with his name -- take a chance in the Big Show. Shit, why not? Crazier ideas have propelled teams to championships. This week, they finish their four-game series against the ChiSox, complete their homestand with three against Cleveland, then start a series at Baltimore.
#-3: Timberwolves (Last Week: -3). OK, I had thought for a while the Woofie Dogs knew what they were doing. But clearly, I now have to differentiate. The marketing and fan relations departments know what they're doing when they sell tickets for a song and offer concession deals on the cheap. That's what'll get the fans coming back to watch an inferior product.
And it will stay inferior so long as David Kahn keeps making bullshit moves like the ones he made this week. Kahn may not know what he's doing, and some in the organization appear to have to cover for him. This week's moves that may have a point, although I don't see one from here: Al Jefferson, far and away the best player on the team, traded to Utah for Kosta Koufos, two first-round draft picks and Traded Player Exception (whatever that is), and the signing of Point Guard Luke Ridnour.
Both moves are baffling because, in one sense, they cancel each other out. It became clear to me the past season that both Big Al and Kevin Love are Power Forwards, and if both are to reach their potential, one of them would have to go. Obviously that's Jefferson because he's older. (The trade represents the flag over the coffin of the Kevin Garnett trade and, thus, the regime of former VP of Player Personnel Kevin McHale.) But Love has yet to prove he can play defense. He has tremendous vision and can rebound like a motherfucker, but there's going to be a plateau to him if he doesn't become more three-dimensional. Meanwhile, although Big Al has only one dimension, post offense (he couldn't D up worth shit either), that dimension was awesome. I'll miss the guy, a high school draftee who was the discarded centerpiece of not one but two aborted rebuilding plans.
But if the Jefferson trade tried to eliminate duplication, the Ridnour signing added to it. They now have four PG's: Ridnour, Jonny Flynn, Ramon Sessions (which they're trying to trade), and the non-extradited Ricky Rubio. Why the fuck do you need three PG's? And why are you trading Sessions when you signed him just last year? Most importantly, is there a gas station between here and any pride for the Woofie Dogs?
How Could I Have Been So Stupid?!?!?!
My Fucking Father is such an asshole. I hate him. I really do. If he has no respect for my stuff, he has no respect for me.
And I hate myself for letting him do this to me. I had to be on the ball, at all times. And at the first moment of vulnerability he took advantage of me, and I should have known.
It was my magazines, and recycling. Thursdays are recycling days in my neighborhood, and ever since that fucking asshole altered my room in an effort to throw away my stuff, there's been this uneasy detente/game of dare where he tries to dispose and/or recycle my mags and I find them, take them off the curb and/or hide them in my room.
I'll admit that it ain't the most sensical thing. You should look at my room now: There are several bags of newspapers I still need to get to, some of them I still intend to read even though it's been, uh, half a decade since I put them aside to read "later." But I don't think it's bothering anybody, and it's my fucking decision.
And besides, my Entertainment Weeklys are a different story. I have, virtually, every issue since #10, the one featuring Bernadette Peters as Tammy Faye Bakker for a TV movie. They're a part of me, a mark of my history. And my goddamn father wants to throw them away.
It wasn't even my idea to buy them. I got EW all the way back in 1990 because he thought it'd give him a better chance of winning the Publisher's Clearinghouse Sweepstakes. Remember a long time ago when that sweepstakes was being advertised on TV, and there was an assumption that you can improve your chances of winning buy subscribing to magazines? He made me get them. I didn't want them because, even in my youth, I knew I didn't want more stuff around the house. But he insisted because he wanted money. EW was something that interested me, so to placate My Father, he bought me that subscription for me. I've subscribed to it ever since. And by the way, he didn't win.
So it's his fault I'm attached. And that's why I'm doing everything to preserve my poor little magazines. Apparently however, not enough.
Wednesday night I couldn't stay up because My Fucking Father had me gathering rocks in our front lawn (long story, I don't think I'll be regaling y'all with this one) and I passed out early. Slept through all the late-night talk shows, which means I'm awake when I usually turn in, around 5 o'clock.
As is my nature I avoid My Fucking Father, who's been waking up around 5 in the morning this time of year and, shockingly, sometimes even earlier. But I sneak out as soon as my parents leave for work.
I need to check outside, where our recycling bins are. There I saw something that looked like a wood crate. I go outside ... and there it was: A box containing my magazines, including a bunch of EW's. Goddamn you, Father, goddamn you.
Circumstances like what happened this morning tipped me off to what he started doing a few months ago: I passed out the previous evening, was wide awake when my parents left in the morning, went outside and saw my shit out there. The first case, thankfully, was just papers. He may have started weeks before, for all I know. But from that point on I finally understood what he was trying to do: Take pieces away from me.
So for the next few Thursdays I would wake up early just so I could go outside and see if he tried to throw my shit away. And most Thursdays, there would be a bag of my shit, so I would have to go outside and retrieve it. Hence, my room's full of my things again, thereby undermining what My Fucking Father tried to do when I was in St. Louis.
One Thursday I went outside and I saw nothing. Finally! I thought. He was done -- or, in my deluded mind, I beat him. He believed he was finished going "through" my things, but unbeknownst to him I still have it all, nyah-nyah! And I was relieved because that meant I didn't have to wake my tired ass up just to check if my stuff was going to be taken away.
I may have done it twice, although if I were honest with myself it was just that one time. I knew that there was a chance he could resume this "operation," but by the time the next Thursday rolled around, I just was too tired to care. He beat me down. I was so fatigued that I had to sleep through recycling Thursday morning. And so I didn't check the last two Thursdays. And that is how he fucking got me.
What I forgot is that after he got through my bags of papers, which were on the top floor, he began to excavate underneath the never-used pool table, which is in the basement. I threw some of my mags down there to after my parents yelled at me to clean up my room. Damn, I forgot that. Well, besides the fact that I should've continued to wake up early Thursday morning to save my things.
Damn you, you son-of-a-bitch. There is nothing wrong keeping my stuff around in places that don't affect anybody. And I hate myself for not keeping an eye on my things. Now there is a good chunk of my EW's that have been recycled for good. In fact, there's a part of me that should just give up because I "lost," because I was unable to save all of the issues of the magazine that I had. But then the other part of me reminds me that a) you can't just quit, b) not being able to be perfect doesn't mean you should let them all go, and the issues number almost a thousand, and c) you'll be letting Father win.
This situation can't be sustained. There's a good chance My Fucking Father will go through my room when I'm not there and see that I stashed all my shit. There are still places where my magazines are piling up, and he'll want to go through them. Worst of all, most of things are in my sister's room, and she'll be visiting in Christmas. It's a long ways away ... but not for me and my leisurely ass.
I have no choice but to get to work boxing up my EW's. Father at least says he'd put them in the attic if I wanted to keep them, but with the way he keeps throwing my mags away, even though I put them in those protective pouches, I have a feeling he won't want to do that. I might have to put them in storage. Either way, I unfortunately have to get crackin' at it because he'll be reaping my stuff. Again, what fucking difference does it make? In the meantime, I have early morning times every Thursday from now on.
I'm actually angrier about it now than I was this morning. I want to yell at My Fucking Father for what he's doing to me. But I know I can't. Why? I'll be cooped up with him as I take him to the airport tomorrow. Maybe I know I need to keep the peace. Or, I know I'm a pussy. Or, I know it won't do any good. Or, I have the good sense to not tell him what I know, to keep a weapon in my arsenal in case I need it for later.
Or, maybe I don't care as much as I think I do, or I think I should.
Or, maybe I'm growing up and learning that keeping magazines doesn't matter in the end.
Nah. I should stay angry. And plot. And seethe and scheme and hate.
What am I gonna do now?
And I hate myself for letting him do this to me. I had to be on the ball, at all times. And at the first moment of vulnerability he took advantage of me, and I should have known.
