No Home To Come Home To

I say all of this while I am sitting at home.  Irony, hypocrisy, I'll own up to all of that.

I'm afraid of coming home every day.  I just am.  Ever since My Fucking Parents threw all my shit out the house, ever since they gave me ultimatums to clean my room and myself, I don't feel welcome at home.  I just don't.  I guess I have felt this way before, and I might be repeating myself when I say this, but I'll say it anyway: This time feels different.  Them tooling around outside my bedroom door -- My Fucking Mother working on her sewing, My Fucking Father working outside doing God knows what -- was annoying before all this but now feels kind of threatening.  It's like they own the place.  Which they do, but I've never felt threatened that my stuff or I will be thrown out.

This past week has been relatively mild at work, and that lightening of workload could not have come at a worse time.  Because that means I have to go home, and I absolutely did not want to.  I was afraid to go home.  Back on Wednesday I went to the library to be a part of that fantasy football auction that no one showed up for, and I made a point to stay out as late as possible.  Because I knew that once I got home, I'd have to look in the trash bin and the recycling bin to see what else of mine they tried to throw away, which meant I had to retrieve it, throw it in my car, then make time to get to my storage unit.  One day I looked and saw that they tossed my old New Orleans Saints hat.  The fuck you are.  Then I have to see what else they moved inside my bedroom.  Did they throw anything away from here?  Did they move things around thinking that, like, hanging up my hats this way is best for me?  And what would they say, goddammit, how will they threaten me directly?

I shouldn't be feeling this way.  No one should.  Everyone should have shelter where they can relax and feel secure.  I don't care that I supposedly have a place here.  I don't have a place here.  My folks have made sure that they run this place and if they don't like something of mine, it's gone, and if I don't like it, then I'll be gone, too.  These are my fucking asshole parents, by the way.

---

I have thought about needing a new place to store my stuff -- not just because my place is changing ownership, but because there is more and more stuff I have had to move from home.  I have checked prices for my current size unit and the next step up, and the difference in price is so great that I have initially balked at it.

But after feeling that I won't be safe at home, I have largely stopped being resistant of getting a 5" x 10" now.  Part of it is the realization I just don't have enough space (and that does make me think I really have to go through my stuff).  But I'm starting to think I that I should spend some time in a larger spot ... not to go through my things, but to relax.

I'm serious.  I have had this fantasy (for lack of a better word) that I have moved all my things into a 5" x 10" but have enough floor space to open up a folding chair, close the door behind me, turn off the light ... and just nap.  I can't nap anymore at home because of all the damn racket those two do out there.  And I have no idea when, or even if, they're leaving.  So if I need real peace and quiet, I think that I might spend the extra money for a bigger spot, buy myself a folding chair, and make that place my new, and real, safe space.

Pathetic?  Probably.  But I need peace, man.

Why Do I Still Go To The Auto Show?

I have been going for a long, long time.  I loved how I could see all these fancy new cars.  Also, I could see the ones that are, shall we say, much more attainable (although I would have to bust my butt and look for a higher-paying job).  I loved getting all the brochures, and I would tell myself that I would lie down and look through all of them and maybe be inspired when the time came to purchase one.  And the bags.  Oh, the bags -- you gotta get one to put all those brochures in, you know?

Well, that was then and this is now.  I went to the auto show yesterday/Saturday, and in keeping with how the trend is going, I stayed there far less than when I did when I first went to the show.  In fact, I looked at my watch when I thought I had seen everything and there was still more than an hour before the Frozen Four Final, for which I decided to stay the whole day and night in downtown to go to our alumni group's bar and watch.  I eventually found stuff to look at -- I went to the classic and antique car rooms, separate from the main room where all the new cars you can buy are -- but things are dramatically different, from both my perspective and the show's.

It's clear to me now that, as an adult, it doesn't really pay to aspire anymore.  There is one thing I have done for some time now: Find the most expensive car in the show that I can get into (that means no show cars, no prototypes, and definitely no classic cars) and take a picture of the sticker price and the front of the car.  I get a kick out of that not because I hope to one day be able to buy it, but just to note the price.  (Aside: The add-ons of nearly all the cars I looked at ballooned the base price of the car to an exorbitant amount.  I cannot believe that the size of those add-ons were typical of previous years.  If not, there's one explanation: That Fucking Guy's dumbass tariffs.)  For the record, a Range Rover clocks in at $158,370.  But beyond that, I did way less getting into cars than I used to when I was young.  Oh, sure, I saw some that I liked.  The new and colorful Volkswagen vans, called the ID Buzz, were a splashy hit, for example.  But all the other two dozen or so cars I checked out were interchangeable to me.  Also, I wouldn't be able to buy any of them.  That's another (sad) similarity.

Parallel to this, the show has changed.  I think it was the pandemic.  The auto show has gotten smaller.  I see fewer brands on the showroom.  The convention center is a huge space, but in the years since (and I really want to say it started in 2022, two years after it was cancelled and a year after it went to the State Fairgrounds), more of the floor was ceded to an area for test-driving cars, which is cool.  But, this year I saw a corner of the center dedicated to jacuzzis.  You can't drive jacuzzis, can you?

