Kind of shocked that the bouncer who was kidding me about the papers I was bringing into the bar would warn me about where I'm putting my hands while giving tips onstage. I thought the guy knew me. I thought we were cool. So I'm shocked that he showed so little faith in me. I wasn't going to do anything. Well, not anything the stripper wouldn't want me to do.
I should stay away for a little bit.
I am determined to show her my dick.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
The Color-Changing Straw
So I'm leaving McDonald's after lunch. I look down and see that my straw's blue-green. The Coke tasted like Coke, and I looked inside the cup while I was walking outside to make sure the lights inside didn't deceive me. And it looked Coke-colored.
But the straw was this weird color which rubbed off when I touched it. Weird. I put the lid back on and slurped, and the color reappeared. After wiping the straw again, I finally got it: The straw changed color depending on the temperature -- blue-green when it's cold, normal white when it's not. Even when I was at "work" and the Coke was virtually room temperature by the time I finished, I looked inside to see the very bottom of the straw was still a fairly vivid blue-green color.
So how in the fuck did I get a color-changing straw at McDonald's? I don't know. Is this some phantom marketing move McD's did, or did some random guy -- or saboteur -- plant this straw?
I'm not sick, at least not right now. I just want to note here that if anything happens to me, that I drank from a straw that changed color depending on temperature. Thank you.
But the straw was this weird color which rubbed off when I touched it. Weird. I put the lid back on and slurped, and the color reappeared. After wiping the straw again, I finally got it: The straw changed color depending on the temperature -- blue-green when it's cold, normal white when it's not. Even when I was at "work" and the Coke was virtually room temperature by the time I finished, I looked inside to see the very bottom of the straw was still a fairly vivid blue-green color.
So how in the fuck did I get a color-changing straw at McDonald's? I don't know. Is this some phantom marketing move McD's did, or did some random guy -- or saboteur -- plant this straw?
I'm not sick, at least not right now. I just want to note here that if anything happens to me, that I drank from a straw that changed color depending on temperature. Thank you.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Analysis Of Buffing, Polishing And Waxing My Car
Wanted to watch Wall Street 2 instead, then I thought I had time to do both. But with the cloudy but dry weather, I knew I had to take advantage, and even though it turned out I didn't have enough time to take in the film, I feel that I made the right choice.
I still don't know if I did a good job removing the scratches from my car, however. I did the whole thing like I did when I was trying to fix up the body of my parents' minivan except that I didn't use the shoe polish.
The result? The same damn thing I had with the minivan -- scratches that are mostly but not completely gone, more work I'll need to do with painting and clearcoat, and a wax that doesn't reflect my image. It's a shine that doesn't shine, just like the minivan. It looks a lot better, but I don't know if I did it correctly.
And by the way, what does "let dry to a haze" mean anyway? Did I screw up because I didn't give it enough to time to "haze?" If by "haze" you mean "cloudy," well, it sure is pretty fucking cloudy now, but it isn't supposed to be. Is it supposed to go away at some point? All I know is I can't see myself in my car, and I think I'm supposed to. Is this fuck-up permanent?
So many damn questions, and I have to go back again to retouch the paint, too. I'm sighing right now,
I still don't know if I did a good job removing the scratches from my car, however. I did the whole thing like I did when I was trying to fix up the body of my parents' minivan except that I didn't use the shoe polish.
The result? The same damn thing I had with the minivan -- scratches that are mostly but not completely gone, more work I'll need to do with painting and clearcoat, and a wax that doesn't reflect my image. It's a shine that doesn't shine, just like the minivan. It looks a lot better, but I don't know if I did it correctly.
And by the way, what does "let dry to a haze" mean anyway? Did I screw up because I didn't give it enough to time to "haze?" If by "haze" you mean "cloudy," well, it sure is pretty fucking cloudy now, but it isn't supposed to be. Is it supposed to go away at some point? All I know is I can't see myself in my car, and I think I'm supposed to. Is this fuck-up permanent?
So many damn questions, and I have to go back again to retouch the paint, too. I'm sighing right now,
Monday, September 27, 2010
Now I Think I Lost My Job
It was a combination of being moved to a position I've never been in before, getting only 2 1/2 hours of sleep, and being overwhelmed by all my duties and the game, but today I am not sure I still have job. Missing assignments, being late to calls, not seeing who left the field and when they came back, and just being out of it in general. But I concentrated on down-and-distance, so I got that right.
Everybody knew it was my first time, so hopefully that'll give me some slack. But to be totally honest, I have absolutely no idea whether I did even an adequate job. The guy didn't yell at me -- at least I don't think; the crowd noise was usually too loud for me to hear him clearly -- but when I wanted to get some feedback from him afterward, I was told he got the hell out of Dodge because he had a flight to catch. So either he was OK with me and didn't need to rip me a new one, or he was so disgusted by my performance that he didn't think it was worth talking to me since I would be let go. Or ... he didn't think anything of my work at all because he just wanted to go?
From what else happened today, things aren't looking good. I was wrapped up in preparing for what I need to do that I didn't fulfill my responsibilities from my old position, which apparently I still needed to do. Too often I wasn't where my supervisors (my other supervisors) wanted me to be, leaving other people to do the jobs I was supposed to do. One of them tried to call me twice while I was in a different part of the Dome. He couldn't be too happy.
Is that why I didn't fill out a timesheet? Or maybe he just forgot and he too skeedaddled to the airport. I hope that's it -- and I hope he remembers how much he agreed to pay me.
And I really, really, really hope I'm still working for these guys. Without this particular job, I'm nothin'.
Everybody knew it was my first time, so hopefully that'll give me some slack. But to be totally honest, I have absolutely no idea whether I did even an adequate job. The guy didn't yell at me -- at least I don't think; the crowd noise was usually too loud for me to hear him clearly -- but when I wanted to get some feedback from him afterward, I was told he got the hell out of Dodge because he had a flight to catch. So either he was OK with me and didn't need to rip me a new one, or he was so disgusted by my performance that he didn't think it was worth talking to me since I would be let go. Or ... he didn't think anything of my work at all because he just wanted to go?
From what else happened today, things aren't looking good. I was wrapped up in preparing for what I need to do that I didn't fulfill my responsibilities from my old position, which apparently I still needed to do. Too often I wasn't where my supervisors (my other supervisors) wanted me to be, leaving other people to do the jobs I was supposed to do. One of them tried to call me twice while I was in a different part of the Dome. He couldn't be too happy.
Is that why I didn't fill out a timesheet? Or maybe he just forgot and he too skeedaddled to the airport. I hope that's it -- and I hope he remembers how much he agreed to pay me.
And I really, really, really hope I'm still working for these guys. Without this particular job, I'm nothin'.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Batshit Grandmother Fuckin' Goin' Crazy Today
My day started, like it usually does, with a phone call. It's a de facto alarm.
It's usually for Grandmother, but I need to make sure something hasn't happened -- like, she fell down the stairs. Normally I hear her say, "Hello?" just as I open my door. But today, she kept saying, "Hello?" but the phone kept ringing. My God, I thought, either something's happened to the phone she's trying to answer or she's gone nuts. It's 50/50 these days.
She did the same thing three or four times before I reached her in the dining room and before the phone stopped ringing. She didn't answer using the main phone in the dining room but her own phone, which is usually in her bedroom but for some reason she brought it with her while she walking around. It was dead; don't know why.
Still, after the phone stopped ringing, she took the other phone, our main one, turned it on and said, "Hello?" I almost ripped the phone out of her hand, but I told her to stop doing that. And for some goddamn reason she put the phone down -- not in its cradle, which was right in front of her, but on the counter, right next to her own (dead) phone, and walked away. What?
While I was putting her phone back on its cradle in her bedroom to recharge, in case that was the problem (it's an old phone, so it could be something else), Grandmother asked me, after she toddled back from where she went after just leaving the phone on the counter, "Why?" I told her that I don't know. "Could it be ..." blah-blah-blah, she continued, and that's when I get really frustrated with her. Not only do I not know, when she asks a follow-up question she uses Chinese words I don't know. It's useless to reply to her when I can't understand what she's saying on two levels.
After I head back into my bedroom to sleep some more, for some goddamn reason my Grandmother fools around with the main phone again. She didn't answer it, thank Buddha, but I had to turn it off, or at least make sure it was turned off.
---
I have shit to do before I have to leave at 1. But of course, Grandmother has guests. I sit down to start work just as I hear the doorbell.
It's one of Grandmother's friends, a male friend who's almost half her age, and could be younger than I am. To this day I don't know how and why she knows her. I speculate sometimes that they have sex. Ugh.
Anyway, he drops by every Saturday for some reason. This time, Grandmother warned me, he was getting Burger King for ... us or her. I was going to eat at the GameWatch party downtown at 2, but I guess this is free, so I mentally redid my plans.
The guy, however, got McDonald's, not Burger King. "Probably didn't know where Burger King was," Grandmother said. She wanted him to go there -- OK, I have no idea whether he volunteered to pay for lunch or if she asked him to get it -- because she saw BK on a commercial. It upset her a tad more than, uh, normal people would be.
Hate the fact that she changes her mind based on things I deem inconsequential. He got a drink, Sierra Mist. I didn't want it all, so I volunteered to share it with Grandmother.
OK, she said. I grab a measuring cup; we usually drink out of measuring cups, don't know why. "No," Grandmother said, and instead of using a perfectly fine vessel, she goes all the way to her bedroom to get her cup. And then when I open up the Sierra Mist to pour it out, she recoils. "Ooh, so much ice!" she exclaimed, "No, I don't want it. You take it all." Goddamn finicky old people.
---
I want to keep the lines of communication open with her because she doesn't have anybody else in the house to talk to. But not only is it difficult to understand what she's saying in Chinese, what I do understand doesn't make any sense.
During this lunch I turn on the TV and go to the only sports that was on at the time -- the golf tournament.
She says, "Do they get paid?"
I understood this, I think: "Yeah."
"Who pays them?"
Wha-wha-wha?? Who asks that? Why would anyone care?
I told her I didn't know. Even if I did know, I wouldn't know how to say it in Chinese. It's such an inane question, anyway.
---
I didn't want to eat before I left because I knew I had a bowel movement coming, especially after eating fast food. But thar I blow, and so I left a half-hour late because I needed to take a shit.
I did the right thing and let my Grandmother know I'm taking off.
"Hey, do you have money?"
"What?"
"Do you have $20?"
"Why?"
"Just because."
Wha-wha-wha-wha?!?!?! Why does anybody fucking ask for walking around money? She's 84, she doesn't "walk around." The fuck kind of question is that?? Seriously.
I gave it to her because, in all honesty, she gave me extra money to buy raisin bread, Febreze, melatonin and her medications. I have the change, I just haven't sorted out the money and gotten it back to her, but I know she's owed at least $20. That actually is her money. But still. ...
She infuriates me sometimes. She really does.
It's usually for Grandmother, but I need to make sure something hasn't happened -- like, she fell down the stairs. Normally I hear her say, "Hello?" just as I open my door. But today, she kept saying, "Hello?" but the phone kept ringing. My God, I thought, either something's happened to the phone she's trying to answer or she's gone nuts. It's 50/50 these days.
She did the same thing three or four times before I reached her in the dining room and before the phone stopped ringing. She didn't answer using the main phone in the dining room but her own phone, which is usually in her bedroom but for some reason she brought it with her while she walking around. It was dead; don't know why.
Still, after the phone stopped ringing, she took the other phone, our main one, turned it on and said, "Hello?" I almost ripped the phone out of her hand, but I told her to stop doing that. And for some goddamn reason she put the phone down -- not in its cradle, which was right in front of her, but on the counter, right next to her own (dead) phone, and walked away. What?
While I was putting her phone back on its cradle in her bedroom to recharge, in case that was the problem (it's an old phone, so it could be something else), Grandmother asked me, after she toddled back from where she went after just leaving the phone on the counter, "Why?" I told her that I don't know. "Could it be ..." blah-blah-blah, she continued, and that's when I get really frustrated with her. Not only do I not know, when she asks a follow-up question she uses Chinese words I don't know. It's useless to reply to her when I can't understand what she's saying on two levels.
After I head back into my bedroom to sleep some more, for some goddamn reason my Grandmother fools around with the main phone again. She didn't answer it, thank Buddha, but I had to turn it off, or at least make sure it was turned off.
---
I have shit to do before I have to leave at 1. But of course, Grandmother has guests. I sit down to start work just as I hear the doorbell.
It's one of Grandmother's friends, a male friend who's almost half her age, and could be younger than I am. To this day I don't know how and why she knows her. I speculate sometimes that they have sex. Ugh.
Anyway, he drops by every Saturday for some reason. This time, Grandmother warned me, he was getting Burger King for ... us or her. I was going to eat at the GameWatch party downtown at 2, but I guess this is free, so I mentally redid my plans.
The guy, however, got McDonald's, not Burger King. "Probably didn't know where Burger King was," Grandmother said. She wanted him to go there -- OK, I have no idea whether he volunteered to pay for lunch or if she asked him to get it -- because she saw BK on a commercial. It upset her a tad more than, uh, normal people would be.
Hate the fact that she changes her mind based on things I deem inconsequential. He got a drink, Sierra Mist. I didn't want it all, so I volunteered to share it with Grandmother.
OK, she said. I grab a measuring cup; we usually drink out of measuring cups, don't know why. "No," Grandmother said, and instead of using a perfectly fine vessel, she goes all the way to her bedroom to get her cup. And then when I open up the Sierra Mist to pour it out, she recoils. "Ooh, so much ice!" she exclaimed, "No, I don't want it. You take it all." Goddamn finicky old people.
---
I want to keep the lines of communication open with her because she doesn't have anybody else in the house to talk to. But not only is it difficult to understand what she's saying in Chinese, what I do understand doesn't make any sense.
During this lunch I turn on the TV and go to the only sports that was on at the time -- the golf tournament.
She says, "Do they get paid?"
I understood this, I think: "Yeah."
"Who pays them?"
Wha-wha-wha?? Who asks that? Why would anyone care?
I told her I didn't know. Even if I did know, I wouldn't know how to say it in Chinese. It's such an inane question, anyway.
---
I didn't want to eat before I left because I knew I had a bowel movement coming, especially after eating fast food. But thar I blow, and so I left a half-hour late because I needed to take a shit.
I did the right thing and let my Grandmother know I'm taking off.
"Hey, do you have money?"
"What?"
"Do you have $20?"
"Why?"
"Just because."
Wha-wha-wha-wha?!?!?! Why does anybody fucking ask for walking around money? She's 84, she doesn't "walk around." The fuck kind of question is that?? Seriously.
I gave it to her because, in all honesty, she gave me extra money to buy raisin bread, Febreze, melatonin and her medications. I have the change, I just haven't sorted out the money and gotten it back to her, but I know she's owed at least $20. That actually is her money. But still. ...
She infuriates me sometimes. She really does.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
One Of The Best Commercials On TV (At Least Until It Stopped Running): Jeep
Not a fan of domestic cars. Still think they're, as a whole, inferior to Japanese and even European vehicles, although there are some models, most notably from Ford, that can stand on their own. (Quick aside: While I was attending a job fair in Nashville I was lucky to snag on the cheap a Ford Escape. I don't remember why or how, but I loved the SUV.)
The Big Three Automakers have been very quiet the past couple years, especially since GM and Chevrolet had to be bailed out by the government. But finally, one brand has gotten up and declared that they're ready to stand by their product: Jeep. And they do so in this brilliant, soul-stirring "manifesto":
I like it because it beckons a yearning for a past, stereotypical as it may be, that seems to have disappeared in America. Everybody talks about how the nation is moving to a service-based economy. But here, Jeep is trying to make a stand that the essence and present DNA of America is, or at least should still be, blue-collar. It could be interpreted that the country is fixated on material items. But what I think it's trying to convey -- for the purposes of selling cars, of course -- is we are what we make, and that sense of self-worth through tangible, consumable goods is not a bad thing, so long as it's done well.
Jeep has not been one of the models I think of when I think of reliability. But this commercial for its 2011 Grand Cherokee, with stock footage of people making stuff with their hands and backed by the melody from Johnny Cash's "God's Gonna Cut You Down," is very persuasive. And the best lines come at the end: "This was once a country where people made things. Beautiful things. And so it is again."
If I had a lot of cash to spend, I'd be sold. Regardless, I think it's a damn good commercial.
The Big Three Automakers have been very quiet the past couple years, especially since GM and Chevrolet had to be bailed out by the government. But finally, one brand has gotten up and declared that they're ready to stand by their product: Jeep. And they do so in this brilliant, soul-stirring "manifesto":
I like it because it beckons a yearning for a past, stereotypical as it may be, that seems to have disappeared in America. Everybody talks about how the nation is moving to a service-based economy. But here, Jeep is trying to make a stand that the essence and present DNA of America is, or at least should still be, blue-collar. It could be interpreted that the country is fixated on material items. But what I think it's trying to convey -- for the purposes of selling cars, of course -- is we are what we make, and that sense of self-worth through tangible, consumable goods is not a bad thing, so long as it's done well.
Jeep has not been one of the models I think of when I think of reliability. But this commercial for its 2011 Grand Cherokee, with stock footage of people making stuff with their hands and backed by the melody from Johnny Cash's "God's Gonna Cut You Down," is very persuasive. And the best lines come at the end: "This was once a country where people made things. Beautiful things. And so it is again."
If I had a lot of cash to spend, I'd be sold. Regardless, I think it's a damn good commercial.