It was my magazines, and recycling. Thursdays are recycling days in my neighborhood, and ever since that fucking asshole altered my room in an effort to throw away my stuff, there's been this uneasy detente/game of dare where he tries to dispose and/or recycle my mags and I find them, take them off the curb and/or hide them in my room.
I'll admit that it ain't the most sensical thing. You should look at my room now: There are several bags of newspapers I still need to get to, some of them I still intend to read even though it's been, uh, half a decade since I put them aside to read "later." But I don't think it's bothering anybody, and it's my fucking decision.
And besides, my Entertainment Weeklys are a different story. I have, virtually, every issue since #10, the one featuring Bernadette Peters as Tammy Faye Bakker for a TV movie. They're a part of me, a mark of my history. And my goddamn father wants to throw them away.
It wasn't even my idea to buy them. I got EW all the way back in 1990 because he thought it'd give him a better chance of winning the Publisher's Clearinghouse Sweepstakes. Remember a long time ago when that sweepstakes was being advertised on TV, and there was an assumption that you can improve your chances of winning buy subscribing to magazines? He made me get them. I didn't want them because, even in my youth, I knew I didn't want more stuff around the house. But he insisted because he wanted money. EW was something that interested me, so to placate My Father, he bought me that subscription for me. I've subscribed to it ever since. And by the way, he didn't win.
So it's his fault I'm attached. And that's why I'm doing everything to preserve my poor little magazines. Apparently however, not enough.
Wednesday night I couldn't stay up because My Fucking Father had me gathering rocks in our front lawn (long story, I don't think I'll be regaling y'all with this one) and I passed out early. Slept through all the late-night talk shows, which means I'm awake when I usually turn in, around 5 o'clock.
As is my nature I avoid My Fucking Father, who's been waking up around 5 in the morning this time of year and, shockingly, sometimes even earlier. But I sneak out as soon as my parents leave for work.
I need to check outside, where our recycling bins are. There I saw something that looked like a wood crate. I go outside ... and there it was: A box containing my magazines, including a bunch of EW's. Goddamn you, Father, goddamn you.
Circumstances like what happened this morning tipped me off to what he started doing a few months ago: I passed out the previous evening, was wide awake when my parents left in the morning, went outside and saw my shit out there. The first case, thankfully, was just papers. He may have started weeks before, for all I know. But from that point on I finally understood what he was trying to do: Take pieces away from me.
So for the next few Thursdays I would wake up early just so I could go outside and see if he tried to throw my shit away. And most Thursdays, there would be a bag of my shit, so I would have to go outside and retrieve it. Hence, my room's full of my things again, thereby undermining what My Fucking Father tried to do when I was in St. Louis.
One Thursday I went outside and I saw nothing. Finally! I thought. He was done -- or, in my deluded mind, I beat him. He believed he was finished going "through" my things, but unbeknownst to him I still have it all, nyah-nyah! And I was relieved because that meant I didn't have to wake my tired ass up just to check if my stuff was going to be taken away.
I may have done it twice, although if I were honest with myself it was just that one time. I knew that there was a chance he could resume this "operation," but by the time the next Thursday rolled around, I just was too tired to care. He beat me down. I was so fatigued that I had to sleep through recycling Thursday morning. And so I didn't check the last two Thursdays. And that is how he fucking got me.
What I forgot is that after he got through my bags of papers, which were on the top floor, he began to excavate underneath the never-used pool table, which is in the basement. I threw some of my mags down there to after my parents yelled at me to clean up my room. Damn, I forgot that. Well, besides the fact that I should've continued to wake up early Thursday morning to save my things.
Damn you, you son-of-a-bitch. There is nothing wrong keeping my stuff around in places that don't affect anybody. And I hate myself for not keeping an eye on my things. Now there is a good chunk of my EW's that have been recycled for good. In fact, there's a part of me that should just give up because I "lost," because I was unable to save all of the issues of the magazine that I had. But then the other part of me reminds me that a) you can't just quit, b) not being able to be perfect doesn't mean you should let them all go, and the issues number almost a thousand, and c) you'll be letting Father win.
This situation can't be sustained. There's a good chance My Fucking Father will go through my room when I'm not there and see that I stashed all my shit. There are still places where my magazines are piling up, and he'll want to go through them. Worst of all, most of things are in my sister's room, and she'll be visiting in Christmas. It's a long ways away ... but not for me and my leisurely ass.
I have no choice but to get to work boxing up my EW's. Father at least says he'd put them in the attic if I wanted to keep them, but with the way he keeps throwing my mags away, even though I put them in those protective pouches, I have a feeling he won't want to do that. I might have to put them in storage. Either way, I unfortunately have to get crackin' at it because he'll be reaping my stuff. Again, what fucking difference does it make? In the meantime, I have early morning times every Thursday from now on.
I'm actually angrier about it now than I was this morning. I want to yell at My Fucking Father for what he's doing to me. But I know I can't. Why? I'll be cooped up with him as I take him to the airport tomorrow. Maybe I know I need to keep the peace. Or, I know I'm a pussy. Or, I know it won't do any good. Or, I have the good sense to not tell him what I know, to keep a weapon in my arsenal in case I need it for later.
Or, maybe I don't care as much as I think I do, or I think I should.
Or, maybe I'm growing up and learning that keeping magazines doesn't matter in the end.
Nah. I should stay angry. And plot. And seethe and scheme and hate.
What am I gonna do now?
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Bobby Jindal And Nikki Haley: DRINO's
It's absolutely comical how the Republicans are jumping on the bandwagon -- and that's why it is, bandwagoning -- after Barack Obama was elected President. They now had to show that they too are diverse. Through all the usual rightwingnut tactics to obstruct the President from actually presiding (saying no, tax cuts, allowing guns on the streets, banning homosexuals), there has been this stealth campaign to go the other way and prove to Americans that they do reflect the current makeup of our country.
Except that they don't. And the mascots they use to prove they're also tolerant actually prove that they are anything but. Most troubling of all, these "mascots" are willingly allowing themselves to be used. I don't see how Republicans think Jindal, the governor of Louisiana, and Haley, the Republican candidate for governor of South Carolina, represent the "new face" of the GOP when they hew to the same homogenous, unrelenting party, and racial, line.
Take Bobby Jindal. Please. His real name is Piyush. He was born and raised in Baton Rouge, and although he was raised Hindu, he got sucked into the conservative culture of the South and converted to Catholicism his first year at Brown. People call him Bobby, he uses Bobby, and his signature is just a line of squiggles, so you don't know if he regards himself as Piyush or Bobby officially. Now his entire family attends a Catholic church; don't know if they quit Hinduism to make him happy.
At least he didn't change his name, has a wife that uses her given Indian name (Supriya), and named his three kids with South Asian first names and American middle names. Nikki Haley, the presumptive new governor of South Carolina, has willingly dove into the waters of assimilation when Jindal has waded through. Haley was born Nimrata Randhawa and raised Sikh. But like Jindal, she decided to ditch her ancestry and converted to a Western religion, Methodism, before marrying his husband, Michael.
More startling are her current views about her blood and her current views on relations with her parents, who have decided to stay with Sikhism. She goes to a Sikh temple when invited by her parents; one gets the feeling she's thinking, "Ew-ew-ewwwwwww!" when confronted with Sikh ceremony. And when faced with the question of bridging her upbringing with her current beliefs, according to this Newsweek article:
In other words, fuck my past. I'm an American now! I'm a Southerner!! And I'm white!!! (That's not she would say, she's too smart; she's only thinking this. Jindal too.)
Tell me how this makes Jindal and Haley a "new kind" of Republican? They pray like white Republicans, talk like white Republicans, believe like white Republicans and, most importantly, hate like white Republicans. They are white Republicans. Yet white Republicans pull Jindal and Haley by the scruffs of their necks and say, "See! We can be diverse! Just like Obama!"