But the big difference in the auto show now: No more brochures.  The pandemic accelerated the push to make all papers digital in an effort to cut costs.  I have gotten way fewer brochures since the pandemic and, for the first time ever, yesterday/Saturday I did not pick up one single brochure -- and I did not see a brochure available to be picked up.  The days of bringing home a car-branded bag of pamphlets I probably won't read are now gone.

But hey, at least Toyota is still offering bags.  I filled it with the auto show brochure (which in itself was cut down [and shrunken] to the size of a fold-open pamphlet -- it even had a coupon!) and some salesman's business card.  The salesman wasn't there to give it to me.  No, there was a stand, and in the middle was a pile of business cards, and I took one.  I didn't even look at the cars of the dealership he works for.  I just picked one up so I could throw a second thing in my Toyota bag.

I really am just going to these auto shows now for the bag.  That's the only free thing they're offering ... well, besides fantasies, I guess.  And fantasizing that one day a beautiful car I scoped out at the auto show will wind up on my driveway?  Heh!

So I went to My Favorite Stripclub (Cover Version) (because it's weird to visit a stripclub these days with my parents in town) last/Friday night.  And I've been on a high since -- not just because it was great to see my ATF, but also because there may, may, be a chance for her to give me a massage at her place.  We just talked about it a little more, and I hope I have earned her trust to try it.

Yeah, I dreamed that there would be more than that.  It was a nice three-hour nap I just had.

Not A Nightmare, But A Dream!

I just woke up from a really cool fantasy!  I was the fancy man, the guy with whom a girlfriend was cheating on her boyfriend.  I never saw who the woman I was with is, but let's just say that the boyfriend is a pretty famous football player and I'll leave it at that!

I don't understand how I became (and let's be honest) the hero of my own dream, especially these days where the world is about to end for good.  But it's rare that I dream of something real good!

The Hottest Babe In The Hooters Calendar, August 2024

I had to keep this calendar in my dresser drawer and, when I was vacationing in Las Vegas, I had to throw it in my storage locker in case my parents wanted to fucking snoop around.  So suffice it to say that I haven't seen much of the calendar at all.  I took a peep last night and I don't remember the last time I had cracked open the month before last night.  But I want to analyze the month now and not wait.

Of the dozen girls featured in the month, my quick glances filter out four for recognition even though I don't know if it's a great month.  In ascending order:

In fourth place is The Main Girl, Alexis, out of Rock Hill, S. C.  She has a cute figure despite posing in a way I don't like, with her body at a quarter-angle and her right hand in front of her body to hold a pole.  But the server with long, dark brown hair and wearing a purple two-piece bikini has a cute smile, so she has that going for her.

In third place is Cassidy, hailing from Denham Springs, La.  This babe with the wavy, short brown hair is a veteran, and I am sure I have noted her for distinction in previous Hooters calendar years.  She keeps getting it done; she is kneeling poolside in what also appears to be a blue two-piece bikini, and she does that thing where she's pulling the string covering her tits, as if she's about to tear off her top.  Like I always say, I'm a sucker for that type of stuff.

In second place is Kansas City's Jenny.  Wavy long blonde hair with a two-piece of orange bordered by baby blue.  She's photographed at a quarter-angle too, but what wins out are two things: She is also tugging at that string between her boobs, and she has a wide grin.

Finally, I'm giving first place to Alyssa, of Palm Bay, Fla.  Long blonde hair, purple or deep blue two-piece bikini.  She appears to be kneeling on stairs that lead into a pool.  And while I'm not a fan of her hair dropping in front of her chest, what I love is that the front of her body is aimed directly at the camera, and that she is smirking something devilish, like she's some modestly-priced stripper who will jack you off in the corner of the strip club and still leave you wanting for more, even though you can't afford to spend more money than you two agreed to.  That's my fantasy, OK?

So, congratulations to Alyssa and the other three hot Hooters waitresses in August 2024.  I will pleasure myself to all of you once I have time.

Fuck PWHL Minnesota

Well, there was between a smattering and an undulating river of boos when Ken Klee took to the podium -- after undermining and assuming Natalie Darwitz's role as General Manager of PWHL Minnesota.  I shouldn't talk since I had the opportunity to go there and decided to go home after watching The Fall Guy instead at the theater (by the way, it's the perfect summer movie, go watch it).  But I was hoping for a torrent of boos, and maybe someone bringing in a javelin, wrapping his or her or their PWHL Minnesota jersey around it, setting the damn thing on fire, and aiming -- not at Klee, but at the stage, somewhere near the podium, far enough from the podium that everyone could easily get away from the fiery projectile, but close enough to the podium to get everyone on there to jump.