Friday, September 24, 2010
The Weekly Minnesota Sports Survey
#-1: Twins (Last Week: -3). Hmmm. This week was a tough one. There were bad points last week for all five entries, and the Twinks did start off by losing a series at Target Field over the weekend to the Bastard Philadelphia/Kansas City Athletics.
However, being the first team in Major League Baseball to clinch their division, thereby getting into the playoffs for the sixth time in nine years, is a major accomplishment. I put them above all this WMNSS because, unlike years previous, they don't need to go to a Game 163, not even need to sweat it out the final week of the season, in order to clinch a berth in the playoffs.
Now, that doesn't necessarily mean anything more than Manager Ron Gardenhire having a little time to rest the players who may be burned out, give some more playing time to reserves, September call-ups and guys who need to sharphen their skills, and to rejigger the rotation to his liking (Francisco Liriano will start the first playoff game regardless; the commonsense choice, though there is room for argument). Momentum really means very little in postseason sports. And having the top seed in the American League -- which, technically, if I'm not incorrect about this, the Twins currently have by a half-game as of right now because the New York Yankees lost to the Tampa Bay Rays -- seems to be more a blessing than a curse: According to SI.com's Joe Sheehan, the top seed in both leagues have reached the World Series 8 out of 24 tries since 1998, a rate of, obviously, 33%. So while it would be nice, I wouldn't mind if the team lost out on top seed so long as the team is as good it can be heading into the postseason.
They play all seven days this week. They try to maintain, uh, momentum they started after sweeping Cleveland during the week by playing this weekend at Detroit, then playing three games at Kansas City, before opening up the last home series of the regular season Thursday against Toronto.
#-2: Gopher soccer (Last Week: -1). I've had to do some new evaluating of this squad. I've said it before, but I need to say it again, to myself: This team hasn't lost since their opening game of the season on Aug. 20. That's impressive. Now, whether I'm inflating the squad's strength in the face of the fact that the Gophs are ranked in the lower reaches of both women's soccer polls, is possible. But even if that speaks to the perception of a weak Big Ten, going into conference play 8-1-1 makes them solid contenders to take the conference title and get into the NCAA Tournament.
Which is why I couldn't put this team #-1 in this week's poll after last (Thursday) night's 1-1 tie at Iowa, a team not considered to be a contender. It's on the road, and it is soccer, but still, I thought this team would go out and win the game considering the records both teams brought into the game. At least they didn't lose, I guess. Also, Forward Steph Brandt was named conference Freshman of the Week.
The Gopher female footballers' next game may be for the title -- they host the only other ranked team in the Big Ten (at least as of right now), Illinois, Sunday afternoon. It's the first of a three-game homestand, for they then face Wisconsin at Robbie Stadium Thursday night. I might go to that game.
#-3: Gopher volleyball (Last Week: -2). These ladies keep slip-sliding down the AVCA Top 25. Only this week can I believe it makes any sense. The team suffered their second loss of the year this past Saturday to then 23rd-ranked, now 21st-ranked San Diego in five sets. Worse yet, they lost the match after winning the first two sets. It's the first time the team choked away a 2-0 set lead and lost in three seasons. Ouch.
It may be may, and it may be that the conference play is only starting this week, but right now there are a lot of teams in Division I volleyball who are undefeated or only have one loss. That might be the major reason why the Gophers dropped two spots to #14 this week. Can they turn it around as they begin Big Ten play at the Michigan schools tonight (Friday night) and Saturday?
#-4: Gopher football (Last Week: -4). I think I have a new definition of a moral victory, odious it may be to take one: If you lose but cover the spread, that's a moral victory. I think most of the lines had the Gophs getting 12 points from USC, and they lost, 32-21. Only 11 points.
Still, there is a tangible sense that this is yet another lost season. They face Northern Illinois, a Mid-American Conference which has already lost to doormats Illinois and Iowa St., and barely beat North Dakota for its only win of the season. This is no gimme.
#-5: Wild (Re-Entry!). Why is pro hockey on the WMNSS when the games don't count until the beginning of October? I was not aware of the possibility until it happened. But on Wednesday night, the first game of the year, a 5-1 exhibition loss to St. Louis, marked a very troubling milestone: It was the first game in the history of the franchise that the Wild did not sell out the Xcel Energy Center. A streak that began when the team began ended after 409 straight games, pre-, regular- and post-season.
I already wrote about this, but I'm taking it a lot harder than most others. While it's true that rarely is a sellout a sellout -- there is always a seat or two empty most regular season games -- and that the Wild always give tickets to employees to distribute to family and friends -- especially the past few seasons, when they've sucked -- this still is an ignominious and disturbing sign. They've "sold out" for almost a decade (they were six days short of reaching ten full years) because there was such a pent-up demand for hockey ever since the North Stars were stolen from us. Although the Wild didn't deserve it, we showed up game after game because not only we wanted hockey back, but we wanted to make sure we didn't lose this team, too. The combination of The Great Recession and successive mediocre seasons have finally meant the honeymoon is over and, more tellingly, they will not just put blind faith in this team anymore. The Wild need to earn back our trust, but I bow my head that the Wild are now treated with the same skepticism as the Timberwolves. The death of the sellout streak represents a loss of innocence.
However, being the first team in Major League Baseball to clinch their division, thereby getting into the playoffs for the sixth time in nine years, is a major accomplishment. I put them above all this WMNSS because, unlike years previous, they don't need to go to a Game 163, not even need to sweat it out the final week of the season, in order to clinch a berth in the playoffs.
Now, that doesn't necessarily mean anything more than Manager Ron Gardenhire having a little time to rest the players who may be burned out, give some more playing time to reserves, September call-ups and guys who need to sharphen their skills, and to rejigger the rotation to his liking (Francisco Liriano will start the first playoff game regardless; the commonsense choice, though there is room for argument). Momentum really means very little in postseason sports. And having the top seed in the American League -- which, technically, if I'm not incorrect about this, the Twins currently have by a half-game as of right now because the New York Yankees lost to the Tampa Bay Rays -- seems to be more a blessing than a curse: According to SI.com's Joe Sheehan, the top seed in both leagues have reached the World Series 8 out of 24 tries since 1998, a rate of, obviously, 33%. So while it would be nice, I wouldn't mind if the team lost out on top seed so long as the team is as good it can be heading into the postseason.
They play all seven days this week. They try to maintain, uh, momentum they started after sweeping Cleveland during the week by playing this weekend at Detroit, then playing three games at Kansas City, before opening up the last home series of the regular season Thursday against Toronto.
#-2: Gopher soccer (Last Week: -1). I've had to do some new evaluating of this squad. I've said it before, but I need to say it again, to myself: This team hasn't lost since their opening game of the season on Aug. 20. That's impressive. Now, whether I'm inflating the squad's strength in the face of the fact that the Gophs are ranked in the lower reaches of both women's soccer polls, is possible. But even if that speaks to the perception of a weak Big Ten, going into conference play 8-1-1 makes them solid contenders to take the conference title and get into the NCAA Tournament.
Which is why I couldn't put this team #-1 in this week's poll after last (Thursday) night's 1-1 tie at Iowa, a team not considered to be a contender. It's on the road, and it is soccer, but still, I thought this team would go out and win the game considering the records both teams brought into the game. At least they didn't lose, I guess. Also, Forward Steph Brandt was named conference Freshman of the Week.
The Gopher female footballers' next game may be for the title -- they host the only other ranked team in the Big Ten (at least as of right now), Illinois, Sunday afternoon. It's the first of a three-game homestand, for they then face Wisconsin at Robbie Stadium Thursday night. I might go to that game.
#-3: Gopher volleyball (Last Week: -2). These ladies keep slip-sliding down the AVCA Top 25. Only this week can I believe it makes any sense. The team suffered their second loss of the year this past Saturday to then 23rd-ranked, now 21st-ranked San Diego in five sets. Worse yet, they lost the match after winning the first two sets. It's the first time the team choked away a 2-0 set lead and lost in three seasons. Ouch.
It may be may, and it may be that the conference play is only starting this week, but right now there are a lot of teams in Division I volleyball who are undefeated or only have one loss. That might be the major reason why the Gophers dropped two spots to #14 this week. Can they turn it around as they begin Big Ten play at the Michigan schools tonight (Friday night) and Saturday?
#-4: Gopher football (Last Week: -4). I think I have a new definition of a moral victory, odious it may be to take one: If you lose but cover the spread, that's a moral victory. I think most of the lines had the Gophs getting 12 points from USC, and they lost, 32-21. Only 11 points.
Still, there is a tangible sense that this is yet another lost season. They face Northern Illinois, a Mid-American Conference which has already lost to doormats Illinois and Iowa St., and barely beat North Dakota for its only win of the season. This is no gimme.
#-5: Wild (Re-Entry!). Why is pro hockey on the WMNSS when the games don't count until the beginning of October? I was not aware of the possibility until it happened. But on Wednesday night, the first game of the year, a 5-1 exhibition loss to St. Louis, marked a very troubling milestone: It was the first game in the history of the franchise that the Wild did not sell out the Xcel Energy Center. A streak that began when the team began ended after 409 straight games, pre-, regular- and post-season.
I already wrote about this, but I'm taking it a lot harder than most others. While it's true that rarely is a sellout a sellout -- there is always a seat or two empty most regular season games -- and that the Wild always give tickets to employees to distribute to family and friends -- especially the past few seasons, when they've sucked -- this still is an ignominious and disturbing sign. They've "sold out" for almost a decade (they were six days short of reaching ten full years) because there was such a pent-up demand for hockey ever since the North Stars were stolen from us. Although the Wild didn't deserve it, we showed up game after game because not only we wanted hockey back, but we wanted to make sure we didn't lose this team, too. The combination of The Great Recession and successive mediocre seasons have finally meant the honeymoon is over and, more tellingly, they will not just put blind faith in this team anymore. The Wild need to earn back our trust, but I bow my head that the Wild are now treated with the same skepticism as the Timberwolves. The death of the sellout streak represents a loss of innocence.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
I'm A Sperm Donor!
This is something quite extraordinary I'm doing. I'm doing it because it's easy, and for the money. I guess this makes me a whore. OK, I'm OK with that.
There are fliers are tacked, stapled, and taped everywhere on campus detailing the need for subjects to undergo these studies. That's how I got this hearing lab "job," and how I get these odd, one-off jobs to, like, listen to something while someone monitors where your eyes go, for an hour and ten bucks. For someone unemployed like me, a guy living on the knife's edge in this cruel world, I need it.
Well, after a while of doing those types of experiments, you get a little stir-crazy and you want to try something more, namely longer-term studies dealing with drugs. I did that last year -- take a drug for three months after which, coincidentally, I saw advertised as a treatment for bipolar disorder. Why in the hell is a medication for bipolar disorder being advertised on TV? And am I OK? I think I'm OK.
Anyway, going to other parts of campus and opening my parameters a bit led me to this study where they study your sperm. After inquiring, they told me it was a six-month study that will pay me ... should I say? Probably not ... a good some of money, especially for each semen sample I give them. They are studying the effects a medication has on potency. I think.
Shit, as long as my splooge isn't being saved to use to impregnant some stranger chick, I'm in! All for science, right?
So I go to the U. and, after being lost for a long time, I run into the contact for this study. She directs me to this very small office where an administrator -- kind of sexy, I might add (a semen study and I'm already getting into the mood, God help me) -- stumbled her way through showing me the forms I had to sign. She looked kind of fidgety and disorganized. That became a theme as I went through my appointment.
I was ushered from the office to a patient room, which had this huge and apparently inoperable switchboard on the side. I had no idea what it was for, but from the verbiage I saw I felt like this had nothing to do with medicine. There are a lot of old buildings at the University of Minnesota, so I think this room -- in fact this building -- was converted to medicine or clinical study from, like, engineering. Seriously, this room looked like it was a chemistry lab.
The woman I talked to -- the woman different from the administrator -- came into the room while I was on the patient's table/bed/thingy (the clean tissue paper on which, by the way, was branded by a medication -- Avidra or something; is there nothing that's sponsored anymore?) laid out a series of pages on a counter, and asked me some questions that were the same as the ones the administrator asked me, like my height and weight. After she left, I looked at the pages. Parts of the pages were grouped into categories. They had lines next to words like "heartbeat," "reflexes," and "testicles." Apparently she was setting the pages in a row for the doctor to do his physical. Never seen that done before. I mean, who does that? Who wants that done? Can't the doctor just come in with a stapled sheaf of forms?
Anyway, doctor comes in. Normal name, seemingly normal guy, despite the fact that he's the (probably compensated) doctor for this study. Check your reflexes, breathe in, breathe out, all of that.
Then we get to the inspecting my genitals. When grabbing my balls I see him reach into his labcoat pocket and pull out a necklace of beads. At first they looked to me like Buddha beads. Is he Buddhist? Why is he praying? What about my balls made him start to pray? But I looked closer and saw there were numbers stamped on each of the different-sized balls on the necklace. That's when I remembered that there was a line or box in the "Testicles" category next to which there was the abbreviation "in." He was comparing to see how big my family jewels were. I would've been fine with him breaking out a ruler. And by the way, my nuts are about 15 millimeters in diameter, I guess. Hell yeah, I'm well-endowed.
And now the fun part. I've seen scenes about sperm donation on TV shows, and the rooms are always large and well-appointed, filled with magazines laid out accordion-style on a table. Instead, I was sent to a keypad-locked bathroom the size of a quarter-bath with the only adornment a plant that, for some reason, was tucked behind the toilet. The porn was in two boxes underneath the two chairs in the bathroom.
It wasn't bad porn -- Cheri "hardcore" specials from a few years back, back when they were good because they spent a page or two setting up the situation behind the pictorial and threw in a few photos of the girl groping the guy(s) and/or pulling down his/their pant(s) and then being totally shocked at the huge dongs the man/men have. Where's the lead-in into the physical sex in porn mags these days? The seducing and exposing is just as important as the actual fucking. But I might be in the minority.
So I'm getting into it. At least the woman left me alone, because I leaned back and just started leafing through the porn; I could get to wanking later. But unlike what I imagined it to be, the area outside my door wasn't quiet. In fact, when I was ready to just do this, I heard the doctor who examined me talking outside the bathroom, and for a long time. Hello? Privacy here!
Really, it just seems very odd that someone thinks nothing of making a conversation right in front of the jerkoff bathroom. Anybody who thinks letting someone have some peace while he touches himself in order to provide a semen sample either has done this way too long or is kind of fucked up to begin with. Again, he's a nice guy, but that seems so intrusive. Oh, and by the way, I noticed that there was a fairly sizable slit, about a millimeter long, between the door and the jamb. You might be able to see a dick through there. All of this convinces me this is a half-ass operation.
Anyway, I'm there for about 40 minutes, I think. The doctor finished his conversation and left, leaving me the silence to finally ejaculate into the cup. I had to abstain from masturbating for between two and five days, so I thought it'd feel really nice when I let 'er rip. But it didn't; it felt coaxed and insincere. The doctor didn't help, and I was worried that I had to control the trajectory of my semen when I finally shoot or else I'll pop some of the sample on the wall. So I got the cup surrounding my penis and I did it. You know, it would've helped if I felt safe enough to moan when I finally came. But I didn't want to hear them, so I sure as fuck didn't want them to hear me. That's probably why I had blue balls after it was all over.
When I leave, I see a woman that I passed by earlier in my visit seated behind a desk. There is an office right next to the jerkoff bathroom. That is why I heard the doctor outside my door: He was talking to her, for God's sake. These guys need a new fucking floor plan, and I hope they agree. Christ.
The woman passed by and I told her I left the semen (and urine) sample in the bathroom like she told me. After asking when was the last time I performed self-onanism -- and telling her that I already gave that answer to the administrator as well (her reply: "Oh!" and she went back into the patient room to copy what the administrator wrote), she put the samples into a box. She gave that box to another woman, a student dressed in U. gear, and told me to follow her to another wing of the building to get a blood draw and an ECG.
She wasn't a nurse, but she was nice. While on our trek down to the clinical testing lab she told me she got this job from the woman whose office was right next door to the jerkoff bathroom; she was her high school basketball coach. And, her job is work-study. At first I thought it was, again, strange that you can get financial aid from carrying some stranger's piss and cum. Now, I think that paying me is the only way you'd get me to carry some stranger's penile effluvia.
---
I go back today -- in several hours, in fact. Yesterday I called the flustered woman because I wanted to bring my -- well, my sister's -- Victoria's Secret catalogs. I could use them, but actually I think I have too many and want a place to donate them. Would you jerk off to hot women in lingerie instead of naked sex?
Anyway, when I ask her, she's saying, "yeah, yeah, uh-huh" all the way through, like she's doing something else and I'm bothering her. She seemed agitated the entire call. I've got to give this woman my jizz, the least I expect is some professionalism and courtesy and the perception that she's got her shit together. Whatever, I'm getting paid, and hopefully for more than after the two samples I'm giving this week.
Wish me luck!
There are fliers are tacked, stapled, and taped everywhere on campus detailing the need for subjects to undergo these studies. That's how I got this hearing lab "job," and how I get these odd, one-off jobs to, like, listen to something while someone monitors where your eyes go, for an hour and ten bucks. For someone unemployed like me, a guy living on the knife's edge in this cruel world, I need it.
Well, after a while of doing those types of experiments, you get a little stir-crazy and you want to try something more, namely longer-term studies dealing with drugs. I did that last year -- take a drug for three months after which, coincidentally, I saw advertised as a treatment for bipolar disorder. Why in the hell is a medication for bipolar disorder being advertised on TV? And am I OK? I think I'm OK.