This is a false sense of racial intolerance. Whether or not this is genuine belief or a cynical ploy is up to you. Bottom line is, besides Jindal and Haley's extraction and dark skin color, these two ambitious politicians have managed to erase everything "exotic" about themselves, and thus they have been accepted into the Republican party. These two are Diverse Republicans In Name Only. Anyone with intelligence should utterly dismiss any chest beatings by the GOP that these two whitewashed symbols prove they're just as racially progressive as Democrats.
Except that they don't. And the mascots they use to prove they're also tolerant actually prove that they are anything but. Most troubling of all, these "mascots" are willingly allowing themselves to be used. I don't see how Republicans think Jindal, the governor of Louisiana, and Haley, the Republican candidate for governor of South Carolina, represent the "new face" of the GOP when they hew to the same homogenous, unrelenting party, and racial, line.
Take Bobby Jindal. Please. His real name is Piyush. He was born and raised in Baton Rouge, and although he was raised Hindu, he got sucked into the conservative culture of the South and converted to Catholicism his first year at Brown. People call him Bobby, he uses Bobby, and his signature is just a line of squiggles, so you don't know if he regards himself as Piyush or Bobby officially. Now his entire family attends a Catholic church; don't know if they quit Hinduism to make him happy.
At least he didn't change his name, has a wife that uses her given Indian name (Supriya), and named his three kids with South Asian first names and American middle names. Nikki Haley, the presumptive new governor of South Carolina, has willingly dove into the waters of assimilation when Jindal has waded through. Haley was born Nimrata Randhawa and raised Sikh. But like Jindal, she decided to ditch her ancestry and converted to a Western religion, Methodism, before marrying his husband, Michael.
More startling are her current views about her blood and her current views on relations with her parents, who have decided to stay with Sikhism. She goes to a Sikh temple when invited by her parents; one gets the feeling she's thinking, "Ew-ew-ewwwwwww!" when confronted with Sikh ceremony. And when faced with the question of bridging her upbringing with her current beliefs, according to this Newsweek article:
Haley shies away from talk of breaking racial and gender barriers. She says she’s proud of her heritage and of the accomplishments of Indian-Americans—their educational attainment, their income levels, their philanthropy. But that’s about as far as she’ll go. “Everybody else is looking at this to be something special,” she told me. But “there was actually nothing special about this at all.” Pressed on the matter, she allowed that “the fact that I happen to be an Indian female, of course that brings a new dynamic. But what I hope it does is cause a conversation in this state where we no longer live by labels, but we live by philosophies.”
In other words, fuck my past. I'm an American now! I'm a Southerner!! And I'm white!!! (That's not she would say, she's too smart; she's only thinking this. Jindal too.)
Tell me how this makes Jindal and Haley a "new kind" of Republican? They pray like white Republicans, talk like white Republicans, believe like white Republicans and, most importantly, hate like white Republicans. They are white Republicans. Yet white Republicans pull Jindal and Haley by the scruffs of their necks and say, "See! We can be diverse! Just like Obama!"
This is a false sense of racial intolerance. Whether or not this is genuine belief or a cynical ploy is up to you. Bottom line is, besides Jindal and Haley's extraction and dark skin color, these two ambitious politicians have managed to erase everything "exotic" about themselves, and thus they have been accepted into the Republican party. These two are Diverse Republicans In Name Only. Anyone with intelligence should utterly dismiss any chest beatings by the GOP that these two whitewashed symbols prove they're just as racially progressive as Democrats.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
It's The All-Star Game, Not The All-Yankee, Ass-Kissing, Cock-Sucking Game
Is anyone pissed off by the Yankee slant in last night's All-Star Game? George Steinbrenner was given a moment of silence, and the game made special mention that Golden Boy Derek Jeter was going to be announced by Bob Sheppard, who died Sunday.
Was anybody else given the same special treatment? If not, why the fuck were Steinbrenner and Sheppard allowed to have their own time in the spotlight? It's not right; it's playing favorites.
Carl Pohlad, owner of the Twins, died last year. Was he given a moment of silence before last year's All-Star Game? Sheppard seems to be a nice guy (if I wanted to be spiteful I'd make an exception for him and not Steinbrenner because he's an asshole), but until he died I had no idea who the fuck this guy was. Why not let other All-Stars be announced the same way they're announced when playing at home? Why does Jeter get to be special but no one else?
I'm serious, this is bullshit. More people should be angry about this. I find this pro-Yankee boot-licking offensive.
Was anybody else given the same special treatment? If not, why the fuck were Steinbrenner and Sheppard allowed to have their own time in the spotlight? It's not right; it's playing favorites.
Carl Pohlad, owner of the Twins, died last year. Was he given a moment of silence before last year's All-Star Game? Sheppard seems to be a nice guy (if I wanted to be spiteful I'd make an exception for him and not Steinbrenner because he's an asshole), but until he died I had no idea who the fuck this guy was. Why not let other All-Stars be announced the same way they're announced when playing at home? Why does Jeter get to be special but no one else?
I'm serious, this is bullshit. More people should be angry about this. I find this pro-Yankee boot-licking offensive.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
That Was My Worst Day Ever
I've had bad days before. The times I was beaten, all of them. The day I learned my Grandmother died. The day I had to go to sleep because I had to wake up early for summer school. The time I missed my band recital. The second time I failed my driving test. The day I read my rejection letters from Harvard, Yale, Stanford and Columbia. The day I learned I couldn't change my National Merit Scholarship award because I decided to change schools. The day I learned my other Grandmother died. The night my parent's truck got stolen while I was using it in El Paso. The day I lost my job and learned I might have testicular cancer.
OK ... now that I read all this, this day wasn't bad. But I certainly feel like shit right now, and the present is the only thing that matters. At least right now.
You wanna know how bad my day was? So I learn that I don't qualify for unemployment just before I have to go to "work." Like I said before, at this point I'm in a panicky, hopeless mood. But I have to go to "work."
I go to say goodbye to Grandmother. But she's not in her room, nor in the laundry room. She went out. So at the front door I am at a crossroads: Do I turn on the alarm or do I leave without doing so?
I know that if I got the unemployment I deserve, I would've been in a carefree mood and left alarm-free. But I felt out of control, so I tried to stop myself and think about what could happen under both cases. If I turn it on, there's a chance Grandmother would forget the code and the police will show up ... but she should know the code, and probably does know it, and if there's a chance Father comes home early, I won't hear the end of it. Then again, there's a good chance nothing will happen if I just go without setting the alarm ... but if somehow burglers target the house, well. ...
At the end, I fall back on my training and set the alarm. I need to eat -- two-buck Taco Bell instead of five-buck Kentucky Fried Chicken -- and I wanted to go.
Halfway down to "work," the phone rings. It's Mother. No, no, I can't go to the bank. But she wasn't calling about the bank; she was calling because the alarm company called her and said the alarm's on. You fucking kidding me?
After I call home -- although Mother promised she would call home, why couldn't you if you promised? -- I hear Grandmother, panicky and frazzled. She said the alarm's on and she tried to turn it off but she couldn't, and it somehow turned off by itself. Whatever. I had another choice; I could've just turned back home, cancelled "work" and made sure everything was OK. But I didn't want to add more drama to this really bad day, so I proceeded to Taco Bell.
At "work" at the U., I get another call. It said "Private Call." As soon as I answer, I hear this blaring siren in the background. Grandmother, again. "The alarm ... it's going off, and I can't do anything about it," she said (I think). I try to get information from her, but she passes the phone to her friend, who I didn't know was even there. After I talk to her about what the hell's going on, she passes me to her husband, another friend of Grandmother's.
I'm screaming at this point; hopefully the sound-proof booth I was in is sound-proof. I had no choice but to tell him, Grandmother's friend, the code; had a feeling that that would work. It's five digits, but goddammit, he kept leaving one off as he recited the code and punched the numbers on the keypad. I had to keep bellowing and bellowing through my cell before he got it inbetween his ears that he had to push five numbers, and the sound stopped. Goddamn, really?
I finally got home about 4 1/2 hours after all this shit started. Turns out she was shocked that I left before she came back from Sam's Club and had her hands full of stuff when the alarm went off. She became flustered and tried to remember the disarm code, but mixed up the tic-tac-toe sign with the "1" button. After a while of trying, it stopped. But then, when she either moved or opened the door (or something), the alarm sounded again. And again she didn't remember to punch in the code correctly, and again the alarm just shut off by itself.
She was so afraid that she'd set it off again that she left the door open, retreated into her room and waited for me to come back home. Unfortunately, this was the time her friends decided to drop by. And I'm guessing, though I don't know, they saw the door ajar and just helped themselves in, thus setting off the motion alarm again. That's when she called me when I was at "work."
There was nothing happening after my Grandmother's male friend turned off the alarm with the code I gave him. Maybe we have to change it now? Luckily, my parents didn't say anything about it when they got home. But I was afraid they would. That was my overiding concern, whether they'd be mad. In fact, I was afraid this would be the camel that broke the camel's back, the one mistake that would convince My Father to send Grandmother into the nurse's home. I hate that about it; I'm always thinking, "But what would they think?"
OK ... now that I read all this, this day wasn't bad. But I certainly feel like shit right now, and the present is the only thing that matters. At least right now.
You wanna know how bad my day was? So I learn that I don't qualify for unemployment just before I have to go to "work." Like I said before, at this point I'm in a panicky, hopeless mood. But I have to go to "work."
I go to say goodbye to Grandmother. But she's not in her room, nor in the laundry room. She went out. So at the front door I am at a crossroads: Do I turn on the alarm or do I leave without doing so?
I know that if I got the unemployment I deserve, I would've been in a carefree mood and left alarm-free. But I felt out of control, so I tried to stop myself and think about what could happen under both cases. If I turn it on, there's a chance Grandmother would forget the code and the police will show up ... but she should know the code, and probably does know it, and if there's a chance Father comes home early, I won't hear the end of it. Then again, there's a good chance nothing will happen if I just go without setting the alarm ... but if somehow burglers target the house, well. ...
At the end, I fall back on my training and set the alarm. I need to eat -- two-buck Taco Bell instead of five-buck Kentucky Fried Chicken -- and I wanted to go.
Halfway down to "work," the phone rings. It's Mother. No, no, I can't go to the bank. But she wasn't calling about the bank; she was calling because the alarm company called her and said the alarm's on. You fucking kidding me?
After I call home -- although Mother promised she would call home, why couldn't you if you promised? -- I hear Grandmother, panicky and frazzled. She said the alarm's on and she tried to turn it off but she couldn't, and it somehow turned off by itself. Whatever. I had another choice; I could've just turned back home, cancelled "work" and made sure everything was OK. But I didn't want to add more drama to this really bad day, so I proceeded to Taco Bell.
At "work" at the U., I get another call. It said "Private Call." As soon as I answer, I hear this blaring siren in the background. Grandmother, again. "The alarm ... it's going off, and I can't do anything about it," she said (I think). I try to get information from her, but she passes the phone to her friend, who I didn't know was even there. After I talk to her about what the hell's going on, she passes me to her husband, another friend of Grandmother's.
I'm screaming at this point; hopefully the sound-proof booth I was in is sound-proof. I had no choice but to tell him, Grandmother's friend, the code; had a feeling that that would work. It's five digits, but goddammit, he kept leaving one off as he recited the code and punched the numbers on the keypad. I had to keep bellowing and bellowing through my cell before he got it inbetween his ears that he had to push five numbers, and the sound stopped. Goddamn, really?
I finally got home about 4 1/2 hours after all this shit started. Turns out she was shocked that I left before she came back from Sam's Club and had her hands full of stuff when the alarm went off. She became flustered and tried to remember the disarm code, but mixed up the tic-tac-toe sign with the "1" button. After a while of trying, it stopped. But then, when she either moved or opened the door (or something), the alarm sounded again. And again she didn't remember to punch in the code correctly, and again the alarm just shut off by itself.
She was so afraid that she'd set it off again that she left the door open, retreated into her room and waited for me to come back home. Unfortunately, this was the time her friends decided to drop by. And I'm guessing, though I don't know, they saw the door ajar and just helped themselves in, thus setting off the motion alarm again. That's when she called me when I was at "work."
There was nothing happening after my Grandmother's male friend turned off the alarm with the code I gave him. Maybe we have to change it now? Luckily, my parents didn't say anything about it when they got home. But I was afraid they would. That was my overiding concern, whether they'd be mad. In fact, I was afraid this would be the camel that broke the camel's back, the one mistake that would convince My Father to send Grandmother into the nurse's home. I hate that about it; I'm always thinking, "But what would they think?"
Monday, July 12, 2010
Oh, fuck this -- fuck this day, fuck my life.
I am in a panicky, bad mood right now. I thought my unemployment would come in this week, but I applied today, and I didn't -- I was to receive $0, according to the state.
I thought I was going to get the money I need to live, but now I've been fucked over. I don't know what to do.
Don't start with me today, please. It's as if the entire world came down on me today. Not just this but ... I'll tell y'all another time.
Fuck this day, and fuck my life.
I am in a panicky, bad mood right now. I thought my unemployment would come in this week, but I applied today, and I didn't -- I was to receive $0, according to the state.
I thought I was going to get the money I need to live, but now I've been fucked over. I don't know what to do.
Don't start with me today, please. It's as if the entire world came down on me today. Not just this but ... I'll tell y'all another time.
Fuck this day, and fuck my life.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Need to get this off my chest. So I'm working on my laptop, and I hear stirrings outside. Guessing it's my Grandmother. Even though I don't see the hallway light outside my door turn on, I go outside to check if she needs anything, just to nip things in the bud.
As if she anticipated me coming out like the dutiful grandson I've always been, there she was at the kitchen table, just about to sit down, with her blood pressure monitor in her hands. She wanted my help checking it -- and she knew she wouldn't have to get me because I always come running.
I do it ... and in the mean time my laptop, the one where I'm typing all this right now, was very low on power. I get done with my Grandmother and sit down at my desk ... and then the laptop goes out. It just went into hibernation-due-to-low-energy mode. Dammit. So I have to get out the plug, something I could've/should've done before and plug it all in. I wish that could have stopped the shutdown process on my laptop, but it doesn't. Instead I had to wait until it went into actual hibernation, and then pushed the power button the very next millisecond.
Everything's fine. No bit deal at the end of it all, but still.
As if she anticipated me coming out like the dutiful grandson I've always been, there she was at the kitchen table, just about to sit down, with her blood pressure monitor in her hands. She wanted my help checking it -- and she knew she wouldn't have to get me because I always come running.
I do it ... and in the mean time my laptop, the one where I'm typing all this right now, was very low on power. I get done with my Grandmother and sit down at my desk ... and then the laptop goes out. It just went into hibernation-due-to-low-energy mode. Dammit. So I have to get out the plug, something I could've/should've done before and plug it all in. I wish that could have stopped the shutdown process on my laptop, but it doesn't. Instead I had to wait until it went into actual hibernation, and then pushed the power button the very next millisecond.
Everything's fine. No bit deal at the end of it all, but still.
Helped celebrate one of my All-Time Favorite's birthday today. I think she was being kind to me by giving me much better looks of her pussy on stage. She even asked me to get her a printout of her natal chart the next time I see her. I'm making inroads; she's starting to trust me. And it feels so good.
Edited to add that I can't take my mind off her pussy. On second thought, I don't think I've ever had close-up looks of her pussy ever. You should've seen it. Tan. Clean, for lack of a better term. Virginal. The texture of a box, if that makes any sense. And I mean that as a good thing, too. Maybe I'm swooning over her vagina because I swoon over her, but ... damn, you should've seen that pussy!
Edited to add that I can't take my mind off her pussy. On second thought, I don't think I've ever had close-up looks of her pussy ever. You should've seen it. Tan. Clean, for lack of a better term. Virginal. The texture of a box, if that makes any sense. And I mean that as a good thing, too. Maybe I'm swooning over her vagina because I swoon over her, but ... damn, you should've seen that pussy!