Anyway, going to other parts of campus and opening my parameters a bit led me to this study where they study your sperm. After inquiring, they told me it was a six-month study that will pay me ... should I say? Probably not ... a good some of money, especially for each semen sample I give them. They are studying the effects a medication has on potency. I think.
Shit, as long as my splooge isn't being saved to use to impregnant some stranger chick, I'm in! All for science, right?
So I go to the U. and, after being lost for a long time, I run into the contact for this study. She directs me to this very small office where an administrator -- kind of sexy, I might add (a semen study and I'm already getting into the mood, God help me) -- stumbled her way through showing me the forms I had to sign. She looked kind of fidgety and disorganized. That became a theme as I went through my appointment.
I was ushered from the office to a patient room, which had this huge and apparently inoperable switchboard on the side. I had no idea what it was for, but from the verbiage I saw I felt like this had nothing to do with medicine. There are a lot of old buildings at the University of Minnesota, so I think this room -- in fact this building -- was converted to medicine or clinical study from, like, engineering. Seriously, this room looked like it was a chemistry lab.
The woman I talked to -- the woman different from the administrator -- came into the room while I was on the patient's table/bed/thingy (the clean tissue paper on which, by the way, was branded by a medication -- Avidra or something; is there nothing that's sponsored anymore?) laid out a series of pages on a counter, and asked me some questions that were the same as the ones the administrator asked me, like my height and weight. After she left, I looked at the pages. Parts of the pages were grouped into categories. They had lines next to words like "heartbeat," "reflexes," and "testicles." Apparently she was setting the pages in a row for the doctor to do his physical. Never seen that done before. I mean, who does that? Who wants that done? Can't the doctor just come in with a stapled sheaf of forms?
Anyway, doctor comes in. Normal name, seemingly normal guy, despite the fact that he's the (probably compensated) doctor for this study. Check your reflexes, breathe in, breathe out, all of that.
Then we get to the inspecting my genitals. When grabbing my balls I see him reach into his labcoat pocket and pull out a necklace of beads. At first they looked to me like Buddha beads. Is he Buddhist? Why is he praying? What about my balls made him start to pray? But I looked closer and saw there were numbers stamped on each of the different-sized balls on the necklace. That's when I remembered that there was a line or box in the "Testicles" category next to which there was the abbreviation "in." He was comparing to see how big my family jewels were. I would've been fine with him breaking out a ruler. And by the way, my nuts are about 15 millimeters in diameter, I guess. Hell yeah, I'm well-endowed.
And now the fun part. I've seen scenes about sperm donation on TV shows, and the rooms are always large and well-appointed, filled with magazines laid out accordion-style on a table. Instead, I was sent to a keypad-locked bathroom the size of a quarter-bath with the only adornment a plant that, for some reason, was tucked behind the toilet. The porn was in two boxes underneath the two chairs in the bathroom.
It wasn't bad porn -- Cheri "hardcore" specials from a few years back, back when they were good because they spent a page or two setting up the situation behind the pictorial and threw in a few photos of the girl groping the guy(s) and/or pulling down his/their pant(s) and then being totally shocked at the huge dongs the man/men have. Where's the lead-in into the physical sex in porn mags these days? The seducing and exposing is just as important as the actual fucking. But I might be in the minority.
So I'm getting into it. At least the woman left me alone, because I leaned back and just started leafing through the porn; I could get to wanking later. But unlike what I imagined it to be, the area outside my door wasn't quiet. In fact, when I was ready to just do this, I heard the doctor who examined me talking outside the bathroom, and for a long time. Hello? Privacy here!
Really, it just seems very odd that someone thinks nothing of making a conversation right in front of the jerkoff bathroom. Anybody who thinks letting someone have some peace while he touches himself in order to provide a semen sample either has done this way too long or is kind of fucked up to begin with. Again, he's a nice guy, but that seems so intrusive. Oh, and by the way, I noticed that there was a fairly sizable slit, about a millimeter long, between the door and the jamb. You might be able to see a dick through there. All of this convinces me this is a half-ass operation.
Anyway, I'm there for about 40 minutes, I think. The doctor finished his conversation and left, leaving me the silence to finally ejaculate into the cup. I had to abstain from masturbating for between two and five days, so I thought it'd feel really nice when I let 'er rip. But it didn't; it felt coaxed and insincere. The doctor didn't help, and I was worried that I had to control the trajectory of my semen when I finally shoot or else I'll pop some of the sample on the wall. So I got the cup surrounding my penis and I did it. You know, it would've helped if I felt safe enough to moan when I finally came. But I didn't want to hear them, so I sure as fuck didn't want them to hear me. That's probably why I had blue balls after it was all over.
When I leave, I see a woman that I passed by earlier in my visit seated behind a desk. There is an office right next to the jerkoff bathroom. That is why I heard the doctor outside my door: He was talking to her, for God's sake. These guys need a new fucking floor plan, and I hope they agree. Christ.
The woman passed by and I told her I left the semen (and urine) sample in the bathroom like she told me. After asking when was the last time I performed self-onanism -- and telling her that I already gave that answer to the administrator as well (her reply: "Oh!" and she went back into the patient room to copy what the administrator wrote), she put the samples into a box. She gave that box to another woman, a student dressed in U. gear, and told me to follow her to another wing of the building to get a blood draw and an ECG.
She wasn't a nurse, but she was nice. While on our trek down to the clinical testing lab she told me she got this job from the woman whose office was right next door to the jerkoff bathroom; she was her high school basketball coach. And, her job is work-study. At first I thought it was, again, strange that you can get financial aid from carrying some stranger's piss and cum. Now, I think that paying me is the only way you'd get me to carry some stranger's penile effluvia.
---
I go back today -- in several hours, in fact. Yesterday I called the flustered woman because I wanted to bring my -- well, my sister's -- Victoria's Secret catalogs. I could use them, but actually I think I have too many and want a place to donate them. Would you jerk off to hot women in lingerie instead of naked sex?
Anyway, when I ask her, she's saying, "yeah, yeah, uh-huh" all the way through, like she's doing something else and I'm bothering her. She seemed agitated the entire call. I've got to give this woman my jizz, the least I expect is some professionalism and courtesy and the perception that she's got her shit together. Whatever, I'm getting paid, and hopefully for more than after the two samples I'm giving this week.
Wish me luck!
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Showed Another Hot Stripper My Dick
I decided to go to the Monday House Party last week because, with Dancing With The Stars coming up, this would be the last Monday evening I'd spend out of the house. Probably that's best because I still have no money; I can't be going over there even monthly because I'd lose my checking account.
As usual, I put on my porno pants and take off my underwear. I prime myself that I. Will. Show. A. Stripper. My. Cock. However, I get out of the shower a little late and therefore hit the road a little later than I want to. This babe Lexi's party starts at 7, and I don't want to be late enough where another guy's there. Just me, the strippers, and my wang hanging out.
I drive like a banshee to make up for lost time and somehow make it to the condo right around 7. When I turn around and park on the street so I don't have to turn around and take off when I leave in, like, 20 minutes, I see another guy leave his car, carrying what looks to be a camera or something. He was white, tall, kind of sad-looking because he was looking down on the ground while walking -- in other words, except for the color of his skin and his height, me.
So, for all my worries that I wouldn't be the first one at the party because I didn't get there at the very beginning, they might be moot. As I started my way to the end of the cul-de-sac where the party was at, I was hoping that the man lived there. He began walking the way I was walking ... Are you gonna take a right there? ... How about a right there? ... Please take a right there ... No, he went right around the corner of the complex at the very end of the dead end. He was there first.No chance of being the first guy. No chance of showing my pee-pee to all the girls there as the only guy.
---
Well, I was there, still going commando, still trying to salvage a moment of showing a beautiful stripper how she truly makes me feel. Have to make the best of things -- that's what I've grown to learn these past few years. So I marched in there, where Lexi, the guy, and a couple other dancers were huddled around the kitchen counter.
As I usually do, the first thing I do is go to the bathroom, which is where I unbutton my fly. I ask Lexi for permission to use her facilities and take a right, where I see a light coming from around where the bathroom door would be. Is there somebody there?
Yes -- it's Tori! She's brunette, kind of buxom, has big tits (which are fake, as I learned when I got a dance from her at the last party I attended), she's studying to be a nurse, and she kind of sounds drunk even though she might not be drinking. She was in the bathroom -- door open -- with her normal clothes on, putting on her makeup.
Everybody else is in the kitchen -- fairly close, but I don't think they're listening to me. Here's my chance.
"Hey," I asked Tori, "do you mind if I pee?"
"Go ahead," she replied, "You're not the first guy to do it in front of me, and you're not gonna be the last!"
Uh, so this has happened before, which means ... that maybe she doesn't think it's a big deal. I press on, because it's a big deal for me. I'm so nervous/excited about Tori allowing me to expose myself in front of her that after I whip myself out and I expel only, like, a drop.
Peeing wasn't really what I was in the bathroom for. But I still didn't know if she was thinking what I was thinking. So I just hung out there, even twisting it in her direction. But Tori, she's a pro. She was still putting on make-up without missing a beat, even after I asked her, "Do you mind touching it?"
Instead, she carried on a normal conversation. She asked me that if I knew any other publishing software because her professor wouldn't allow her to use PowerPoint on this brochure she needs to make for class. I answered her questions and tried to help, all the while with my penis peeking out of my fly. As if it were perfectly normal. This whole time the door was ajar, so anybody, especially that damn guy, could've seen me in my altogether. Thankfully, that didn't happen.
Finally, Tori broke off the conversation with, "I don't think I can be here while you're peeing," and headed for the door. But, like I learned before, a girl just cannot help but look down when you're flashing her. So just before she closed the door behind her, she gave a quick peek at my manhood. It was a peener, small due to a combination of feigning urination and fear of getting caught. But she saw me anyway. Mission partially accomplished!
Next time I hope to be a tad more ... aggressive. Maybe I should have masturbated myself in front of her. Maybe next time I'll take myself out and freak her from behind while she's putting on mascara -- maybe even touch her boobs, over and under her top, or even reach into her cooch.
Maybe she's down and willing, and I just need to ... prod her a bit more. I have a goal for next time!
She didn't tell on me, did she?
As usual, I put on my porno pants and take off my underwear. I prime myself that I. Will. Show. A. Stripper. My. Cock. However, I get out of the shower a little late and therefore hit the road a little later than I want to. This babe Lexi's party starts at 7, and I don't want to be late enough where another guy's there. Just me, the strippers, and my wang hanging out.
I drive like a banshee to make up for lost time and somehow make it to the condo right around 7. When I turn around and park on the street so I don't have to turn around and take off when I leave in, like, 20 minutes, I see another guy leave his car, carrying what looks to be a camera or something. He was white, tall, kind of sad-looking because he was looking down on the ground while walking -- in other words, except for the color of his skin and his height, me.
So, for all my worries that I wouldn't be the first one at the party because I didn't get there at the very beginning, they might be moot. As I started my way to the end of the cul-de-sac where the party was at, I was hoping that the man lived there. He began walking the way I was walking ... Are you gonna take a right there? ... How about a right there? ... Please take a right there ... No, he went right around the corner of the complex at the very end of the dead end. He was there first.
---
Well, I was there, still going commando, still trying to salvage a moment of showing a beautiful stripper how she truly makes me feel. Have to make the best of things -- that's what I've grown to learn these past few years. So I marched in there, where Lexi, the guy, and a couple other dancers were huddled around the kitchen counter.
As I usually do, the first thing I do is go to the bathroom, which is where I unbutton my fly. I ask Lexi for permission to use her facilities and take a right, where I see a light coming from around where the bathroom door would be. Is there somebody there?
Yes -- it's Tori! She's brunette, kind of buxom, has big tits (which are fake, as I learned when I got a dance from her at the last party I attended), she's studying to be a nurse, and she kind of sounds drunk even though she might not be drinking. She was in the bathroom -- door open -- with her normal clothes on, putting on her makeup.
Everybody else is in the kitchen -- fairly close, but I don't think they're listening to me. Here's my chance.
"Hey," I asked Tori, "do you mind if I pee?"
"Go ahead," she replied, "You're not the first guy to do it in front of me, and you're not gonna be the last!"
Uh, so this has happened before, which means ... that maybe she doesn't think it's a big deal. I press on, because it's a big deal for me. I'm so nervous/excited about Tori allowing me to expose myself in front of her that after I whip myself out and I expel only, like, a drop.
Peeing wasn't really what I was in the bathroom for. But I still didn't know if she was thinking what I was thinking. So I just hung out there, even twisting it in her direction. But Tori, she's a pro. She was still putting on make-up without missing a beat, even after I asked her, "Do you mind touching it?"
Instead, she carried on a normal conversation. She asked me that if I knew any other publishing software because her professor wouldn't allow her to use PowerPoint on this brochure she needs to make for class. I answered her questions and tried to help, all the while with my penis peeking out of my fly. As if it were perfectly normal. This whole time the door was ajar, so anybody, especially that damn guy, could've seen me in my altogether. Thankfully, that didn't happen.
Finally, Tori broke off the conversation with, "I don't think I can be here while you're peeing," and headed for the door. But, like I learned before, a girl just cannot help but look down when you're flashing her. So just before she closed the door behind her, she gave a quick peek at my manhood. It was a peener, small due to a combination of feigning urination and fear of getting caught. But she saw me anyway. Mission partially accomplished!
Next time I hope to be a tad more ... aggressive. Maybe I should have masturbated myself in front of her. Maybe next time I'll take myself out and freak her from behind while she's putting on mascara -- maybe even touch her boobs, over and under her top, or even reach into her cooch.
Maybe she's down and willing, and I just need to ... prod her a bit more. I have a goal for next time!
She didn't tell on me, did she?
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
I Appeared On Wheel Of Fortune
I should reveal why my parents and I went to the casino about ten days ago. We went up to Grand Casino Hinckley to participate in the traveling version of Wheel of Fortune. My parents have repeatedly groused to me that I should get on the show because whenever we watch the show over dinner I always solve the puzzle before the contestants do. When they saw in a commercial that they'd "be" at Grand Casino Hinckley, there was absolutely no chance I wouldn't do it. And besides, this show doesn't come around every day, so I might as well try it once to see what it's like.
Turns out there are three shows they seat for. You have to fill out an application, then get randomly picked to go up onstage in one of the hotel's grand ballrooms and compete in a modified version of the game. No, as I expected neither Pat Sajak nor Vanna White were there, though the Pat replacement was a nice guy and the Vanna replacement was quite pretty.
The trip started off with me driving, Father riding shotgun and Mother in the sole backseat in their minivan. They don't know where it was, but getting to the casino's easy enough -- it's just a highway. If I'm the one to try and compete on the show, and if they're just watching, shouldn't they be driving me?
I was even more internally infuriated that Father insisted on turning on the fan but pointing it down on the floor, towards the legs. He always does that because, I guess, he hates the air blowing in his face. But again, he wasn't driving. I was, and I was hot over being nervous about what could happen if I got on the show. But I didn't want to say anything because I didn't want to make our 75-minute road trip ugly. So I sucked it up and took on all the responsibility on our way up there.
Grand Casino Hinckley is nice; I like their canopy over the valet front loading area the best. However, once we got into the casino, it looked quite small, though with all the slot machines it looks like one long, loud and confusing blur of spinning cherries and flashing lights and cacophonous dings like any other casino. Thankfully, once we entered there was a person who directed us to the line of WOF.
My God, the line was huge. And we were snaked through the aisles of slot machines so we could get the wristbands we need in order to get the application we need from another part of the gambling complex. (Special thanks to several of the workers for being so nice about pointing me where I needed to go and telling me what I needed to do.) And after all of that the instructions said we needed to sign up for a membership card with the casino. I think thats's a lie; I mean, why would the show care if someone doesn't sign up with a casino they're not going to see after they blow after the weekend. But I signed up just in case; I planned on doing it anyway.
At first I thought my parents were going to line up with me so I wouldn't be alone. Then they headed off by themselves in the gaming area. I then thought that was best because I didn't think they wanted to enter the show, so their time up there would best be spent pissing their money away at the slots.
I didn't think, however, that when the line started to move for the wristbands that my parents would join back up with me. They got their wristbands and their applications, and I had a bad thought that they would try and get on the show, even though their conversation English would probably make them trip over their words, assuming they could solve the puzzles.
Luckily, they knew best not to. However, their plan kind of pissed me off. Mother gave me the applications her and Father got and told me to fill those out under my name too. The rules specifically state that you can only enter one application per show; if I didn't get onstage the first show, there were two more shows afterward that I could do, so cheating like this wasn't necessary, and I kind of pitched a fit over Mother's idea. I didn't want to get called up, only to hear my name a second time. I don't want to get humiliation onstage and have a bunch of women who are fanatical over Wheel of Fortune want to murder me. I didn't need that shit.
In the end, though, I caved and broke the rules and filled out all three applications the same, all under my own name. First of all, I needed to keep the peace with my parents, who really wanted me to do this. Second, there were so many people lined up, the chances of two of my apps getting selected were low. Finally, I came to the realization of, Who cares? Wheel of Fortune might not be in town for another five years. These people I'm trying to get on the show with I'll probably never see again. Hell, I might not even see the casino again. What's the worst that could happen? I'll blame it on my parents.