Saturday, July 10, 2010
She Bogarted My Exercise Machine
I've seen a lot of things at one of the two places I work out at. This one is bigger and more modern with more amenities. And, it's also much more expensive.
Anyway, so earlier this week I was wiping down a weight machine to work out my skinny arms. There are stations where the alcoholic spray bottles and towels are. What I do is take the spray bottle and a towel and bring it over to the machine so I can wipe it down real good. No one is as thorough (clean, I think) as I am, and very few people even wipe down the machine after they're done with it. More on this later, hopefully.
However, no one, and I mean no one, has the foresight to wipe down the machine before they use it. Why not? You have no idea if the person before you was responsible. They could be giving you MRSA, and I ain't gettin' no MRSA.
I pass by this woman as I'm putting the spray bottle back. She's short and kind of stocky, with a face that looked like it had work done -- possibly unfinished or even failed work, because she looked older than she could be, if you know what I mean. Anyway, I had a bad feeling about this. And sure enough, as I reached the bottle-and-towel station, she took my machine, the one I just prepared for my own personal use.
Damn her! Well, I shouldn't act all that angry. I knew this was going to happen at some point: Someone thinks I'm wiping down a machine I'm done with and leaving instead of wiping down a machine I'm going to use and coming. Still pissed, though. I needed that muscle training to burn more calories.
Anyway, so earlier this week I was wiping down a weight machine to work out my skinny arms. There are stations where the alcoholic spray bottles and towels are. What I do is take the spray bottle and a towel and bring it over to the machine so I can wipe it down real good. No one is as thorough (clean, I think) as I am, and very few people even wipe down the machine after they're done with it. More on this later, hopefully.
However, no one, and I mean no one, has the foresight to wipe down the machine before they use it. Why not? You have no idea if the person before you was responsible. They could be giving you MRSA, and I ain't gettin' no MRSA.
I pass by this woman as I'm putting the spray bottle back. She's short and kind of stocky, with a face that looked like it had work done -- possibly unfinished or even failed work, because she looked older than she could be, if you know what I mean. Anyway, I had a bad feeling about this. And sure enough, as I reached the bottle-and-towel station, she took my machine, the one I just prepared for my own personal use.
Damn her! Well, I shouldn't act all that angry. I knew this was going to happen at some point: Someone thinks I'm wiping down a machine I'm done with and leaving instead of wiping down a machine I'm going to use and coming. Still pissed, though. I needed that muscle training to burn more calories.
Friday, July 9, 2010
The Weekly Minnesota Sports Survey
#-1: Lynx (Last Week: -2). They won? They won! And it was an ass-kicking ... against a good team! The Jynx beat San Antonio by 23 points at Target Center last (Thursday) night. They were led by Rebekkah Brunson, who had 24 points and hauled in 10 rebounds.
Maybe this team shouldn't revolve around Seimone Augustus or Lindsay Whalen. Brunson, taken by the Jinks in the Sacramento Moncarchs Dispersal Draft, notched her eighth double-double of the season against San Antone, which is a new single-season record for the franchise. For her efforts, on Tuesday Brunson was named as a reserve member of the WNBA All-Star team that will face the national basketball team tomorrow (Saturday). She will be joined by Whalen, who scored 14 points and dished out five assists in the victory and was told today (Friday) that she will replace Silver Stars Guard Becky Hammon on the All-Star team. Hammon injured her quadriceps in ... the loss to the Lynx! Well played, Whalen!
It's stupid to be so giddy after just one game, but this may have been their best game of the year. They now in fourth place in the Western Conference, a half-game behind second place Phoenix. (Check out the standings at the break; Seattle has a nine-game lead in the West. Wow.) After the All-Star break, they begin the second half of the season Wednesday at home against Atlanta.
#-2: Twins (Last Week: -1). Ruh-roh. I partially take back what I said last week; the A.L. Central could remain a weak division, but that doesn't mean it isn't a competitive one. This might be a great race come September, but right now it's not looking good for the Twinks, who have scuffled to a 2-5 week, capped off by tonight's (Friday night's) 7-3 defeat to start a series at Detroit. I was at Target Field to witness the eighth-inning rimjob the Twinkies' bullpen offered for the Tampa Bay Rays, and it feels as if that collapse have pushed the team down another circle of Hell. They have lost three in a row now (the last two in the midweek series at Toronto) and haven't played well for about the last month or so. And it's everything -- lack of hittin with RISP, starting pitching, relief pitching, injuries, all of it. As a result, they have fallen from first to third in the division. And they are now three games behind the leading Tigers.
Worse yet, they're not going to get Cliff Lee to save them. Today (Friday) the Seattle Mariners inexplicably traded the left-handed friggin' pitcher godhead to their division rivals, the A.L. West-leading, and bankrupt, Texas Rangers. On paper, the Twins were supposed to have the inside track. But not only were they aced out by the Bastard Washington Senators 2.0, but they weren't even in the picture; this afternoon Lee was supposed to be sent to the New York Yankees (why help them, Seattle?). The Twins had a very good catching prospect, Wilson Ramos, who won't be on the club because of Joe Mauer, and they were willing to trade another good prospect, outfielder Aaron Hicks. Some people thought it was too much; I say that if you have a chance to increase your chances of making the postseason, you overpay for a surefire ace and use him to increase the your odds in the crapshoot that is the Major League Baseball playoffs. But it's all over now.
They finish the first half of the season with a pair at Detroit. There's the All-Star Game (congratulations to Mauer and Justin Morneau, even though Morneau probably won't play 'cause he's injured), and then the Twins start the second half of their season beginning Thursday at home against the hot (and second-place) Chicago White Sox.
#-3: Timberwolves (Last Week: -3). Is David Kahn just duplicating players in the same position just to fuck with us? The big news this week for the Woofie Dogs came just after LeBron James's decision to go to Miami, where the Heat traded Michael Beasley, the second player drafted in the 2008 NBA Draft and kind of a headcase, this way for a series of future draft picks. Have no idea if he'll have a superstar career a few people thought he'd have, but at least he's young. He's also a Small Forward tweener ... kind of like Wesley Johnson, the man Kahn drafted fourth overall in this year's NBA Draft ... and Martell Webster, whom they traded for on Draft Night. What the fuck, really?
Maybe this team shouldn't revolve around Seimone Augustus or Lindsay Whalen. Brunson, taken by the Jinks in the Sacramento Moncarchs Dispersal Draft, notched her eighth double-double of the season against San Antone, which is a new single-season record for the franchise. For her efforts, on Tuesday Brunson was named as a reserve member of the WNBA All-Star team that will face the national basketball team tomorrow (Saturday). She will be joined by Whalen, who scored 14 points and dished out five assists in the victory and was told today (Friday) that she will replace Silver Stars Guard Becky Hammon on the All-Star team. Hammon injured her quadriceps in ... the loss to the Lynx! Well played, Whalen!
It's stupid to be so giddy after just one game, but this may have been their best game of the year. They now in fourth place in the Western Conference, a half-game behind second place Phoenix. (Check out the standings at the break; Seattle has a nine-game lead in the West. Wow.) After the All-Star break, they begin the second half of the season Wednesday at home against Atlanta.
#-2: Twins (Last Week: -1). Ruh-roh. I partially take back what I said last week; the A.L. Central could remain a weak division, but that doesn't mean it isn't a competitive one. This might be a great race come September, but right now it's not looking good for the Twinks, who have scuffled to a 2-5 week, capped off by tonight's (Friday night's) 7-3 defeat to start a series at Detroit. I was at Target Field to witness the eighth-inning rimjob the Twinkies' bullpen offered for the Tampa Bay Rays, and it feels as if that collapse have pushed the team down another circle of Hell. They have lost three in a row now (the last two in the midweek series at Toronto) and haven't played well for about the last month or so. And it's everything -- lack of hittin with RISP, starting pitching, relief pitching, injuries, all of it. As a result, they have fallen from first to third in the division. And they are now three games behind the leading Tigers.
Worse yet, they're not going to get Cliff Lee to save them. Today (Friday) the Seattle Mariners inexplicably traded the left-handed friggin' pitcher godhead to their division rivals, the A.L. West-leading, and bankrupt, Texas Rangers. On paper, the Twins were supposed to have the inside track. But not only were they aced out by the Bastard Washington Senators 2.0, but they weren't even in the picture; this afternoon Lee was supposed to be sent to the New York Yankees (why help them, Seattle?). The Twins had a very good catching prospect, Wilson Ramos, who won't be on the club because of Joe Mauer, and they were willing to trade another good prospect, outfielder Aaron Hicks. Some people thought it was too much; I say that if you have a chance to increase your chances of making the postseason, you overpay for a surefire ace and use him to increase the your odds in the crapshoot that is the Major League Baseball playoffs. But it's all over now.
They finish the first half of the season with a pair at Detroit. There's the All-Star Game (congratulations to Mauer and Justin Morneau, even though Morneau probably won't play 'cause he's injured), and then the Twins start the second half of their season beginning Thursday at home against the hot (and second-place) Chicago White Sox.
#-3: Timberwolves (Last Week: -3). Is David Kahn just duplicating players in the same position just to fuck with us? The big news this week for the Woofie Dogs came just after LeBron James's decision to go to Miami, where the Heat traded Michael Beasley, the second player drafted in the 2008 NBA Draft and kind of a headcase, this way for a series of future draft picks. Have no idea if he'll have a superstar career a few people thought he'd have, but at least he's young. He's also a Small Forward tweener ... kind of like Wesley Johnson, the man Kahn drafted fourth overall in this year's NBA Draft ... and Martell Webster, whom they traded for on Draft Night. What the fuck, really?
Thursday, July 8, 2010
The Greatest Piece On The Current State Of Politics I've Read In A Long Time
It's from Esquire. Kind of surprised, but I was convinced this magazine was serious about American politics when it published an essay endorsing Barack Obama for President in 2008. Written newspaper board-style by "The Authors," this endorsement is, foremost, well-written, and, better yet, balances both reason and passion. I was convined that Obama was the better candidate; this piece steeled my decision.
Last week, Esquire's Charles P. Pierce delivered an essay about how, in his words, "poisoned" American politics is right now. I have a feeling Pierce was the main contributor behind the Obama endorsement two years ago because this beautifully written piece has the same intellectural rigor, emotional certainty, and impeccable style. Which makes his anger, his pleading that the Republican party has turned into these rabid, over-the-top, belligerent group of teabaggers and teabagger enablers -- and that they're allowed to flourish and even potentially take over government in this fall's elections because of the accomodations of Democrats and the insouciance of the American people -- even more potent and convincing.
This is, quite simply, the truth. And it is persuasive writing at its best. It shakes me from the laziness I've expected in myself and our political system. Please read it; it will do the same to you.
Last week, Esquire's Charles P. Pierce delivered an essay about how, in his words, "poisoned" American politics is right now. I have a feeling Pierce was the main contributor behind the Obama endorsement two years ago because this beautifully written piece has the same intellectural rigor, emotional certainty, and impeccable style. Which makes his anger, his pleading that the Republican party has turned into these rabid, over-the-top, belligerent group of teabaggers and teabagger enablers -- and that they're allowed to flourish and even potentially take over government in this fall's elections because of the accomodations of Democrats and the insouciance of the American people -- even more potent and convincing.
This is, quite simply, the truth. And it is persuasive writing at its best. It shakes me from the laziness I've expected in myself and our political system. Please read it; it will do the same to you.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Mental Note: Grandmother Felt Dizzy This Morning
At around six this morning, the 7th, Grandmother tried to get up, but because she was dizzy, she fell to the floor right next to the bed. She laid there for a half hour before being able to get her bearings and go to the bathroom, where she wanted to go in the first place. This is according to her, by the way.
When I saw her at 10, she was trying to answer the phone. She continued talking into the receiver even though the nurse on the other end of the line hung up many seconds before. Grandmother couldn't speak, and she couldn't walk without assistance. She actually tried talking to me in English rather than Cantonese.
I put her in bed. About 15 minutes later she was up and asking for food. She also wanted to take her pills. After chasing them down with the fruit juice I asked her to drink (for the sugar, just in case she was in diabetic shock again), she started acting normally. She said she forgot to take her medicine last night before bedtime.
She's totally fine now -- coherent and everything. But just in case, I'm blogging about this.
When I saw her at 10, she was trying to answer the phone. She continued talking into the receiver even though the nurse on the other end of the line hung up many seconds before. Grandmother couldn't speak, and she couldn't walk without assistance. She actually tried talking to me in English rather than Cantonese.
I put her in bed. About 15 minutes later she was up and asking for food. She also wanted to take her pills. After chasing them down with the fruit juice I asked her to drink (for the sugar, just in case she was in diabetic shock again), she started acting normally. She said she forgot to take her medicine last night before bedtime.
She's totally fine now -- coherent and everything. But just in case, I'm blogging about this.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
No, Actually, No "Funemployment"
I may have blogged about this: One of the things I hate about myself is the feeling I get when I think something's the way I want it to be, and then as I go through it, whether it be a process or a night or a plan, I slowly realize that not only is it not what I thought it would be, but it will turn out a lot worse than I want it to.
I was bummed late last week when I said I lost out on my chance for a job and therefore have to schlep it back on the dole. Well, I qualify, and the computer gave me my benefit amount. Today was the first day I could get on and apply for my money this week, so I did this afternoon.
I've done this before, therefore I know all the questions they were going to throw at me. When I reached the point where I had to type how much money I made for the week, and when I started typing that amount, this "oh shit" feeling dawned on me.
You see, the amount I made virtually matches the amount I'm supposed to receive. Although the math doesn't line up precisely, any dollar I make is one less dollar I get from the state. This past week I made so much that the benefit amount is $0. In other words, I applied for money this week and it was determined I was to receive not a red cent.
What's worse is that I did have an extra job this weekend, but the pay was so low that, if I'm crunching the numbers right this time, the amount I usually get paid will match the expected amount. I'll need to check the next week and/or see any mail that comes from the state. But it is quite possible that I will not receive any money at all, even though I have applied for unemployment.
And that means, my friends, that I am broke. I have very little money coming in, and unless I radically curtail my lifestyle, I will be bleeding money until I completely run out. This sucks dude, it really does. I though society was going to help me, but even these guys won't get me out of my troubles now.
The choices between getting a job or going back to work always remained somewhat abstract if only because I had enough cash to buoy me until I really need to make a decision. I am at the crossroads right now. And frankly, I hate it. I do not want to make this decision. I want to go to strip clubs whenever the fuck I like and get titties waved my face. I can't go back to school or, shit, find some job that I'll grow to hate. Again.
What the fuck am I supposed to do?
I was bummed late last week when I said I lost out on my chance for a job and therefore have to schlep it back on the dole. Well, I qualify, and the computer gave me my benefit amount. Today was the first day I could get on and apply for my money this week, so I did this afternoon.
I've done this before, therefore I know all the questions they were going to throw at me. When I reached the point where I had to type how much money I made for the week, and when I started typing that amount, this "oh shit" feeling dawned on me.
You see, the amount I made virtually matches the amount I'm supposed to receive. Although the math doesn't line up precisely, any dollar I make is one less dollar I get from the state. This past week I made so much that the benefit amount is $0. In other words, I applied for money this week and it was determined I was to receive not a red cent.
What's worse is that I did have an extra job this weekend, but the pay was so low that, if I'm crunching the numbers right this time, the amount I usually get paid will match the expected amount. I'll need to check the next week and/or see any mail that comes from the state. But it is quite possible that I will not receive any money at all, even though I have applied for unemployment.
And that means, my friends, that I am broke. I have very little money coming in, and unless I radically curtail my lifestyle, I will be bleeding money until I completely run out. This sucks dude, it really does. I though society was going to help me, but even these guys won't get me out of my troubles now.