So after about two hours of queuing and waiting and gambling, we finally shuffle with about 2,000 people (the vast majority females) into the casino's grand ballroom, where we dropped the applications into a box. They were then transferred into a hopper onstage with a smaller makeshift version of the letterboard on TV; the tiles swing around, like the old days, and the Vanna-lite (I forget her name) had to write each letter in and erase them all after the puzzle was solved.
Here's how it worked: Five names were picked at a time. After a very scary interview onstage in front of everybody, you get the category. From first to last, you get to name a letter; if it's in the puzzle, you get three seconds to guess the puzzle. Unless you solve, Pat-lite goes to the next person in line. No spinning the wheel for money, no paying for vowels; you just name letters.
The only wheel spun is a prize wheel the host pulled once before each puzzle. Whatever it lands on is the prize all five contestants get, regardless of whether they won or lost. They threw in something else, too. After the puzzle was solved, those five shuffled offstage to be replaced by the next five. There were supposed to be 50 people, but they took so long that they only got through, like, 30. Plus there was one no-show, and one person was able to stay onstage because the puzzle was solved before they got to her.
Anyway, I noticed that a lot more men were called up on average compared to what I think was the composition of the audience. In particular, it looked like a man was picked as the fifth and final contestant every single wave. And one of those last guys ... was me. My heart skipped a beat, and I felt both nervous and numb at the same time. What are the odds I'd get selected? Better than I thought, I guess.
I stammered through my interview. I told the host I was a home health aide, which is stretching it. I also said I love to travel, which I do, I just can't afford to because I have no job. And I think I was able to say I like going to the Twins' new ballpark clearly.
I'm one of those guys who thinks I know the puzzle faster than the ones onstage. In retrospect, I think the audience thought the same of me and my three fellow losers. The category was "place," (a magnetized placemat signifying below the puzzle on the mini-board) and there were two words. The woman in front of me, whom I made small chitchat with while onstage as the host was naming the last of the audience members to play, got three "L"'s. From that, I knew the second word was "alley." I got one "N," but I couldn't get the first word.
It came around a second time before the woman before me got the puzzle -- "bowling alley." Dammit! It's so obvious now!! Oh well. The host shook my hand a second time as I led all of us down the stairs where our swag was waiting. What did I get? A Wheel of Fortune single armhole backpack stuffed with a WOF t-shirt, hat, and plastic coffee mug.
The host said that they'll take the applications of all those who "won" and made it onstage, take several more apps from the hopper, and check them out back at headquarters in Los Angeles. If they like what I wrote, I get a call.
The three of us celebrated by eating at the buffet, mine of which I got free from swiping my Grand Casino card and playing an NFL pick 'em game. I have to say that I was cloud nine. And I felt so proud of "winning" my stuff that I told Mother to please keep it safe because there were people out there that wanted what I got. Played a few slots, tried to play 21 but got denied, and then we went home.
I asked Father to drive, and he was OK with it, and he hasn't seemed to try and get back at me for it by yelling at me for something else since. All in all, I have to say, it was a good night.
Turns out there are three shows they seat for. You have to fill out an application, then get randomly picked to go up onstage in one of the hotel's grand ballrooms and compete in a modified version of the game. No, as I expected neither Pat Sajak nor Vanna White were there, though the Pat replacement was a nice guy and the Vanna replacement was quite pretty.
The trip started off with me driving, Father riding shotgun and Mother in the sole backseat in their minivan. They don't know where it was, but getting to the casino's easy enough -- it's just a highway. If I'm the one to try and compete on the show, and if they're just watching, shouldn't they be driving me?
I was even more internally infuriated that Father insisted on turning on the fan but pointing it down on the floor, towards the legs. He always does that because, I guess, he hates the air blowing in his face. But again, he wasn't driving. I was, and I was hot over being nervous about what could happen if I got on the show. But I didn't want to say anything because I didn't want to make our 75-minute road trip ugly. So I sucked it up and took on all the responsibility on our way up there.
Grand Casino Hinckley is nice; I like their canopy over the valet front loading area the best. However, once we got into the casino, it looked quite small, though with all the slot machines it looks like one long, loud and confusing blur of spinning cherries and flashing lights and cacophonous dings like any other casino. Thankfully, once we entered there was a person who directed us to the line of WOF.
My God, the line was huge. And we were snaked through the aisles of slot machines so we could get the wristbands we need in order to get the application we need from another part of the gambling complex. (Special thanks to several of the workers for being so nice about pointing me where I needed to go and telling me what I needed to do.) And after all of that the instructions said we needed to sign up for a membership card with the casino. I think thats's a lie; I mean, why would the show care if someone doesn't sign up with a casino they're not going to see after they blow after the weekend. But I signed up just in case; I planned on doing it anyway.
At first I thought my parents were going to line up with me so I wouldn't be alone. Then they headed off by themselves in the gaming area. I then thought that was best because I didn't think they wanted to enter the show, so their time up there would best be spent pissing their money away at the slots.
I didn't think, however, that when the line started to move for the wristbands that my parents would join back up with me. They got their wristbands and their applications, and I had a bad thought that they would try and get on the show, even though their conversation English would probably make them trip over their words, assuming they could solve the puzzles.
Luckily, they knew best not to. However, their plan kind of pissed me off. Mother gave me the applications her and Father got and told me to fill those out under my name too. The rules specifically state that you can only enter one application per show; if I didn't get onstage the first show, there were two more shows afterward that I could do, so cheating like this wasn't necessary, and I kind of pitched a fit over Mother's idea. I didn't want to get called up, only to hear my name a second time. I don't want to get humiliation onstage and have a bunch of women who are fanatical over Wheel of Fortune want to murder me. I didn't need that shit.
In the end, though, I caved and broke the rules and filled out all three applications the same, all under my own name. First of all, I needed to keep the peace with my parents, who really wanted me to do this. Second, there were so many people lined up, the chances of two of my apps getting selected were low. Finally, I came to the realization of, Who cares? Wheel of Fortune might not be in town for another five years. These people I'm trying to get on the show with I'll probably never see again. Hell, I might not even see the casino again. What's the worst that could happen? I'll blame it on my parents.
So after about two hours of queuing and waiting and gambling, we finally shuffle with about 2,000 people (the vast majority females) into the casino's grand ballroom, where we dropped the applications into a box. They were then transferred into a hopper onstage with a smaller makeshift version of the letterboard on TV; the tiles swing around, like the old days, and the Vanna-lite (I forget her name) had to write each letter in and erase them all after the puzzle was solved.
Here's how it worked: Five names were picked at a time. After a very scary interview onstage in front of everybody, you get the category. From first to last, you get to name a letter; if it's in the puzzle, you get three seconds to guess the puzzle. Unless you solve, Pat-lite goes to the next person in line. No spinning the wheel for money, no paying for vowels; you just name letters.
The only wheel spun is a prize wheel the host pulled once before each puzzle. Whatever it lands on is the prize all five contestants get, regardless of whether they won or lost. They threw in something else, too. After the puzzle was solved, those five shuffled offstage to be replaced by the next five. There were supposed to be 50 people, but they took so long that they only got through, like, 30. Plus there was one no-show, and one person was able to stay onstage because the puzzle was solved before they got to her.
Anyway, I noticed that a lot more men were called up on average compared to what I think was the composition of the audience. In particular, it looked like a man was picked as the fifth and final contestant every single wave. And one of those last guys ... was me. My heart skipped a beat, and I felt both nervous and numb at the same time. What are the odds I'd get selected? Better than I thought, I guess.
I stammered through my interview. I told the host I was a home health aide, which is stretching it. I also said I love to travel, which I do, I just can't afford to because I have no job. And I think I was able to say I like going to the Twins' new ballpark clearly.
I'm one of those guys who thinks I know the puzzle faster than the ones onstage. In retrospect, I think the audience thought the same of me and my three fellow losers. The category was "place," (a magnetized placemat signifying below the puzzle on the mini-board) and there were two words. The woman in front of me, whom I made small chitchat with while onstage as the host was naming the last of the audience members to play, got three "L"'s. From that, I knew the second word was "alley." I got one "N," but I couldn't get the first word.
It came around a second time before the woman before me got the puzzle -- "bowling alley." Dammit! It's so obvious now!! Oh well. The host shook my hand a second time as I led all of us down the stairs where our swag was waiting. What did I get? A Wheel of Fortune single armhole backpack stuffed with a WOF t-shirt, hat, and plastic coffee mug.
The host said that they'll take the applications of all those who "won" and made it onstage, take several more apps from the hopper, and check them out back at headquarters in Los Angeles. If they like what I wrote, I get a call.
The three of us celebrated by eating at the buffet, mine of which I got free from swiping my Grand Casino card and playing an NFL pick 'em game. I have to say that I was cloud nine. And I felt so proud of "winning" my stuff that I told Mother to please keep it safe because there were people out there that wanted what I got. Played a few slots, tried to play 21 but got denied, and then we went home.
I asked Father to drive, and he was OK with it, and he hasn't seemed to try and get back at me for it by yelling at me for something else since. All in all, I have to say, it was a good night.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Good Customer Service
So I was at Target today because my Grandmother is on a buy-shit-we-don't-necessarily-need kick again and wanted me to purchase some air freshener. I think. Last night I commented on how her bedroom smelled like shit, and so she gave me five bucks to buy air freshener.
Whatever. So I go to Target and find the cheapest thing I could find. There's a limited edition of pumpkin-sceneted Febreze available for $1.99. If it's limited edition, why is it cheaper?
Anyway, I buy a can and go up to the checkout guy. It prices out at, like, $2.69 or something.
"Is that right?" I asked. (I think that's what I asked, I don't remember.)
"It's not?" he replied. (I think, I just made that up too.)
"No, I think it's $1.99 ... ?" (This I'm pretty sure is verbatim.)
And he did something extraordinary. He punched in the price I thought it was and overrode the scanned price. And I paid $1.99 (plus tax so that made it $2.13) for it.
"That's alright? I can certainly check," I offered, and he said it was fine. He trusted me. Christ.
You know, lately I've felt kind of shitty about shopping at Target. Ever since the corporation decided to fully back the homophobe teabagger douchebag drunkard Tom Emmer for Governor, I've wanted to boycott these guys, despite them being headquartered in the state. I can't because 1) my Grandmother's medications are bought here, and I don't think she wants that to change, and 2) their prices are so damn low.
But I have to say that I'm glad that, in this case at least, the frontline employee has been empowered to do something like take a customer's word and reprice an item than lower than what the computer says it's supposed to be. I don't want to give credit to Target so much as thank the checkout guy, Richard, for doing this for me. Thank you. And I hope Grandmother doesn't make me return it so that your efforts are wasted.
Whatever. So I go to Target and find the cheapest thing I could find. There's a limited edition of pumpkin-sceneted Febreze available for $1.99. If it's limited edition, why is it cheaper?
Anyway, I buy a can and go up to the checkout guy. It prices out at, like, $2.69 or something.
"Is that right?" I asked. (I think that's what I asked, I don't remember.)
"It's not?" he replied. (I think, I just made that up too.)
"No, I think it's $1.99 ... ?" (This I'm pretty sure is verbatim.)
And he did something extraordinary. He punched in the price I thought it was and overrode the scanned price. And I paid $1.99 (plus tax so that made it $2.13) for it.
"That's alright? I can certainly check," I offered, and he said it was fine. He trusted me. Christ.
You know, lately I've felt kind of shitty about shopping at Target. Ever since the corporation decided to fully back the homophobe teabagger douchebag drunkard Tom Emmer for Governor, I've wanted to boycott these guys, despite them being headquartered in the state. I can't because 1) my Grandmother's medications are bought here, and I don't think she wants that to change, and 2) their prices are so damn low.
But I have to say that I'm glad that, in this case at least, the frontline employee has been empowered to do something like take a customer's word and reprice an item than lower than what the computer says it's supposed to be. I don't want to give credit to Target so much as thank the checkout guy, Richard, for doing this for me. Thank you. And I hope Grandmother doesn't make me return it so that your efforts are wasted.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
So I had a long day yesterday and I passed out immediately after hitting my bed at 2:30 a.m. When I woke up I remembered that I wanted to go to my MySpace and type down my betting picks for this week's NFL games. Luckily it was 11:30 a.m. and I had a half-hour to do it.
But then I remembered that My Father usually unplugs the modem. And even though I was well rested, I didn't really want to roll out of bed just then to do that. Well, I then thought, maybe he didn't. So I took out my laptop and turned it on and ... he didn't turn it off. The logo in the lower right of my screen wasn't an "x." However, there wasn't a circle, either. Shit; the modem was plugged in, but was on the blink.
I was willing to get out of bed and go downstairs to fix it; that's how pissed off I was over this circumstance. But then I heard a series of splashes outside. That's the sound of my Grandmother throwing water on the floor. That's how she wets it so she can mop it. And I didn't want to get my feet wet. So even though I had the time, I let the half-hour go by without blogging about my NFL picks. I didn't like missing a week, but look at all the things that conspired against me.
But then I remembered that My Father usually unplugs the modem. And even though I was well rested, I didn't really want to roll out of bed just then to do that. Well, I then thought, maybe he didn't. So I took out my laptop and turned it on and ... he didn't turn it off. The logo in the lower right of my screen wasn't an "x." However, there wasn't a circle, either. Shit; the modem was plugged in, but was on the blink.
I was willing to get out of bed and go downstairs to fix it; that's how pissed off I was over this circumstance. But then I heard a series of splashes outside. That's the sound of my Grandmother throwing water on the floor. That's how she wets it so she can mop it. And I didn't want to get my feet wet. So even though I had the time, I let the half-hour go by without blogging about my NFL picks. I didn't like missing a week, but look at all the things that conspired against me.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Attending tonight's party proved I was wrong; there is a palpable excitement, a visceral feeling, surrounding tomorrow's game at TCF Bank Stadium. Maybe it's just because I was in the middle of it, but I vastly underestimated the number of people coming in for the game. I even heard anecdotes that there have been some fans wearing the regalia all week.
I thought there would be dampened enthusiasm for the game. There is -- on Minnesota's part. But there are plenty of people who are coming to cheer on the visitors. I just think, however, that this is going to be a much closer game than anyone thinks.
Regardless, there is a buzz in this town I haven't experienced in a long time, if ever. And it feels good.
I thought there would be dampened enthusiasm for the game. There is -- on Minnesota's part. But there are plenty of people who are coming to cheer on the visitors. I just think, however, that this is going to be a much closer game than anyone thinks.
Regardless, there is a buzz in this town I haven't experienced in a long time, if ever. And it feels good.
Friday, September 17, 2010
The Weekly Minnesota Sports Survey
#-1: Gopher soccer (Last Week: -1). The lady footballers reach the top while not winning all their games this week. No, they didn't lose, either -- two wins and a tie. But one of those victories, coming last (Thursday) night, was against 20th-ranked South Carolina in South Carolina, by a score of 3-1. In actual football numbers, that'd be, like, 30-3. An upset of a ranked team on the road is almost assuredly a trump card for getting on the top of the WMNSS, even with a 0-0 tie at Toledo on the record. (The Gophs also defeated Bowling Green in Bowling Green, 2-0.) They have not lost since they began the season at Notre Dame, and even then it was just 1-0. They should be a force in the Big Ten. This week they come home to finish their out-of-conference schedule against Illinois St. Sunday afternoon, then begin their conference schedule at Iowa Thursday.
#-2: Gopher volleyball (Last Week: -2). It's still a good week for the U. volleyballers. They went into Durham, N.C. and won all three of their games to claim the Duke Invitational. They're not on top of the WMNSS because none of the three teams they beat are ranked (although the host Blue Devils got some votes in this week's AVCA Top 25) and they dropped a set to lowly Delaware.
They remain 12th in the AVCA, which I'm starting to think is criminally low. They're 8-1, albeit playing against not-tip-top competition. That should account for something. Oh, and game-changer Ashley Wittman won the first of many accolades this week, being named Co-Big Ten Player and Freshman Of The Week. I could be wrong, especially once they face the likes of Penn St., Illinois and even Michigan, but they should be a force to reckon with in the conference and once the tournament rolls around.
This week they attend the fourth and final interconference tournament of the "preseason," the USD/San Diego St. Tournament. The Gophs obviously face both host schools -- USD is ranked, by the way -- as well as UC-Santa Barbara.
#-3: Twins (Last Week: 0). Went 5-1 this week and they're next to last? It was a competitive week in the WMNSS. After sweeping the Chicago White Sox in three this week -- at Comiskey Park, no less -- the Twinkies now have a nine-game lead; ladies and gentlemen, even though the race for the A.L. Central was kind of over before the series began, now it is really, really over. I mean, the way they just stomped on the Pale Hoses' necks (victories by scores of 9-3, 9-3, and 8-5) sent the message that they've fallen and they sure as shit shouldn't get up. Although they shouldn't coast, they can coast and still sew up a playoff spot.
Now, the things that still bother me. Orlando Hudson seems to be a nice guy, but he's in a major hitting slump and I don't like his range on defense. Is it too much of a stretch to replace him with Nick Punto in short? The fielding could be a lot stronger. It could be the one thing that rears its ugly head in the playoffs as the Yankees or Bay Rays or Rangers kill the Twinks with groundball after groundball through the holes in the infield. Finally, Matt Capps isn't lights out, and you need that from a closer. Jesse Crain, of all fucking people, is the best reliever on the team right now. Dan "The Common Man" Cole of KFAN suggested he could replace Capps as the stopper. Certainly, we have to stop calling him the Crain Wreck.
They are home all this week: three over the weekend against The Bastard Philadelphia/Kansas City Athletics, then a threesome with Cleveland. Should be a 6-0 week.
#-4: Gopher football (Re-Entry!). What can I say? A loss to second-division South Dakota has virtually nailed the final coffin in Tim Brewster's head coaching career at the U., and possibly even his head coaching career anywhere. However. ...
If the Gophs can somehow upset USC, a powerful school in name only right now, it could be enough to save his job. As pathetic a performance they turned in last week, this is college football. The U. could rally around Brew and the embattled program. And the Trojans have not played up to their rank; they remain disconnected on offense and still can't tackle for shit on defense. I say they replace Adam Weber with MarQueis Gray and Wildcat the hell out of 'SC; Jeremiah Masoli did that and Oregon steamrolled 'em. They'd better try something; if they lose, and especially if they get drubbed, TCF Bank Stadium will be empty of maroon-and-gold-clad fans in just its second season. They won't witness a lame duck.
#-2: Gopher volleyball (Last Week: -2). It's still a good week for the U. volleyballers. They went into Durham, N.C. and won all three of their games to claim the Duke Invitational. They're not on top of the WMNSS because none of the three teams they beat are ranked (although the host Blue Devils got some votes in this week's AVCA Top 25) and they dropped a set to lowly Delaware.
They remain 12th in the AVCA, which I'm starting to think is criminally low. They're 8-1, albeit playing against not-tip-top competition. That should account for something. Oh, and game-changer Ashley Wittman won the first of many accolades this week, being named Co-Big Ten Player and Freshman Of The Week. I could be wrong, especially once they face the likes of Penn St., Illinois and even Michigan, but they should be a force to reckon with in the conference and once the tournament rolls around.
This week they attend the fourth and final interconference tournament of the "preseason," the USD/San Diego St. Tournament. The Gophs obviously face both host schools -- USD is ranked, by the way -- as well as UC-Santa Barbara.
#-3: Twins (Last Week: 0). Went 5-1 this week and they're next to last? It was a competitive week in the WMNSS. After sweeping the Chicago White Sox in three this week -- at Comiskey Park, no less -- the Twinkies now have a nine-game lead; ladies and gentlemen, even though the race for the A.L. Central was kind of over before the series began, now it is really, really over. I mean, the way they just stomped on the Pale Hoses' necks (victories by scores of 9-3, 9-3, and 8-5) sent the message that they've fallen and they sure as shit shouldn't get up. Although they shouldn't coast, they can coast and still sew up a playoff spot.
Now, the things that still bother me. Orlando Hudson seems to be a nice guy, but he's in a major hitting slump and I don't like his range on defense. Is it too much of a stretch to replace him with Nick Punto in short? The fielding could be a lot stronger. It could be the one thing that rears its ugly head in the playoffs as the Yankees or Bay Rays or Rangers kill the Twinks with groundball after groundball through the holes in the infield. Finally, Matt Capps isn't lights out, and you need that from a closer. Jesse Crain, of all fucking people, is the best reliever on the team right now. Dan "The Common Man" Cole of KFAN suggested he could replace Capps as the stopper. Certainly, we have to stop calling him the Crain Wreck.
They are home all this week: three over the weekend against The Bastard Philadelphia/Kansas City Athletics, then a threesome with Cleveland. Should be a 6-0 week.
#-4: Gopher football (Re-Entry!). What can I say? A loss to second-division South Dakota has virtually nailed the final coffin in Tim Brewster's head coaching career at the U., and possibly even his head coaching career anywhere. However. ...
If the Gophs can somehow upset USC, a powerful school in name only right now, it could be enough to save his job. As pathetic a performance they turned in last week, this is college football. The U. could rally around Brew and the embattled program. And the Trojans have not played up to their rank; they remain disconnected on offense and still can't tackle for shit on defense. I say they replace Adam Weber with MarQueis Gray and Wildcat the hell out of 'SC; Jeremiah Masoli did that and Oregon steamrolled 'em. They'd better try something; if they lose, and especially if they get drubbed, TCF Bank Stadium will be empty of maroon-and-gold-clad fans in just its second season. They won't witness a lame duck.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
My continuing nagging feeling that I need to get up every Thursday morning has been justified again this morning.
I went to bed early, without dinkin' around the Internet, for many reasons: I was tired; I wanted My Father to know I went to bed at a conforming hour to the rest of the world, as a gesture of goodwill; and I wanted to make sure he didn't throw any of my shit away in the morning, which is recycling day. I needed to make absolutely sure I had enough rest so I don't sleep through the 10 o'clock hour, which is around the time the city comes in and recycles are cans and papers.
I should, in a way, thank My Father for waking me up by his rustling the paper bags he apparently gathered in his hands and slamming the door. There were two paper bags when I came out to see the curb. When I investigated, one of them was sundry things from downstairs, his stuff. The other ... the other contained my Entertainment Weeklys that I put down in the basement a long time ago. These aren't just sentimental to me; these are the earliest editions of EW I have when My Fucking Father made my subscribe to it back in 1990. The earliest copy of I have: Issue #10, featuring the TV dramatization of Jimm and Tammy Faye Bakker.
And My Fucking Father wanted to throw them away. He has no respect for my stuff. On the basement walls he hangs paintings he thinks are valuable but aren't worth shit. They're painted by guys whose memories have already been erased from the dust of the Earth. Meanwhile, in its own humble corner of the basement sat my EW's, hurting no one. But no, My Fucking Father wants clutter -- that's not his -- out of his sight, no matter how benign a stack of magazines are. So glad I rescued the tangible evidence of my past before the recyclers came around. They're in my closet now, safe from the clutches of My Fucking Father.
More and more I believe buying a storage space was the right thing to do. So damn infuriating. ...
I went to bed early, without dinkin' around the Internet, for many reasons: I was tired; I wanted My Father to know I went to bed at a conforming hour to the rest of the world, as a gesture of goodwill; and I wanted to make sure he didn't throw any of my shit away in the morning, which is recycling day. I needed to make absolutely sure I had enough rest so I don't sleep through the 10 o'clock hour, which is around the time the city comes in and recycles are cans and papers.
I should, in a way, thank My Father for waking me up by his rustling the paper bags he apparently gathered in his hands and slamming the door. There were two paper bags when I came out to see the curb. When I investigated, one of them was sundry things from downstairs, his stuff. The other ... the other contained my Entertainment Weeklys that I put down in the basement a long time ago. These aren't just sentimental to me; these are the earliest editions of EW I have when My Fucking Father made my subscribe to it back in 1990. The earliest copy of I have: Issue #10, featuring the TV dramatization of Jimm and Tammy Faye Bakker.
And My Fucking Father wanted to throw them away. He has no respect for my stuff. On the basement walls he hangs paintings he thinks are valuable but aren't worth shit. They're painted by guys whose memories have already been erased from the dust of the Earth. Meanwhile, in its own humble corner of the basement sat my EW's, hurting no one. But no, My Fucking Father wants clutter -- that's not his -- out of his sight, no matter how benign a stack of magazines are. So glad I rescued the tangible evidence of my past before the recyclers came around. They're in my closet now, safe from the clutches of My Fucking Father.
More and more I believe buying a storage space was the right thing to do. So damn infuriating. ...
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
The Ways My Grandmother Frustrated The Hell Out Of Me Today
- It's fine if I wake up with her not in the house, though with her age I'm always scared that she, like, fell in the laundry room or something. I certainly am kind of miffed when I'm woken from my sleep by a phone call that's inevitably from her. I do kind of mind that she finally comes home with a bunch of food that we'll never get to eat that she bought in bulk at Sam's Club. I should add that I wouldn't mind so much if my parents didn't constantly complain that she buys food that goes to waste all the time, but since they're sick of what she does, I have to be perturbed. She did buy a lot of food that no one's going to eat, though.
- I should be thankful that either her or her longtime friend -- who used to cut my hair when I was really young -- volunteered to buy me lunch. It was there, however, that she comes in with a problem in the house: There's a leak underneath the kitchen sink, and while I was sitting down to eat nice Chinese buffet food, she told me that she had to pour out all the dirty water that dropped into the bowl under the pipe. So I had to delay mowing the backyard to investigate this "leak." I soon heard that there was an actual ongoing leak in the basement, specfically onto my Grandmother's (I have another one, long story) altar. It's been there a long time, so I had to push the cups and dishes out of the way so I could place this fairly large plastic tub on it to collect the water. There was a lot of it when I drained it after I mowed the lawn. So now I had to deal with this other problem which I couldn't solve. Father didn't get bent out of shape when I broke the news to him later.
- I didn't plan on taking the car out because I thought I'd just stay at home, mow the lawns, maybe walk to the coffeeshop to work on some blogging, then come home and eat and go to sleep and shit. But one thing she bought was an extra rotisserie chicken. Out of the blue, Grandmother asked me to take out the car and bring that over to my aunt and uncle's as a gift. That sets off a whole chain reaction of alternative plans for the night: Now that I am using the car, and since Father might be pissed off that he has to fix yet another thing around the house, I thought I might as well keep it out and go to the gym tonight, even though it was for an hour because I was late in leaving the house because dinner was so late because Father had to fix the leak underneath the kitchen sink.
- I kind of snapped at her when I just got back into the house to open the garage door to put back the lawnmower because she immediately reminded me again that she wanted me to bring the rotisserie chicken to my aunt and uncle's, and then she asked me to take this huge box with the lid off that she took out of Sam's Club to carry all the food she bought downstairs for her. It's not a big deal, but hitting me with annoyances kind of sets me off. It didn't help that just before I got stung by two mosquitoes even though I put DEET on me before I started mowing this afternoon; do you have to reapply DEET every couple hours like sunscreen? I thought you were good until you washed it off.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Just started going through the Reality Kings websites I like to rub one out with. They all have the little "TM" superscripts at the end now. They had to trademark themselves, and they did it between the last time I visited their websites and now, so between last Tuesday and tonight.
Stupid porn going all corporate now. You have to rub the fact that you're a business at the end of it all in our faces, huh?
Stupid porn going all corporate now. You have to rub the fact that you're a business at the end of it all in our faces, huh?
Monday, September 13, 2010
Reached A Statute Of Limitations, I Presume
I wish I remembered to blog this on the 1st. That's the approximate six-month mark from an incident I blogged about on my trip to St. Louis. There is no law saying that I'm now free and clear, but I want to get this off my chest, and I figure if they haven't gotten back to me about this by now, they've dropped the case.
Remember when I said someone scuffed my car while I was vacationing in the Loo? Well, I lied. I needed to confess what happened at the time, but I couldn't be completely honest. Here is what happened:
I was at one of my favorite stripclubs in East St. Louis. Not only was one of my All-Time Favorites there, Autumn, to wank my pee-pee, I saw another new girl named Haley who, in this extras bar filled with girls who probably couldn't cut it any of the higher-standard clubs, rivaled Autumn on the looks scale. She is cute, too -- short blonde hair, perky tits she let me touch, frisky attitude. She wouldn't let me rub her twat when she exposed herself to me, but when I got up to reach into my wallet to tip her, she groped my balls.
I thought that was nice, and I kind of wished I had the money to take her to the same back room where Autumn takes care of me every visit. But I was totally spent, money- and cum-wise, from Autumn, and after the game was done I decided to hit the road.
There was some free weeklies in a stand right behind the front door -- you know, the alternative papers, apartment shoppers, etc. I saw this guy decked out in, like, vampire clothing and I decided to pick it up and read it.
Just then, out popped a girl's head. Hey, it was Haley!
"Are you leaving?"
"Yeah." At this point I was thinking: "There's the hot stripper who groped my balls. Ah well, nothing I can do after she walks away." But no, she doesn't walk away. Instead, she says:
"Why?"
She ... didn't go away as I thought. I had no money, and therefore no use for her. But she still wanted to talk anyway. And that's when "it" hit me -- this red mist of horniness that seized me and shut my brain off. Mentally I cased our surroundings: Me, her, the "foyer" of the club, very few people inside, nobody from inside the club that could see us (at least I think so), and her still interested in me. That's when I thought: This is the perfect time to show her my dick.
Seriously, I was so wrapped up in the moment and what my id wanted to do that I couldn't even speak. She asked me "Why?" and I swear I literally said, "bluh-bluh-bluh ... aw ... Autumn and ... uh, I ... bluh-bluh-bluh ..." I didn't have the energy to put my answer into actual words because I had no time because I could get caught. No matter that I was standing just inside the front door and a guy or, worse, one of the workers there could easily open the front door and see what I was about to do; in retrospect, the potential of that happening is high enough that I shouldn't have even considered doing what I did. But I did.
What I did was drop the paper, unbutton my fly, and take out my cock -- it was a little peener at the time, all hibernating after Autumn got through with it. I put myself back in, but not after Haley looked down at my manhood and, with her cigarette held in her hand in the air, got really ... grossed out.
"Why did you flash me?!?!?!" she cried, and in disgust she went back inside. Uh-oh. Now that it all just happened, it didn't seem like a good idea. So before she called management to beat my ass, I ran out the door, fumbled for my keys, opened the door, turned on the engine, and backed my car out.
---
Now, Pulp Fiction-style, let me to take you back to the beginning of my trip to this club. It is on what could have been the Main Street of this town called Washington Park. It is a busy thoroughfare/side street, except that, with the exception of a newly-built school and a Popeye's, is desolate and, I hear, very bad at night. That means that for this club I go to, they built a partial fence around the sides of the club to prevent either muggers or people from looking over and seeing what's going on there.
When I pulled in that afternoon, I thought about where on the lot to park. The last time I was there I was annoyed about this transmission pole placed right in front. I had a hard time pulling out of the lot when I left. So I thought about not parking anywhere near there. But, for some reason, I balked at parking, say, on the side of the club -- no reason, maybe I thought that if a mugger did find his way there I'd have nowhere to turn, or something. So, reluctantly, thoughtlessly, even though there were other spots right in front of the club, I parked directly in front of (or behind, depending on how you look at it) the power pole.
And I quickly forgot about that pole while I was dashing out of the club to elude the bouncers, getting my keys out, turning on the car and pulling away. I naturally looked behind toward my rear mirror, even seeing the pole behind me. And yet, because I needed to get the fuck out of there before they castrate me, I wasn't careful enough to avoid the pole -- and drove right into it.
It wasn't as if I was peeling in reverse at, like, 50 mph. But I felt it. And I would've gotten out to examine the car if I didn't feel like my life was in danger. So I went further down the road and found an empty parking lot to gauge the damage. And what damage there was -- sizable black scuff marks, possibly deep scratches, standing out on the yellow paint. I drove home, got a pot and rag (I was staying at corporate housing) and tried to wipe the blemishes off the car, to no avail.
So that's where I was with wondering whether or not to report the marks, all the shit about calling the rental car company, and fearing that they were going to force me to file a claim. I didn't do anything, and I didn't hear anything, so it probably looks like they're not going to pursue this. Thank God.
Now, I just have to wait until this completely blows over before I can vacation down in St. Louis again. First I have to hope I don't get the same rental car company. Then I hope that when I go to the club again -- and I have to, for the sake of Autumn -- Haley won't be there, or won't remember, or won't care, and the managers won't be looking out for me and making me, like, pay for the damage they say I caused, even though I couldn't've because I ran into a fucking trasmission pole. All of this won't be occurring in, say, the next six months, and probably longer since I'm still unemployed.
However, if the coast is clear, I am glad and thankful.
Remember when I said someone scuffed my car while I was vacationing in the Loo? Well, I lied. I needed to confess what happened at the time, but I couldn't be completely honest. Here is what happened:
I was at one of my favorite stripclubs in East St. Louis. Not only was one of my All-Time Favorites there, Autumn, to wank my pee-pee, I saw another new girl named Haley who, in this extras bar filled with girls who probably couldn't cut it any of the higher-standard clubs, rivaled Autumn on the looks scale. She is cute, too -- short blonde hair, perky tits she let me touch, frisky attitude. She wouldn't let me rub her twat when she exposed herself to me, but when I got up to reach into my wallet to tip her, she groped my balls.
I thought that was nice, and I kind of wished I had the money to take her to the same back room where Autumn takes care of me every visit. But I was totally spent, money- and cum-wise, from Autumn, and after the game was done I decided to hit the road.
There was some free weeklies in a stand right behind the front door -- you know, the alternative papers, apartment shoppers, etc. I saw this guy decked out in, like, vampire clothing and I decided to pick it up and read it.
Just then, out popped a girl's head. Hey, it was Haley!
"Are you leaving?"
"Yeah." At this point I was thinking: "There's the hot stripper who groped my balls. Ah well, nothing I can do after she walks away." But no, she doesn't walk away. Instead, she says:
"Why?"
She ... didn't go away as I thought. I had no money, and therefore no use for her. But she still wanted to talk anyway. And that's when "it" hit me -- this red mist of horniness that seized me and shut my brain off. Mentally I cased our surroundings: Me, her, the "foyer" of the club, very few people inside, nobody from inside the club that could see us (at least I think so), and her still interested in me. That's when I thought: This is the perfect time to show her my dick.
Seriously, I was so wrapped up in the moment and what my id wanted to do that I couldn't even speak. She asked me "Why?" and I swear I literally said, "bluh-bluh-bluh ... aw ... Autumn and ... uh, I ... bluh-bluh-bluh ..." I didn't have the energy to put my answer into actual words because I had no time because I could get caught. No matter that I was standing just inside the front door and a guy or, worse, one of the workers there could easily open the front door and see what I was about to do; in retrospect, the potential of that happening is high enough that I shouldn't have even considered doing what I did. But I did.