The choices between getting a job or going back to work always remained somewhat abstract if only because I had enough cash to buoy me until I really need to make a decision. I am at the crossroads right now. And frankly, I hate it. I do not want to make this decision. I want to go to strip clubs whenever the fuck I like and get titties waved my face. I can't go back to school or, shit, find some job that I'll grow to hate. Again.
What the fuck am I supposed to do?
Monday, July 5, 2010
OK, so about a week or so ago I was taking a shit during my usual break from "work" at the U. All of a sudden I hear a man walk into the bathroom. Not ideal, but I'll deal.
The footsteps didn't stop, however. He didn't stop at the sinks. And my fucking God, he didn't stop at the urinals, either. All of a sudden I hear this onrushing steps and a burst through the door -- my bathroom door! I have to reach out with my hand to keep him from opening more of the door and seeing me in my altogether. I go "Whoa!" and he quickly apologizes before he ... fuck, I don't remember where he went after that, I was just freaked out.
There are two things that I'm still pissed off about with this incident:
1) Why in the fuck did this guy not check to see if there was anybody in the stall? The first goddamn thing I do when I enter a bathroom at the U. is crouch to see if I can see any feet in front of the toilets. If there are, I give that man his privacy and I leave to find another bathroom. But no, this guy just comes in like he owns the fucking bathroom and just barges into my stall and almost sees my shit and dick. If I know this guy, that would have been really embarrassing. I might have had to quit this job right then and there.
2) Am I not able to lock a bathroom stall door? This locks by moving a latch from side to side. That's it. It has liked every single time -- well, I think it has -- before. And it wasn't ajar when I sat down to begin my bowel movement. I had no reason to believe it was unlocked. Therefore I am shocked, confused and angry as to how I didn't lock it. It's a simple thing; how does that not work? And it just so happens that if this was the first time this has ever happened, I would have to pay by being almost walked in on.
The footsteps didn't stop, however. He didn't stop at the sinks. And my fucking God, he didn't stop at the urinals, either. All of a sudden I hear this onrushing steps and a burst through the door -- my bathroom door! I have to reach out with my hand to keep him from opening more of the door and seeing me in my altogether. I go "Whoa!" and he quickly apologizes before he ... fuck, I don't remember where he went after that, I was just freaked out.
There are two things that I'm still pissed off about with this incident:
1) Why in the fuck did this guy not check to see if there was anybody in the stall? The first goddamn thing I do when I enter a bathroom at the U. is crouch to see if I can see any feet in front of the toilets. If there are, I give that man his privacy and I leave to find another bathroom. But no, this guy just comes in like he owns the fucking bathroom and just barges into my stall and almost sees my shit and dick. If I know this guy, that would have been really embarrassing. I might have had to quit this job right then and there.
2) Am I not able to lock a bathroom stall door? This locks by moving a latch from side to side. That's it. It has liked every single time -- well, I think it has -- before. And it wasn't ajar when I sat down to begin my bowel movement. I had no reason to believe it was unlocked. Therefore I am shocked, confused and angry as to how I didn't lock it. It's a simple thing; how does that not work? And it just so happens that if this was the first time this has ever happened, I would have to pay by being almost walked in on.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
My Sacred 4th Of July Tradition
My Independence Day tradition? Listening to Soundgarden's "4th of July." It's only the best song ever. I usually try and listen intently twice in a row, but because I had nothing else to do, tonight I listened to it on the iTunes on my laptop four times.
What, is that a sucky tradition?
What, is that a sucky tradition?
"Ever Wonder Why You Never Remember The Beginning Of A Dream?"
That may or may not be the exact quote from Inception, the Christopher Nolan/Leonardo DiCaprio movie that some people think not only is the most-anticipated film of the summer but also the flick that will redeem the crap Hollywood has made so far this summer. Personally, I think this is so inscrutable that I don't care to see it. And "dream thieves?" That sounds like Freddy Kreuger without the claws.
But that quote above is so true. You never remember the beginning of a dream!
Anyway, I had a dream while sleeping. Actually, it should qualify as a nightmare -- not because it was nightmarish, but because I was sleeping at night. If I had this during the day, it would be a daydream, I think.
Anyhoo, I was in what looked to be a library and the singer/songwriter P.J. Harvey was announcing she was getting married. Why is she telling me? Are we friends? She's hot, but it ain't like we're buds or anything.
That's what I wanted to share right now.
But that quote above is so true. You never remember the beginning of a dream!
Anyway, I had a dream while sleeping. Actually, it should qualify as a nightmare -- not because it was nightmarish, but because I was sleeping at night. If I had this during the day, it would be a daydream, I think.
Anyhoo, I was in what looked to be a library and the singer/songwriter P.J. Harvey was announcing she was getting married. Why is she telling me? Are we friends? She's hot, but it ain't like we're buds or anything.
That's what I wanted to share right now.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Rejected For A Job By The Temp Agency Today!
Mentioned that I had to cancel an interview downtown for a job that looked to be mine because my uncle went to the hosptial. Well, I thought I had to delay going there two weeks because this Friday (I needed to go to this strip club on a Friday because I was told one of my All-Time Favorites would surely be there on a Friday) was the 4th of July Holiday Weekend, and I'd have to take my parents to the airport today. But they had to cancel because they had to tend to the store because my uncle was on bedrest. Ironically, my uncle was the reason I had to push back my interview/stripclubbin' two weeks, then was the reason I got to move it up a week.
I e-mailed the same person that I had to postpone that I could come in. It wasn't really an interview; all I had to do was hand over my Social Security card. I needed to ask a few questions, and then I'd start work. Most importantly, I was told chances were good I had a job available whenever I wanted to start. And you have to believe me that I was ready to get back to work. I still am.
So I e-mailed her Wednesday. This morning, just in case, I got a reply. Don't bother coming, she said, the job has been filled. Moreover, she yelled at me for having the gall to e-mail her again and to forget what she believe she emphasized in her last e-mail to me, when I had to cancel:
"If you recall my last email, I asked that you give me a call to see if they still have a need since it's been awhile. I am not available today at 11:30am. Also, I don't think we have a need to meet at this point as Wells Fargo does not currently have a need for Data Entry candidates. If they do in the future, I will give you a call. Thank you."
If you recall my last e-mail, I asked that you give me a call. Except that you didn't -- that's what she's saying. I am not available today at 11:30 a.m. Don't bother me -- that's what she's saying. If they do in the future, I will give you a call. I ain't gonna bother talking to you anymore, asshole -- that's what she's saying. Well, I'll be goddamned for trying to be nice.
I am absolutely infuriated over this woman's tone to me. I can't help that my uncle almost died. I wasn't being lackadaisical in my pursuit of this job. I was merely putting my family first, and she and everybody else would do the same -- if they had a heart. To be so dismissed like this, when I expressed my desire to fill this position, when she told me this was a virtual slam dunk, and in the way she curtly brushed me aside like she did ... goddamn, I'm pissed off. This fat chick with a tramp stamp doesn't have the right to treat me this way. Not when I'm at the end of my financial rope.
So I had to do what I didn't want to do: Today I applied for unemployment. I don't want to be one of the people sucking up money, nor do I want to hurt President Obama's fortunes by being another person on the dole. But I have no choice. I need money, now. And if I'm once again rejected for a job for no good goddamn reason, unemployment is where I will go. I blame society.
Of course, I'm going to do the best I can. I still have to look for work; it's been a long fucking time. But if I'm getting money for not working, best thing to do is to make the most of it. It's not "unemployment." It's "funemployment!" And that'll give me enough cash to pay my bills and, hopefully, have a little excitement for the next year or so!
I e-mailed the same person that I had to postpone that I could come in. It wasn't really an interview; all I had to do was hand over my Social Security card. I needed to ask a few questions, and then I'd start work. Most importantly, I was told chances were good I had a job available whenever I wanted to start. And you have to believe me that I was ready to get back to work. I still am.