What I did was drop the paper, unbutton my fly, and take out my cock -- it was a little peener at the time, all hibernating after Autumn got through with it. I put myself back in, but not after Haley looked down at my manhood and, with her cigarette held in her hand in the air, got really ... grossed out.
"Why did you flash me?!?!?!" she cried, and in disgust she went back inside. Uh-oh. Now that it all just happened, it didn't seem like a good idea. So before she called management to beat my ass, I ran out the door, fumbled for my keys, opened the door, turned on the engine, and backed my car out.
---
Now, Pulp Fiction-style, let me to take you back to the beginning of my trip to this club. It is on what could have been the Main Street of this town called Washington Park. It is a busy thoroughfare/side street, except that, with the exception of a newly-built school and a Popeye's, is desolate and, I hear, very bad at night. That means that for this club I go to, they built a partial fence around the sides of the club to prevent either muggers or people from looking over and seeing what's going on there.
When I pulled in that afternoon, I thought about where on the lot to park. The last time I was there I was annoyed about this transmission pole placed right in front. I had a hard time pulling out of the lot when I left. So I thought about not parking anywhere near there. But, for some reason, I balked at parking, say, on the side of the club -- no reason, maybe I thought that if a mugger did find his way there I'd have nowhere to turn, or something. So, reluctantly, thoughtlessly, even though there were other spots right in front of the club, I parked directly in front of (or behind, depending on how you look at it) the power pole.
And I quickly forgot about that pole while I was dashing out of the club to elude the bouncers, getting my keys out, turning on the car and pulling away. I naturally looked behind toward my rear mirror, even seeing the pole behind me. And yet, because I needed to get the fuck out of there before they castrate me, I wasn't careful enough to avoid the pole -- and drove right into it.
It wasn't as if I was peeling in reverse at, like, 50 mph. But I felt it. And I would've gotten out to examine the car if I didn't feel like my life was in danger. So I went further down the road and found an empty parking lot to gauge the damage. And what damage there was -- sizable black scuff marks, possibly deep scratches, standing out on the yellow paint. I drove home, got a pot and rag (I was staying at corporate housing) and tried to wipe the blemishes off the car, to no avail.
So that's where I was with wondering whether or not to report the marks, all the shit about calling the rental car company, and fearing that they were going to force me to file a claim. I didn't do anything, and I didn't hear anything, so it probably looks like they're not going to pursue this. Thank God.
Now, I just have to wait until this completely blows over before I can vacation down in St. Louis again. First I have to hope I don't get the same rental car company. Then I hope that when I go to the club again -- and I have to, for the sake of Autumn -- Haley won't be there, or won't remember, or won't care, and the managers won't be looking out for me and making me, like, pay for the damage they say I caused, even though I couldn't've because I ran into a fucking trasmission pole. All of this won't be occurring in, say, the next six months, and probably longer since I'm still unemployed.
However, if the coast is clear, I am glad and thankful.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Father Ruined The Détente
Again, he does this every time. Just when I was feeling good about my relationship with My Father, he ruins it, he fucking ruins it.
How does he do it? By storming into my sister's room and yelling at me to "clean it up." He actually said, "It's been a year, two years now!" No, you motherfucker, it hasn't been a year or two years -- it's been seven months. And by the way, seven months ago, you were the son-of-a-bitch who made my sister's room dirty by going into my room and taking out all my things and putting it into her room. I should've told you to do it your goddamn self, but then you'd throw all my stuff out. So I didn't.
It was a frustrating day of reading moods.
I was going to do some chores tomorrow during the NFL games -- maybe paint, maybe stay inside and wash the floors so I don't miss a minute of football. Now ... now I either pack my Entertainment Weeklys, make sure you don't take my shit away, and/or just sit in my bed and relax. Because after the emotional about-face he pulled on me, I think I deserve to not work. If he doesn't like it, let the fireworks begin.
How does he do it? By storming into my sister's room and yelling at me to "clean it up." He actually said, "It's been a year, two years now!" No, you motherfucker, it hasn't been a year or two years -- it's been seven months. And by the way, seven months ago, you were the son-of-a-bitch who made my sister's room dirty by going into my room and taking out all my things and putting it into her room. I should've told you to do it your goddamn self, but then you'd throw all my stuff out. So I didn't.
It was a frustrating day of reading moods.
- He offered to buy tacos ... then was shocked when I told him I ate the two hardshell and the two softshell tacos before "dinner," even though I only asked for the hardshell.
- I was painting the backyard and when I wanted to pop inside to see a little bit of the Notre Dame-Michigan game, I couldn't open the side door I left open to get to the front yard and thus the front door. It was locked from the other side. Now did My Fucking Father forget that I had to work outside, did he assume that I could enter the front from the other side door, was he telling me to use the other side door, or did he all of this on purpose to piss me off? I don't think I'm paranoid when I say that I honestly do not know.
- I volunteer to take the trash out to the car. He waves me off. "But I'm leaving tonight," I say, with my paint clothes still on. But he, already dressed in pajamas, walks past me. Asshole.
I was going to do some chores tomorrow during the NFL games -- maybe paint, maybe stay inside and wash the floors so I don't miss a minute of football. Now ... now I either pack my Entertainment Weeklys, make sure you don't take my shit away, and/or just sit in my bed and relax. Because after the emotional about-face he pulled on me, I think I deserve to not work. If he doesn't like it, let the fireworks begin.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
To the guy who wouldn't let me in to play one hand of $25 blackjack: Fuck you. I don't know why I even asked for permission, because at some point some douche would say no. Maybe it's my fault.
And yet, you're still a prick. What's the matter of me sitting down in playing one fucking hand? Have I ruined your system? Do you own the goddamn table? Are you the blackjack judge?
And please, don't thank me for asking. You got what you want; I don't know what you're thanking me for. In turn, maybe the casino can thank you for making me decide to leave immediately without spending one dime. Because I signed up for a card last night, I was able to use the "free" five bucks on slots they give you, and I wound up making two dollars. And I have no reason to go back to that casino ever again. So it looks like I wind up this life taking money from the place which you think houses a 21 table that is under your ownership.
Hope you lost your goddamn shirt, asshole.
And yet, you're still a prick. What's the matter of me sitting down in playing one fucking hand? Have I ruined your system? Do you own the goddamn table? Are you the blackjack judge?
And please, don't thank me for asking. You got what you want; I don't know what you're thanking me for. In turn, maybe the casino can thank you for making me decide to leave immediately without spending one dime. Because I signed up for a card last night, I was able to use the "free" five bucks on slots they give you, and I wound up making two dollars. And I have no reason to go back to that casino ever again. So it looks like I wind up this life taking money from the place which you think houses a 21 table that is under your ownership.
Hope you lost your goddamn shirt, asshole.
Friday, September 10, 2010
The Weekly Minnesota Sports Survey
#0: Twins (Last Week: -3). Sixes all around -- a perfect 6-0 week, and a full six-game lead in the A.L. Central over the White Sox. Therefore, for the first time in a long time, I'm elevating the top team in the WMNSS above negative numbers. It's deserved, especially since four of those wins were by a single run and because they swept the Texas Rangers, a probable playoff opponent, at Target Field.
What's gotten into Matt Tolbert? He's filling in for Danny Valencia, who himself is having a pretty good season in the majors, and has become a run-producing machine as the team's third baseman. On the potentially bad side, Matt Capps doesn't seem to be the shutdown closer the squad expected him to be when they got him. He's putting on runners at a rate rivaling that of Jon Rauch.
After some awesome home cooking, where they went 8-1, they go on the road the next week: at Cleveland this weekend, then at Comiskey against the Pale Hos during the week.
#-1: Gopher soccer (Re-Entry!). These guys started their season back on August 20, a full three Weekly Minnesota Sports Surveys go? Ah, shit, I'm sorry. I'll try and catch you guys up by saying -- Wow! Their first game was a 1-0 loss at Notre Dame, ranked at the time fourth in the country. But they have been undefeated since then, winning five in a row, including sweeping their opponents, UC-Santa Barbara and San Diego (which was ranked 14th), at home and winning their Minnesota Gold Classic Labor Weekend. The Gophs took two conference awards after the tournament: Midfielder Molly Rouse was named Big Ten Offensive Player Of The Week, and Goalkeeper Cat Parkhill Defensive.
For their efforts, the ballers cracked a poll for the first time all year, taking #23 in Soccer America. This week they go to Mid-American Conference territory, playing Bowling Green this (Friday) afternoon and Toledo Sunday at high noon Central time.
#-2: Gopher volleyball (Last Week: -1). The team dropped their first set last Friday to Baylor, then dropped their first match of the year to Northern Iowa, but nevertheless they won two of their three matches at the Sports Pavilion last weekend to win the Diet Coke Classic. Libero Jessica Granquist is the reigning Big Ten Defensive Player Of The Week for her efforts in the tourney. Unfortunately, that loss to UNI dropped them even further down the AVCA Top 25 from eighth to twelth.
They should be able to go clean the whole weekend as they hit the road for the first time all season, to the Fat Capital Of The World, Durham, N.C., for the Duke Invitational. The face North Carolina Central, Delaware, and the most formidable opponent, the host Blue Devils. Should be a piece of cake. Should be.
#-3: Vikings (Re-Entry!). They had their chances, just like they did in the NFC Championship Game. But the Vikes had the NFL season opener slip through their hands all the same, 14-9.
There is a hell of a lot of things to worry about, even though they kept it close. The defense, which withstood the first drive onslaught, couldn't get New Orleans to give the ball back, especially at the end of the game by giving up big gains on the ground. Bryant McKinnie seems to have a bad finger and was carted off the field. Worst of all, Brett Favre not only looked old, he looked ... disinterested. The off-target throws, the overreliance on a few receivers and, thus, the nonverbal message of distrust towards the others ... this is a guy who doesn't seem fully committed to the cause yet. It may take another week, sure. But this team isn't getting any younger, and championship squads are able to find a way to win on the road against a good team like the Saints. And they didn't.
Next week: No game. In ten days they open the Metrodome portion of their schedule against Miami.
What's gotten into Matt Tolbert? He's filling in for Danny Valencia, who himself is having a pretty good season in the majors, and has become a run-producing machine as the team's third baseman. On the potentially bad side, Matt Capps doesn't seem to be the shutdown closer the squad expected him to be when they got him. He's putting on runners at a rate rivaling that of Jon Rauch.
After some awesome home cooking, where they went 8-1, they go on the road the next week: at Cleveland this weekend, then at Comiskey against the Pale Hos during the week.
#-1: Gopher soccer (Re-Entry!). These guys started their season back on August 20, a full three Weekly Minnesota Sports Surveys go? Ah, shit, I'm sorry. I'll try and catch you guys up by saying -- Wow! Their first game was a 1-0 loss at Notre Dame, ranked at the time fourth in the country. But they have been undefeated since then, winning five in a row, including sweeping their opponents, UC-Santa Barbara and San Diego (which was ranked 14th), at home and winning their Minnesota Gold Classic Labor Weekend. The Gophs took two conference awards after the tournament: Midfielder Molly Rouse was named Big Ten Offensive Player Of The Week, and Goalkeeper Cat Parkhill Defensive.
For their efforts, the ballers cracked a poll for the first time all year, taking #23 in Soccer America. This week they go to Mid-American Conference territory, playing Bowling Green this (Friday) afternoon and Toledo Sunday at high noon Central time.
#-2: Gopher volleyball (Last Week: -1). The team dropped their first set last Friday to Baylor, then dropped their first match of the year to Northern Iowa, but nevertheless they won two of their three matches at the Sports Pavilion last weekend to win the Diet Coke Classic. Libero Jessica Granquist is the reigning Big Ten Defensive Player Of The Week for her efforts in the tourney. Unfortunately, that loss to UNI dropped them even further down the AVCA Top 25 from eighth to twelth.
They should be able to go clean the whole weekend as they hit the road for the first time all season, to the Fat Capital Of The World, Durham, N.C., for the Duke Invitational. The face North Carolina Central, Delaware, and the most formidable opponent, the host Blue Devils. Should be a piece of cake. Should be.
#-3: Vikings (Re-Entry!). They had their chances, just like they did in the NFC Championship Game. But the Vikes had the NFL season opener slip through their hands all the same, 14-9.
There is a hell of a lot of things to worry about, even though they kept it close. The defense, which withstood the first drive onslaught, couldn't get New Orleans to give the ball back, especially at the end of the game by giving up big gains on the ground. Bryant McKinnie seems to have a bad finger and was carted off the field. Worst of all, Brett Favre not only looked old, he looked ... disinterested. The off-target throws, the overreliance on a few receivers and, thus, the nonverbal message of distrust towards the others ... this is a guy who doesn't seem fully committed to the cause yet. It may take another week, sure. But this team isn't getting any younger, and championship squads are able to find a way to win on the road against a good team like the Saints. And they didn't.
Next week: No game. In ten days they open the Metrodome portion of their schedule against Miami.
Bad Journalist: Benjamin Radford
I don't have the balls nor the fortitude nor the energy nor the curiosity to be a real journalist myself. Yet there are many pieces I read in the paper and online where I go, "Man, why the fuck do I not have a job in journalism and this douche does?"
Case in point: This so-called logic-slobber named Benjamin Radford of Discover News. He's a professional skeptic, if there is such a thing. And therein lies my squirrely disgust towards him: I cannot blast him for his reasonings in his essays because, on the whole, he's pretty much right. It's very hard to criticize someone you have a visceral reaction toward if his logic is correct, at least on a superficial level.
My problem with a skeptic like Radford is ... well, first of all, he looks like a smug little shit that needs to be beaten upside the head to wipe that superior smirk off his face. Just check out his photo, and I think you'll agree. But mostly, I believe, my anger towards him is a matter of tone. He is so rigorously logic-driven that he discredits all forms of emotion in an argument. Not to say that you should always do things based on emotion. But it appears to be Public Enemy No. 1 to Radford, and that all problems can be solved if you only think.
The world isn't driven that way, and it shouldn't be. Because there are a lot of bad problems in the world that you can't help but be emotional about. Feelings matter. But a guy like Radford points to statistics and logic and acts like feelings absolutely doesn't matter. And he hasn't critiqued just hysteria or paranoia; scientific topics like environmentalism and urban legends are put through his mirthless "common sense" grinder. He seems like a guy who thinks it's OK to go up to a line of kids waiting to sit on Santa's lap and tell them that he doesn't exist.
The final straw for me is his bitching and moaning tonight about Terry Jones, that wingnut pastor who wants to burn Korans on Saturday, the ninth anniversary of 9/11. He makes two points: 1) The media has given this asshole priest more publicity than he deserves; and 2) Maybe this isn't going to piss off Muslims like we Christian Americans think it would.
I wish he made those two points without the smarmy attitude. Not only does his piece put him in a very unflattering light (again), but he leaves wide-open holes in his arguments that make me want to take strangers by the lapels and ask them if they see through his decorated bullshit like I do.
First point first. He's mostly right. I think that someone's going to be covering Jones's on-again, off-again, now-on-again Koran burning anyway, but Radford is correct in saying that the media spotlight only empowers him. The media, journalism and message conveyance are pet concerns for him -- he wrote a book called Media MythMakers, where he scrutinizes, deconstructs, and ridicules stories the news covers and tries to find out the ulterior motives behind the of topics the media chooses to follow and the sensationalism with which they track them. Fair shots -- I couldn't get into journalism because so much of the stories are superfluous crap. But I think I know the media's agenda: to make money. Um, like, duh, Mr. Radford.
A curious observation I've made about Radford's strafing runs at reporters is that, to him, they always seem to be the problem -- shoot the messenger, not the message. I still fancy myself a journalist even though I'm not in journalism, so attacking "the media," something that Republicans, people in general and even Democrats regularly punch like a speed bag, usually gets my dander up. Look, there are some reporters who sincerely want to know what is going on in the world today. In this case, even though the ulterior motive of this "pastor" is starting to outweigh the newsworthiness of his potential action, I do not fault reporters for, well, reporting it. Yet according to Radford, it's all the media's fault. Again, journalists and journalism is getting both eyes blackened because of Jones. But The Media didn't start it. Jones did. And Radford has disregarded the real effect emotion has on this debate (assuming he had any in the first place) in completely ignoring how this Koran burning is upsetting and pissing off so many people.
His second point, I think, amplifies my conclusion that he simply doesn't get it, and gets to why I don't like this guy. Specifically, Radford types two sentences that make me lose it. The first:
How? How, Benji? You might think that fear over what Jones's crazy book-burning might do to us is worse. Me? If I were Muslim -- not a terrorist Muslim, but your day-to-day, run-of-the-mill, peaceful, non-crazy Muslim -- I might be super pissed off that the U.S. isn't doing more to stop this freak from setting on fire what I consider to be my Bible. A little, um, emotional, I guess, but that's just me. I'll take a stab at a logical argument: The First Amendment. It's guaranteed in this country, even the most hateful and detestable. Keith Olbermann doesn't like it, but on Late Show With David Letterman he said, in the end, that you have to support this guy because we're all Americans and we all support Jones's right to free speech.
First of all, I don't support this prick Jones, and I wish I had a forum like a segment on a talk show or a cushy column on a website component of a cable channel to let everybody know that. This is a case where the protected use of the First Amendment goes a tad too far. However, the United States is known as a bastion of free speech. If we Americans all agree that Jones has a right to burn Korans, even though we may disagree with it, we tacitly support the book-burning.
Oh yes, that's my contention. Radford says that "probably most Muslims recognize that Jones is an attention-seeking religious zealot who does not represent American belief nor public policy." (If he used the word "insane douchenozzle" I'd actually be on his side a little more, but again, that's a tone thing.) He might be right, even though I doubt he's conducted a poll. But I hope he's right. Because my guess is there will be a few Muslims in the world who are OK with the U.S., but then see this Fundamentalist Christian burn their holy book and become incensed that the only superpower in the world has done nothing to stop him.
Oh yeah, the second sentence that has me going up a wall is his finishing sentence:
OK, I may be a hypersensitive prick here, but Radford is just fucking blaming the victim here. I know that he's dismissing Jones as a hopeless case, like we all should. But this is Radford's MO: Twisting a topic from the inside-out (for example, making a seemingly innocuous one look covert and complex, or popping the balloon of what appears to be a frightening or mind-blowing fact -- he's done both), then questioning why someone (usually the monolith of "The Media") wants to frame the topic that way. Here, he's saying, "Jones is not the problem. You guys, the ones who are outraged over Jones, you guys are the problem. This pastor's nuts ... what's your excuse?"
Again, he's right -- logically. It's back to tone: I see Muslims getting their houses of worship labeled as incubators of terrorism, and I'm the one who's wrong??? Fuck Radford. Feelings are legitimate factors in a heated, personal debate such as Koran-burning, yet Radford thinks it can just be compartmentalized, or put on a shelf, without consequence. Radford likes to damn both sides of an argument when oftentimes there is no reason to group them together and equate them. Here, he thinks the people who decry and denounce Jones's actions are just as "bad" as Jones is. Clearly, they're not. Radford would probably then say that being "good" or "bad" has nothing to do with it. I say like hell they're not, which brings me back to my point that he doesn't get it.
Moreover, when he puts things "in context," like he says in this column (and like he does in many columns -- it's a pet phrase of his), he actually is admitting to overlooking the trees for the forest. The trees matter. Emotions matter. What happens to, or from, a minority contingent of a group matters because it can persuade the majority to follow the minority. I wish people could do what Radford says and apply logic to everything every single second of their lives. But reality ain't like that. People provoke people, people get pissed off, and people hurt innocent people to get back at the people that hurt them. In that sense, Benny Radford is more of a Pollyanna than I am.
This guy is not a wingnut: His takedowns of birthers, truthers and those who think President Obama is a Muslim are exquisitely vicious. And yet I don't think I could stand being the same restaurant with this guy because he'll probably shoot down any fanciful notion I have and say, "Well, it's true." In other words, Benjamin Radford sounds like he's an asshole, and I have this incredible urge to punch him in the face. Yeah. That's why I don't like him.
Case in point: This so-called logic-slobber named Benjamin Radford of Discover News. He's a professional skeptic, if there is such a thing. And therein lies my squirrely disgust towards him: I cannot blast him for his reasonings in his essays because, on the whole, he's pretty much right. It's very hard to criticize someone you have a visceral reaction toward if his logic is correct, at least on a superficial level.
My problem with a skeptic like Radford is ... well, first of all, he looks like a smug little shit that needs to be beaten upside the head to wipe that superior smirk off his face. Just check out his photo, and I think you'll agree. But mostly, I believe, my anger towards him is a matter of tone. He is so rigorously logic-driven that he discredits all forms of emotion in an argument. Not to say that you should always do things based on emotion. But it appears to be Public Enemy No. 1 to Radford, and that all problems can be solved if you only think.
The world isn't driven that way, and it shouldn't be. Because there are a lot of bad problems in the world that you can't help but be emotional about. Feelings matter. But a guy like Radford points to statistics and logic and acts like feelings absolutely doesn't matter. And he hasn't critiqued just hysteria or paranoia; scientific topics like environmentalism and urban legends are put through his mirthless "common sense" grinder. He seems like a guy who thinks it's OK to go up to a line of kids waiting to sit on Santa's lap and tell them that he doesn't exist.
The final straw for me is his bitching and moaning tonight about Terry Jones, that wingnut pastor who wants to burn Korans on Saturday, the ninth anniversary of 9/11. He makes two points: 1) The media has given this asshole priest more publicity than he deserves; and 2) Maybe this isn't going to piss off Muslims like we Christian Americans think it would.
I wish he made those two points without the smarmy attitude. Not only does his piece put him in a very unflattering light (again), but he leaves wide-open holes in his arguments that make me want to take strangers by the lapels and ask them if they see through his decorated bullshit like I do.
First point first. He's mostly right. I think that someone's going to be covering Jones's on-again, off-again, now-on-again Koran burning anyway, but Radford is correct in saying that the media spotlight only empowers him. The media, journalism and message conveyance are pet concerns for him -- he wrote a book called Media MythMakers, where he scrutinizes, deconstructs, and ridicules stories the news covers and tries to find out the ulterior motives behind the of topics the media chooses to follow and the sensationalism with which they track them. Fair shots -- I couldn't get into journalism because so much of the stories are superfluous crap. But I think I know the media's agenda: to make money. Um, like, duh, Mr. Radford.
A curious observation I've made about Radford's strafing runs at reporters is that, to him, they always seem to be the problem -- shoot the messenger, not the message. I still fancy myself a journalist even though I'm not in journalism, so attacking "the media," something that Republicans, people in general and even Democrats regularly punch like a speed bag, usually gets my dander up. Look, there are some reporters who sincerely want to know what is going on in the world today. In this case, even though the ulterior motive of this "pastor" is starting to outweigh the newsworthiness of his potential action, I do not fault reporters for, well, reporting it. Yet according to Radford, it's all the media's fault. Again, journalists and journalism is getting both eyes blackened because of Jones. But The Media didn't start it. Jones did. And Radford has disregarded the real effect emotion has on this debate (assuming he had any in the first place) in completely ignoring how this Koran burning is upsetting and pissing off so many people.
His second point, I think, amplifies my conclusion that he simply doesn't get it, and gets to why I don't like this guy. Specifically, Radford types two sentences that make me lose it. The first:
As insulting as burning the Koran is to many Muslims, the widespread fear over how they might react is even more insulting.
How? How, Benji? You might think that fear over what Jones's crazy book-burning might do to us is worse. Me? If I were Muslim -- not a terrorist Muslim, but your day-to-day, run-of-the-mill, peaceful, non-crazy Muslim -- I might be super pissed off that the U.S. isn't doing more to stop this freak from setting on fire what I consider to be my Bible. A little, um, emotional, I guess, but that's just me. I'll take a stab at a logical argument: The First Amendment. It's guaranteed in this country, even the most hateful and detestable. Keith Olbermann doesn't like it, but on Late Show With David Letterman he said, in the end, that you have to support this guy because we're all Americans and we all support Jones's right to free speech.
First of all, I don't support this prick Jones, and I wish I had a forum like a segment on a talk show or a cushy column on a website component of a cable channel to let everybody know that. This is a case where the protected use of the First Amendment goes a tad too far. However, the United States is known as a bastion of free speech. If we Americans all agree that Jones has a right to burn Korans, even though we may disagree with it, we tacitly support the book-burning.
Oh yes, that's my contention. Radford says that "probably most Muslims recognize that Jones is an attention-seeking religious zealot who does not represent American belief nor public policy." (If he used the word "insane douchenozzle" I'd actually be on his side a little more, but again, that's a tone thing.) He might be right, even though I doubt he's conducted a poll. But I hope he's right. Because my guess is there will be a few Muslims in the world who are OK with the U.S., but then see this Fundamentalist Christian burn their holy book and become incensed that the only superpower in the world has done nothing to stop him.
Oh yeah, the second sentence that has me going up a wall is his finishing sentence:
"By overreacting to the fear of religious retaliation, Islam’s defenders are actually legitimizing the very fear and xenophobia Jones is promoting."
OK, I may be a hypersensitive prick here, but Radford is just fucking blaming the victim here. I know that he's dismissing Jones as a hopeless case, like we all should. But this is Radford's MO: Twisting a topic from the inside-out (for example, making a seemingly innocuous one look covert and complex, or popping the balloon of what appears to be a frightening or mind-blowing fact -- he's done both), then questioning why someone (usually the monolith of "The Media") wants to frame the topic that way. Here, he's saying, "Jones is not the problem. You guys, the ones who are outraged over Jones, you guys are the problem. This pastor's nuts ... what's your excuse?"
Again, he's right -- logically. It's back to tone: I see Muslims getting their houses of worship labeled as incubators of terrorism, and I'm the one who's wrong??? Fuck Radford. Feelings are legitimate factors in a heated, personal debate such as Koran-burning, yet Radford thinks it can just be compartmentalized, or put on a shelf, without consequence. Radford likes to damn both sides of an argument when oftentimes there is no reason to group them together and equate them. Here, he thinks the people who decry and denounce Jones's actions are just as "bad" as Jones is. Clearly, they're not. Radford would probably then say that being "good" or "bad" has nothing to do with it. I say like hell they're not, which brings me back to my point that he doesn't get it.
Moreover, when he puts things "in context," like he says in this column (and like he does in many columns -- it's a pet phrase of his), he actually is admitting to overlooking the trees for the forest. The trees matter. Emotions matter. What happens to, or from, a minority contingent of a group matters because it can persuade the majority to follow the minority. I wish people could do what Radford says and apply logic to everything every single second of their lives. But reality ain't like that. People provoke people, people get pissed off, and people hurt innocent people to get back at the people that hurt them. In that sense, Benny Radford is more of a Pollyanna than I am.
This guy is not a wingnut: His takedowns of birthers, truthers and those who think President Obama is a Muslim are exquisitely vicious. And yet I don't think I could stand being the same restaurant with this guy because he'll probably shoot down any fanciful notion I have and say, "Well, it's true." In other words, Benjamin Radford sounds like he's an asshole, and I have this incredible urge to punch him in the face. Yeah. That's why I don't like him.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Money Woes Continue
I think I'm manic-depressive. I am so up and down about things, especially when it comes to money.
Yesterday I got a check from working the game. I was expecting one amount, but actually got something a lot, lot more -- like, more than twice as much. I was over the moon. I felt like I had hit the lottery. For that moment, at least, my money issues were gone, or at least very, very far away.
It was partly because of that that I gave myself permission to eat at very expensive Chipotle this afternoon. I had the afternoon off because the new year has started at the U. and my "boss" still didn't know what days I could come into the lab or even if she had enough money for me to come in my usual three days a week.
I should've done something more, like package my Entertainment Weeklys, or mow the lawn. Instead, it was a "me" day -- go to Chipotle at the mall, go to the local comic book store and sneakread porn for an hour (I wanted to hit the latest Playboy before the next issue comes out either this or next Friday).
But tonight I forgot one thing: I need to plan an online payment for my credit card. I saw the amount I had to pay before when it came over the mail, but the amount, $299, kind of stopped me cold. And then I saw all the money I charged to my credit card since my last statement -- $350. This is not disciplined spending, nor disciplined living.
I've been battling revenues/expenses ever since the state cut my hours. I still am trying to maintain some expensive tastes, but covering the balance on my credit card every week is really what's killing me. Whatever money I'm taking in is immediately going out. I have no way of saving for emergencies. There's no way I'm gaining extra money to get the rear struts on my car changed like I should. And what happens when next year rolls around and I'm supposed to see my sister and brother-in-law in Tuscany?
So right now I feel like I did something wrong. Today I should've just stayed home and done my chores. Not only would that have saved me money, subconsciously I know that would make me feel like I'm "doing the right thing," and therefore not be "punished" by this exorbitant credit card charges.
Yesterday I got a check from working the game. I was expecting one amount, but actually got something a lot, lot more -- like, more than twice as much. I was over the moon. I felt like I had hit the lottery. For that moment, at least, my money issues were gone, or at least very, very far away.
It was partly because of that that I gave myself permission to eat at very expensive Chipotle this afternoon. I had the afternoon off because the new year has started at the U. and my "boss" still didn't know what days I could come into the lab or even if she had enough money for me to come in my usual three days a week.
I should've done something more, like package my Entertainment Weeklys, or mow the lawn. Instead, it was a "me" day -- go to Chipotle at the mall, go to the local comic book store and sneakread porn for an hour (I wanted to hit the latest Playboy before the next issue comes out either this or next Friday).
But tonight I forgot one thing: I need to plan an online payment for my credit card. I saw the amount I had to pay before when it came over the mail, but the amount, $299, kind of stopped me cold. And then I saw all the money I charged to my credit card since my last statement -- $350. This is not disciplined spending, nor disciplined living.
I've been battling revenues/expenses ever since the state cut my hours. I still am trying to maintain some expensive tastes, but covering the balance on my credit card every week is really what's killing me. Whatever money I'm taking in is immediately going out. I have no way of saving for emergencies. There's no way I'm gaining extra money to get the rear struts on my car changed like I should. And what happens when next year rolls around and I'm supposed to see my sister and brother-in-law in Tuscany?
So right now I feel like I did something wrong. Today I should've just stayed home and done my chores. Not only would that have saved me money, subconsciously I know that would make me feel like I'm "doing the right thing," and therefore not be "punished" by this exorbitant credit card charges.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Getting A Bad Memory Off Of My Chest
One of the things My Father wanted me to do over the summer was cut off branches from the big tree in our frontyard. It's getting huge and there are many branches that are starting to get quite close to the house. So, one day, he brings home this giant pole pruner and asks me to do it ... at some point.
I was reticent, for many reasons. First of all, obviously, this is a long fucking saw. I was able to prune the lilac bushes in the backyard because I was using a small pruning saw. This thing is longer than I am, at least six feet long. Moreover, I'd be cutting large branches (the dead ones, he emphasized) from a huge tree. I have no plan on how to cut them without them falling on me instead of the ground. And I have no glasses or hard hat to help me in case I screw up, which I knew I would. It was just dangerous. Finally, I think I know enough about pruning that you should wait until the tree begins shutting down its chloroform process before you start chopping pieces off of it. This isn't a lilac bush, whose blooms fall off fairly early into the spring. This is a full-fledged tree that won't shed its leaves until the fall; only then would I go prune its branches, plan or no plan.
Well, one weekend day I come home and see My Father toiling away at the tree, atop a ladder, pole pruner in hand. And I felt bad -- I didn't want to give the impression that I didn't want to do it, or that the chore he wanted me to do was stupid. I just had my own reasons not to do it, or at least not do it then. But I guess he didn't want to wait.
After thinking a bit inside, I felt guilty, so I helped My Father with picking up the branches that fell on the lawn. It looked like he didn't get hit with any of the debris he created with the pole pruner.
He didn't scold me for making him do something he thought I was going to do. And I don't think he's stored it in his head in order to get back at me for something completely unrelated that happened later. Maybe it didn't matter to him.
I'm glad about that. However, he did this about two months ago, right in the middle of summer, well into the tree's living season. Still think it wasn't a good idea to do it. I can see the tree dying because of the actions My Father took.
I was reticent, for many reasons. First of all, obviously, this is a long fucking saw. I was able to prune the lilac bushes in the backyard because I was using a small pruning saw. This thing is longer than I am, at least six feet long. Moreover, I'd be cutting large branches (the dead ones, he emphasized) from a huge tree. I have no plan on how to cut them without them falling on me instead of the ground. And I have no glasses or hard hat to help me in case I screw up, which I knew I would. It was just dangerous. Finally, I think I know enough about pruning that you should wait until the tree begins shutting down its chloroform process before you start chopping pieces off of it. This isn't a lilac bush, whose blooms fall off fairly early into the spring. This is a full-fledged tree that won't shed its leaves until the fall; only then would I go prune its branches, plan or no plan.
Well, one weekend day I come home and see My Father toiling away at the tree, atop a ladder, pole pruner in hand. And I felt bad -- I didn't want to give the impression that I didn't want to do it, or that the chore he wanted me to do was stupid. I just had my own reasons not to do it, or at least not do it then. But I guess he didn't want to wait.
After thinking a bit inside, I felt guilty, so I helped My Father with picking up the branches that fell on the lawn. It looked like he didn't get hit with any of the debris he created with the pole pruner.
He didn't scold me for making him do something he thought I was going to do. And I don't think he's stored it in his head in order to get back at me for something completely unrelated that happened later. Maybe it didn't matter to him.
I'm glad about that. However, he did this about two months ago, right in the middle of summer, well into the tree's living season. Still think it wasn't a good idea to do it. I can see the tree dying because of the actions My Father took.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
My Run-In With The Po-Po
It was going to happen at some point.
First of all, it's been awhile since I "spoke" to a police officer. I've cut down on my speeding in my old age, but I knew in the back of my mind I'd see them in that capacity again.
Also, it was inevitable that I get caught idling at the airport. I don't know how it's done anywhere else, but at MSP, people park their cars on the curb of the terminal all the time. It was a time-honored tradition that even 9/11 hasn't really stopped, even though we're now aware we're kind of breaking the law then.
We have two terminals here. They used to be called Humphrey and Lindbergh; now they're Terminal 1 and Terminal 2. They changed that because the names confused too many people. I think the numbers are more confusing. It hasn't stopped people from parking on the curb regardless of the names of the terminals because it's so convenient to pick up your pick-ups that way. It's worth getting caught rather than being proper about it an having a tired passenger walk a mile to a parking ramp with their luggage in tow.
It's kind of different with the much smaller Terminal 2; it's less crowded and more intimate, so you don't have the crowd to deal with. I've actually parked my car there for 20 minutes without a soul bothering me. However, I always feel that it gives any police in the area less ground to cover and more time to give any offender a ticket. It cuts both ways, but again, because it's so danged easy, I always park on the curb.