So I e-mailed her Wednesday. This morning, just in case, I got a reply. Don't bother coming, she said, the job has been filled. Moreover, she yelled at me for having the gall to e-mail her again and to forget what she believe she emphasized in her last e-mail to me, when I had to cancel:
"If you recall my last email, I asked that you give me a call to see if they still have a need since it's been awhile. I am not available today at 11:30am. Also, I don't think we have a need to meet at this point as Wells Fargo does not currently have a need for Data Entry candidates. If they do in the future, I will give you a call. Thank you."
If you recall my last e-mail, I asked that you give me a call. Except that you didn't -- that's what she's saying. I am not available today at 11:30 a.m. Don't bother me -- that's what she's saying. If they do in the future, I will give you a call. I ain't gonna bother talking to you anymore, asshole -- that's what she's saying. Well, I'll be goddamned for trying to be nice.
I am absolutely infuriated over this woman's tone to me. I can't help that my uncle almost died. I wasn't being lackadaisical in my pursuit of this job. I was merely putting my family first, and she and everybody else would do the same -- if they had a heart. To be so dismissed like this, when I expressed my desire to fill this position, when she told me this was a virtual slam dunk, and in the way she curtly brushed me aside like she did ... goddamn, I'm pissed off. This fat chick with a tramp stamp doesn't have the right to treat me this way. Not when I'm at the end of my financial rope.
So I had to do what I didn't want to do: Today I applied for unemployment. I don't want to be one of the people sucking up money, nor do I want to hurt President Obama's fortunes by being another person on the dole. But I have no choice. I need money, now. And if I'm once again rejected for a job for no good goddamn reason, unemployment is where I will go. I blame society.
Of course, I'm going to do the best I can. I still have to look for work; it's been a long fucking time. But if I'm getting money for not working, best thing to do is to make the most of it. It's not "unemployment." It's "funemployment!" And that'll give me enough cash to pay my bills and, hopefully, have a little excitement for the next year or so!
Friday, July 2, 2010
The Weekly Minnesota Sports Survey
#-1: Twins (Last Week: -2). My God ... if a team that goes 3-4 for the week is the clear winner of the WMNSS, maybe they should all be either relocated or folded. The A.L. Central is doing all it can to put the word "Comedy" in its name because the Twinks are still in first place despite losing two of three in Queens against the New York Mets and dropping the first of a very important four-game set against the Bay Rays of Tampa in choke fashion last night (a 5-4 loss in 10). Again, the Twinkies are showing that unless they're facing a division opponent, and preferably at home, they're going to struggle against good teams. And it may still be a dicey week: They finish their home series against Tampa Independence Weekend, then have a midweek series at Toronto, a place they haven't had a whole lot of success in.
#-2: Lynx (Last Week: -1). So, maybe Seimone is the most valuable player on the Jynx; maybe Candace Wiggins is. Since her Achilles tendon tore, this team hasn't won. OK, it's been a week, but this week they went 0-2 -- 14- and 18-point losses at San Antone and Atlanta, both good teams. I don't even have the strength to criticize this team anymore; maybe this squad is just ... damned.
Is there hope for this club? WCCO sports reporter and radio host Mike Max speculated on his "News & Notes" segment on the 6 o'clock news Tuesday that Timberwolves ownership is getting very antsy about all the money they're losing, and if it's bad enough, there's a chance they will put down the Lynx. Looking at the way things have gone the past, like, half-decade, maybe that's for the best. They take the 4th of July off; in fact, they have only one game this week: Thursday against San Antonio at Target Center. Note: This begins the start of a 6-game homestand that will stretch 19 days. If they don't emerge from that period with at least 4 wins (preferably 5), you can punt yet another season.
#-3: Timberwolves (Last Week: -3). I'm keeping these guys on for a second consecutive week because of what Basketball Operations Pres. David Kahn (and his mole) for who he has been able to sign. No, not the overrated Rudy Gay. LeBron James? Ha-ha.
No, he's been able to re-sign Donnie Darko Milicic, and they signed some dude named Nikola Pekovic, who I just read actually was the Woofie Dogs' second-round draft pick in 2008. Didn't give a shit when he was picked.
What troubles me, even though Wesley Johnson and Lazar Hayward were also selected, is what is becoming Kahn's weird fascination with international players I've fucking never heard of. The organization has said to hell with domestic (read: black) players and are going internationally to fill this pathetic team. I'll admit I thought this was something Kahn did while he was running the Indiana Pacers, which had (and still has, I guess) a reputation of being very, very white; I checked the roster the years he was there and it hasn't been racially different than other teams. Still, the signings of Milicic and Pekovic are very, very underwhelming. And I don't see how they don't lose 67 games next year. If the Lynx die, can they take the Wolves with them?
#-4: Gopher men's hockey (Re-Entry!). It's hockey, so no, they didn't play (thank Buddha). I put them here because of last weekend's NHL draft. For the first time in who-knows-how-long, no one on the Gophers were drafted. Anywhere. Oh, sure five incoming Gophs were drafted, which means they were picked because of what they did in high school, not for any development under Don Lucia. If that ain't an indictment on him and his program nowadays, I don't know what is.
#-2: Lynx (Last Week: -1). So, maybe Seimone is the most valuable player on the Jynx; maybe Candace Wiggins is. Since her Achilles tendon tore, this team hasn't won. OK, it's been a week, but this week they went 0-2 -- 14- and 18-point losses at San Antone and Atlanta, both good teams. I don't even have the strength to criticize this team anymore; maybe this squad is just ... damned.
Is there hope for this club? WCCO sports reporter and radio host Mike Max speculated on his "News & Notes" segment on the 6 o'clock news Tuesday that Timberwolves ownership is getting very antsy about all the money they're losing, and if it's bad enough, there's a chance they will put down the Lynx. Looking at the way things have gone the past, like, half-decade, maybe that's for the best. They take the 4th of July off; in fact, they have only one game this week: Thursday against San Antonio at Target Center. Note: This begins the start of a 6-game homestand that will stretch 19 days. If they don't emerge from that period with at least 4 wins (preferably 5), you can punt yet another season.
#-3: Timberwolves (Last Week: -3). I'm keeping these guys on for a second consecutive week because of what Basketball Operations Pres. David Kahn (and his mole) for who he has been able to sign. No, not the overrated Rudy Gay. LeBron James? Ha-ha.
No, he's been able to re-sign Donnie Darko Milicic, and they signed some dude named Nikola Pekovic, who I just read actually was the Woofie Dogs' second-round draft pick in 2008. Didn't give a shit when he was picked.
What troubles me, even though Wesley Johnson and Lazar Hayward were also selected, is what is becoming Kahn's weird fascination with international players I've fucking never heard of. The organization has said to hell with domestic (read: black) players and are going internationally to fill this pathetic team. I'll admit I thought this was something Kahn did while he was running the Indiana Pacers, which had (and still has, I guess) a reputation of being very, very white; I checked the roster the years he was there and it hasn't been racially different than other teams. Still, the signings of Milicic and Pekovic are very, very underwhelming. And I don't see how they don't lose 67 games next year. If the Lynx die, can they take the Wolves with them?
#-4: Gopher men's hockey (Re-Entry!). It's hockey, so no, they didn't play (thank Buddha). I put them here because of last weekend's NHL draft. For the first time in who-knows-how-long, no one on the Gophers were drafted. Anywhere. Oh, sure five incoming Gophs were drafted, which means they were picked because of what they did in high school, not for any development under Don Lucia. If that ain't an indictment on him and his program nowadays, I don't know what is.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
I've Given In And Started A Twitter Account!
I'm @Wailing_Failing. Is that how that works?
I think I set it up so that every blog post I make here goes to my Twitter, so when I done twatted, y'all will know.
Cross my fingers, hope it works.
I think I set it up so that every blog post I make here goes to my Twitter, so when I done twatted, y'all will know.
Cross my fingers, hope it works.
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