Well, last night I got caught. I thought I was going to be late, actually, because I had to gas up my parents' minivan. But Father called me about three minutes before I got to the airport, which I reached a bit past 11, which was when the flight was supposed to land. Because I thought everything was going to be OK, and because I thought my parents would be coming down the escalator at any point, I parked my car alongside the curb, went into the airport, and stood around, waiting for them.
And I waited for a long time. There were people coming down, possibly for another flight that came in at around the same time. But I didn't expect to wait for about 15 minutes. I looked outside ... and that's when I saw the flashing lights of a cop car. Shit!
I run outside. There was no mistake; the cop was outside looking at my car. Now, I have a huge problem dealing with authority, especially policemen. I remember a couple times being pulled over for speeding and the cops being assholes pulling a power trip on me. I will never forget how small and helpless they made me. Whatever I said, I learned that it wasn't any use. So to me, once I saw the cop looking at my car, and once he asked me for my license, I thought that was it: I'm getting a ticket for leaving my car on the curb. I got caught.
So my reaction, one borne of frustration and, I'll admit, a little immaturity, I throw my car keys on the ground. I'll be honest: If he's going to give me a ticket, why do I care about being civil? It didn't help when the other cops humiliated me while giving me speeding tickets.
"You don't have to throw your keys on the ground," the cop said.
Oh-oh. Could he give me a ticket for unsportsmanlike conduct, or some non-sports equivalent of that? "Frustration. I'm having a bad day," I blurted out in "defense."
"Pick up your keys. Pick up your keys," he repeated, calmly, after I gave him my license. In retrospect, he could've been a dick about it, but he didn't. Instead, after he cleared me, he needed to know about the car: "Now, show me the insurance for the car and I'll let you go."
OK. Now, where do my parents put the insurance? I opened up the passenger-side door and start looking everywhere. It wasn't in the glove compartment -- shit. Could it be hidden somewhere in the mirrors? Yes -- but there are, like, three of them, and I'll be damned, they're all expired. The latest one expired on the 28th.
I kid you not, I was there for five minutes looking for an up-to-date insurance card. I don't know how it looked to the other people trying to leave the terminal; hopefully they just swore at me under their breath and totally forgot about me once they took off. Meanwhile, I was thinking about my parents finally coming out and looking at this cop checking out their car. When were they coming, anyway?
Thankfully, after I gave up and decided to come out of the car, my parents were standing right there. Is everything OK, they basically said, to which I and the cop said we need to find the insurance. I didn't know the cop would take the one that expired on the 28th; he just had to go into his cop car and have it checked out. Parents were worried I got a ticket, and why I left the car turned off for so long. Beyong blurting out, "I don't know, why did you call me 15 minutes before actually coming out?" I didn't want to say anything that'll get me trouble with the policeman.
He got out of the car, tossed the insurance card Father's way, said, "OK," then went inside, as if he got a call to investigate something at the baggage carousel he was walking towards.
"That's it?" Father said.
"Yep," the cop replied, without breaking stride on his way inside, barely making eye contact.
And off we went, after waiting a bit for the cars to leave and open a path out. In the past, I could've gone on about it, thereby starting a blame game I subconsciously wanted, but I didn't. I hope that's a good thing.
Father did ask what happened before they got there. After I told him, he said that the cop was "crazy." Well, he wasn't. I had no ill intentions, of course, but to the policeman, he saw a car that was completely stopped and had no driver in or around it. He could've thought it was left there with bombs stored inside, kind of like Times Square.
He did the right thing, and I would've done exactly the same thing. Now, I still don't like the interaction with the cop, but he wouldn't have been doing his job if he didn't ask me for license and registration, and I would've bitched if I heard he didn't do to somebody else what he did to me last night.
I'm just glad I didn't get a ticket. I hope this doesn't happen the next time I park next to the curb at the airport.
First of all, it's been awhile since I "spoke" to a police officer. I've cut down on my speeding in my old age, but I knew in the back of my mind I'd see them in that capacity again.
Also, it was inevitable that I get caught idling at the airport. I don't know how it's done anywhere else, but at MSP, people park their cars on the curb of the terminal all the time. It was a time-honored tradition that even 9/11 hasn't really stopped, even though we're now aware we're kind of breaking the law then.
We have two terminals here. They used to be called Humphrey and Lindbergh; now they're Terminal 1 and Terminal 2. They changed that because the names confused too many people. I think the numbers are more confusing. It hasn't stopped people from parking on the curb regardless of the names of the terminals because it's so convenient to pick up your pick-ups that way. It's worth getting caught rather than being proper about it an having a tired passenger walk a mile to a parking ramp with their luggage in tow.
It's kind of different with the much smaller Terminal 2; it's less crowded and more intimate, so you don't have the crowd to deal with. I've actually parked my car there for 20 minutes without a soul bothering me. However, I always feel that it gives any police in the area less ground to cover and more time to give any offender a ticket. It cuts both ways, but again, because it's so danged easy, I always park on the curb.
Well, last night I got caught. I thought I was going to be late, actually, because I had to gas up my parents' minivan. But Father called me about three minutes before I got to the airport, which I reached a bit past 11, which was when the flight was supposed to land. Because I thought everything was going to be OK, and because I thought my parents would be coming down the escalator at any point, I parked my car alongside the curb, went into the airport, and stood around, waiting for them.
And I waited for a long time. There were people coming down, possibly for another flight that came in at around the same time. But I didn't expect to wait for about 15 minutes. I looked outside ... and that's when I saw the flashing lights of a cop car. Shit!
I run outside. There was no mistake; the cop was outside looking at my car. Now, I have a huge problem dealing with authority, especially policemen. I remember a couple times being pulled over for speeding and the cops being assholes pulling a power trip on me. I will never forget how small and helpless they made me. Whatever I said, I learned that it wasn't any use. So to me, once I saw the cop looking at my car, and once he asked me for my license, I thought that was it: I'm getting a ticket for leaving my car on the curb. I got caught.
So my reaction, one borne of frustration and, I'll admit, a little immaturity, I throw my car keys on the ground. I'll be honest: If he's going to give me a ticket, why do I care about being civil? It didn't help when the other cops humiliated me while giving me speeding tickets.
"You don't have to throw your keys on the ground," the cop said.
Oh-oh. Could he give me a ticket for unsportsmanlike conduct, or some non-sports equivalent of that? "Frustration. I'm having a bad day," I blurted out in "defense."
"Pick up your keys. Pick up your keys," he repeated, calmly, after I gave him my license. In retrospect, he could've been a dick about it, but he didn't. Instead, after he cleared me, he needed to know about the car: "Now, show me the insurance for the car and I'll let you go."
OK. Now, where do my parents put the insurance? I opened up the passenger-side door and start looking everywhere. It wasn't in the glove compartment -- shit. Could it be hidden somewhere in the mirrors? Yes -- but there are, like, three of them, and I'll be damned, they're all expired. The latest one expired on the 28th.
I kid you not, I was there for five minutes looking for an up-to-date insurance card. I don't know how it looked to the other people trying to leave the terminal; hopefully they just swore at me under their breath and totally forgot about me once they took off. Meanwhile, I was thinking about my parents finally coming out and looking at this cop checking out their car. When were they coming, anyway?
Thankfully, after I gave up and decided to come out of the car, my parents were standing right there. Is everything OK, they basically said, to which I and the cop said we need to find the insurance. I didn't know the cop would take the one that expired on the 28th; he just had to go into his cop car and have it checked out. Parents were worried I got a ticket, and why I left the car turned off for so long. Beyong blurting out, "I don't know, why did you call me 15 minutes before actually coming out?" I didn't want to say anything that'll get me trouble with the policeman.
He got out of the car, tossed the insurance card Father's way, said, "OK," then went inside, as if he got a call to investigate something at the baggage carousel he was walking towards.
"That's it?" Father said.
"Yep," the cop replied, without breaking stride on his way inside, barely making eye contact.
And off we went, after waiting a bit for the cars to leave and open a path out. In the past, I could've gone on about it, thereby starting a blame game I subconsciously wanted, but I didn't. I hope that's a good thing.
Father did ask what happened before they got there. After I told him, he said that the cop was "crazy." Well, he wasn't. I had no ill intentions, of course, but to the policeman, he saw a car that was completely stopped and had no driver in or around it. He could've thought it was left there with bombs stored inside, kind of like Times Square.
He did the right thing, and I would've done exactly the same thing. Now, I still don't like the interaction with the cop, but he wouldn't have been doing his job if he didn't ask me for license and registration, and I would've bitched if I heard he didn't do to somebody else what he did to me last night.
I'm just glad I didn't get a ticket. I hope this doesn't happen the next time I park next to the curb at the airport.
Monday, September 6, 2010
How Polishing My Parents' Car Worked Out
So I finally got around to erasing the scratch on my parents' minivan that I put on there backing out of the driveway two weeks ago. Overall, I think I did well enough. I succeeded in reaching the limited goals I set for myself, but I now believe that this is a task that I wouldn't do for others unless I got paid for it.
Fixing scratches is a pain in the ass. This site by Popular Mechanics seems to be the be-all and end-all -- I mean, it's Popular Mechanics! If you can't trust them, who can you trust?
But looking through other sites, I really didn't understand what the site recommended I should do to remove the scratch. I got the sandpaper. What I didn't know is that you don't just wax and polish. Oh no! First you use a rubbing compound, and then you use a polishing compound, and then you use a swirl remover, and then you wax it. Shit man, before researching all of this I thought polishing and waxing were the same thing.
What else I didn't know? Chances are the scratch really isn't a scratch. There's a possibility what I saw didn't go through the paint, but the layer above it, the clearcoat. That coat makes the car shiny and, I guess, protects the paint from scratching. If that's the case, the job is a lot easier. If the scratch goes through the paint ... well, I'm not going to know that until I sandpaper.
So after work yesterday I went to get the minivan washed and bought the last few items to complete this project -- the polishing compound, the anti-swirl shit, and black shoe polish. Some of the sites I saw recommend you put shoe polish in the scratch so that you know when to stopsandpapering. I didn't quite understand it, and when I began, I totally forgot about it. But since I paid three-and-a-half bucks for it, I thought I might as well use it.
So I went to the other side of my car and took out the shoe polish. And it was tough to dab it onto the scratches, so I just put it around the scratches, which were on the driver's-side door and the driver's side power door. Then, I sand paper. And unlike what I saw online, the shoe polish doesn't come off. I did all I could withthe sandpaper, but it still wouldn't fucking come off.
After a half-hour I steppd back and saw all these black streaks on my parents' minivan. I panicked. How the hell am I going to get all this shit off the car? And if I can't, how am I going to explain this to my parents? But I dropped the sandpaper and just decided to remove the shoe polish with one of those non-scratch micro-fiber rags they told me to buy. Polishing and waxing be damned, I needed this shit off the car. And I finally did -- and, surprisingly, quickly.
The repeated polishings and glazing and waxing, however ... although I got done with everything in less than 90 minutes, I was slowly losing my mind with crouching over and treating something that was at shin-level. It didn't help that I was in flip-flops, nor did it help that I got stung by mosquitos on my right temple and my right foot.
I still don't know if I did it right. The instructions say you should let the compound dry to a haze. What does a haze look like? It also says that you should apply the compound with one towel, remove any excess compund with another towel, then dry it all off, presumably with a third towel. I don't have a dozen towels. I had five and I was reusing them all at the end, and I don't know if I just fucked up the minivan because of that.
When I was done, the scratch was mostly gone. However, I could see a deep depression at the end of the scratch still there, indicating that when I hit it with my car, and I was running into it, hence the deeper scratch. So I really do have to paint that part over -- with primer and clearcoat, too. At least I know that.
However, the buffing didn't go so well. I took a step back and saw nothing reflected back on me in the place I was doing all the work. It's scary to walk around the car and see my reflection all the way through until I get to the spots I was waxing and see a huge smudge. I run my hands over the body of the car; it's rough at the places I didn't work on, yet it's quite smooth to the touch at the places where there's no face staring back at me. Is it the shoe polish? Don't know what else to do except polish and wax again, and I might do so when my parents are gone in, say, Thanksgiving.
Hopefully they won't notice that the reflective clearcoat stops at the driver's-side doors. Don't know what I could say if thye do.
In short, most of the scratches are gone, and what is left I think I know what to do to fix it. The waxing to the point where I can see myself staring back at me is something I don't get, but maybe it won't matter.
Fixing scratches is a pain in the ass. This site by Popular Mechanics seems to be the be-all and end-all -- I mean, it's Popular Mechanics! If you can't trust them, who can you trust?
But looking through other sites, I really didn't understand what the site recommended I should do to remove the scratch. I got the sandpaper. What I didn't know is that you don't just wax and polish. Oh no! First you use a rubbing compound, and then you use a polishing compound, and then you use a swirl remover, and then you wax it. Shit man, before researching all of this I thought polishing and waxing were the same thing.
What else I didn't know? Chances are the scratch really isn't a scratch. There's a possibility what I saw didn't go through the paint, but the layer above it, the clearcoat. That coat makes the car shiny and, I guess, protects the paint from scratching. If that's the case, the job is a lot easier. If the scratch goes through the paint ... well, I'm not going to know that until I sandpaper.
So after work yesterday I went to get the minivan washed and bought the last few items to complete this project -- the polishing compound, the anti-swirl shit, and black shoe polish. Some of the sites I saw recommend you put shoe polish in the scratch so that you know when to stopsandpapering. I didn't quite understand it, and when I began, I totally forgot about it. But since I paid three-and-a-half bucks for it, I thought I might as well use it.
So I went to the other side of my car and took out the shoe polish. And it was tough to dab it onto the scratches, so I just put it around the scratches, which were on the driver's-side door and the driver's side power door. Then, I sand paper. And unlike what I saw online, the shoe polish doesn't come off. I did all I could withthe sandpaper, but it still wouldn't fucking come off.
After a half-hour I steppd back and saw all these black streaks on my parents' minivan. I panicked. How the hell am I going to get all this shit off the car? And if I can't, how am I going to explain this to my parents? But I dropped the sandpaper and just decided to remove the shoe polish with one of those non-scratch micro-fiber rags they told me to buy. Polishing and waxing be damned, I needed this shit off the car. And I finally did -- and, surprisingly, quickly.
The repeated polishings and glazing and waxing, however ... although I got done with everything in less than 90 minutes, I was slowly losing my mind with crouching over and treating something that was at shin-level. It didn't help that I was in flip-flops, nor did it help that I got stung by mosquitos on my right temple and my right foot.
I still don't know if I did it right. The instructions say you should let the compound dry to a haze. What does a haze look like? It also says that you should apply the compound with one towel, remove any excess compund with another towel, then dry it all off, presumably with a third towel. I don't have a dozen towels. I had five and I was reusing them all at the end, and I don't know if I just fucked up the minivan because of that.
When I was done, the scratch was mostly gone. However, I could see a deep depression at the end of the scratch still there, indicating that when I hit it with my car, and I was running into it, hence the deeper scratch. So I really do have to paint that part over -- with primer and clearcoat, too. At least I know that.
However, the buffing didn't go so well. I took a step back and saw nothing reflected back on me in the place I was doing all the work. It's scary to walk around the car and see my reflection all the way through until I get to the spots I was waxing and see a huge smudge. I run my hands over the body of the car; it's rough at the places I didn't work on, yet it's quite smooth to the touch at the places where there's no face staring back at me. Is it the shoe polish? Don't know what else to do except polish and wax again, and I might do so when my parents are gone in, say, Thanksgiving.
Hopefully they won't notice that the reflective clearcoat stops at the driver's-side doors. Don't know what I could say if thye do.
In short, most of the scratches are gone, and what is left I think I know what to do to fix it. The waxing to the point where I can see myself staring back at me is something I don't get, but maybe it won't matter.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
I finally founded the videoclip I was talking about in my last post (which is, by the way, quite NSFW). I was editing it to include the link to the videoclip.
Right now I'm doing all this at my favorite coffeeshop. As I was testing the link in my blog post, the coffee girl came upstairs. Worse yet, I tried to switch to another page, but it got stuck. It eventually did just before she could've seen my screen. I think.
Did she see it? Is she pissed? Does she now know I'm a perv?
Right now I'm doing all this at my favorite coffeeshop. As I was testing the link in my blog post, the coffee girl came upstairs. Worse yet, I tried to switch to another page, but it got stuck. It eventually did just before she could've seen my screen. I think.
Did she see it? Is she pissed? Does she now know I'm a perv?
What I've noticed lately is that I no longer unbutton my button shirts. I guess I've gotten tired of taking time off to do them all. What I've done instead is unbutton my top and bottom buttons, then pull it off over my head. Much easier and quicker that way.
I know exactly where I got the idea from. Thank you, MILF Hunter, who long ago did that as he and his "friend" were preparing to double-team "Sharin" (really Sharon) Wild, a beautiful blonde Czech. Why didn't I think of that?, is what I thought. No need to fuck around with buttons if you want to get naked quickly. So I've adopted it ... for reasons besides fucking a chick, because that'll never happen.
Will I grow out of this? It seems like such a no-brainer now.
I know exactly where I got the idea from. Thank you, MILF Hunter, who long ago did that as he and his "friend" were preparing to double-team "Sharin" (really Sharon) Wild, a beautiful blonde Czech. Why didn't I think of that?, is what I thought. No need to fuck around with buttons if you want to get naked quickly. So I've adopted it ... for reasons besides fucking a chick, because that'll never happen.
Will I grow out of this? It seems like such a no-brainer now.
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