Alas, that was not to be.  Also alas, it got worse.  In the Second Round, Klee (or Kendall Coyne Schofield, possibly the real puppetmaster) selected Britta Curl, a Forward out of the University of Wisconsin.  I did not know this until X/Twitter informed me, but apparently she has supported social media posts advocating for transphobia, promoting COVID-19 conspiracy theories, and defending police brutality against Black people.  This, mind you, coming from the Professional Women's Hockey League, a league that has many, many members of the LGBTQIA+ community playing on the ice.  And don't forget, since this is Pride Month, the PWHL itself has recast its logo in rainbow colors.

X/Twitter isn't real life.  But by God, you should see the venom coming from local fans.  Or used-to-be fans, as a lot of people are done with this team after drafting Curl.  I was done with this team after they backstabbed Darwitz.  But I am really, really done with these fuckers now.  And if we Minnesotans have any goddamn spine, the events of last/Monday night should mean everyone else is done with this shitty franchise, too.

A Four-Day Weekend Next Week Becomes A Three-Day Weekend Now

I'm so bad with days off from work.  This is a pretty big illustration as to why I need to do better.

So this basically started with one of my co-workers, one of whom has the same position as I do, needing to take a surprise road trip, presumably to see family.  I was told this by my boss, who, in order to cover the days she'll be gone, proposed that I shift my workweek that week one day down.  Instead of working Monday through Friday, I would be working Tuesday through Saturday (my old schedule when I started out working at this place) instead.  That's fine; I'm a company man!  (Actually, I'm not.  I should be looking for another job right now, but I've just gotten too lazy because there has been no overtime for me to work, so there has been no blow-up between me and my boss that would propel me into searching want ads.)

We get a shared calendar where everyone in the departments I work in can see who is taking which days off.  It's summer, which means, at least for our company, at least one person is off every day until Labor Day, seems like.  Also, I have recently learned of a new policy whereby only a maximum of two people can be out of the office each day.  I have been using a lot of paid time off this year, which is odd.  And yet I am confronted with the possibility that I won't use any paid time off this summer.  We can carry over only 40 hours of it into next year.  If I am forced to work this summer, I would then be faced with a situation where I have to find days off in the fall to get under 40 hours for the year.  I can do that, but really, with how I hate my job right now, I need a day off here and there during the summer or else I will mentally crack.

So, as I peruse this calendar, I see that June 18 is completely blank.  There is no co-worker who wants that day off.  And I check into the future and see that at least one person is gone every day till around early August.  That's way too far for me, so even though I have nothing to do, I asked to take that day off.

Unfortunately, I realized that that was the week my co-worker will be out of the state.  My boss' proposal made me think that he needed me to work all five days, and I just asked for the first day, that Tuesday, off.  I e-mailed my boss a day or so after my acceptance of his proposal basically apologizing for my oversight.  But he actually said taking that Tuesday off is not a problem; he just needed to make sure that Saturday was taken care of.

OK.  So that means that next weekend I have Saturday through Tuesday off.  Cool.  I can stay in, I can go out, I can wake up whenever I want to, and I can maybe line up my hoes to fuck.  Sky's the limit since I lucked into a mini-staycation.  But it was some time early last workweek where I checked the calendar again (I do so just because from time to time) and see that I am not working tomorrow/Monday but am working Saturday.  In other words, the brief Tuesday-to-Saturday workweek is not next week, but this week.  I thought that was a mistake; I mean, if it was supposed to be this week (and I understand that I last week ran down the above events that happened, so the workweek shift would be next week, but you know what I mean), my boss would have corrected me when I said that I could work Tuesday the 18th after all to fill in for my co-worker.  But I went back to my boss' initial proposal and, sure enough, he spelled out the workweek which he wanted me to work Tuesday through Saturday.  It's this week, and he did tell me.

So instead of having a four-day weekend next week, I work Saturday, probably don't go anywhere next Sunday because it's Father's Day (even though I could see myself getting out of the house if Father annoys me), work Monday, then have Tuesday off.  I alternate working and not working.  Some schedule, huh?

I am super bummed about the ruined four-day weekend, but I am very, very disappointed with myself for not getting my damned dates right.  I obviously didn't check the details on this, and I have been careless with dates for other things for some time now.  With that being said, I have to remember that I am in the middle of a three-day weekend right now.  Yesterday/Saturday I went to Bauhaus for a DJ party and had a beer under a sunny sky, with temperatures that were warm but by no means hot or humid, and surrounded by fucking gorgeous women everywhere I looked.  Also yesterday/Saturday, *****y texted me to confirm that I am going over to her place today/Sunday so she can give me a handjob.  I am going to have lunch by myself at Burger King, where I am going to use points that will expire July 1 on a free Whooper.  I will hopefully have the energy to go to a park and exercise.  I get to Zoom with a friend tonight/Sunday night.  I get to stay up because I don't have to work tomorrow/Monday.  And, tomorrow/Monday I should be able to watch a movie in the afternoon.

It's not four days, and I didn't even plan it, but I have to look at the positives.

I Love This Hotel. Five Stars!!!!!

My fears that I reserved a shitty hotel have been completely unfounded.  Well, OK, there is kind of a smell here I can't quite pinpoint.  It's kind of remote, too; I have to drive half an hour whenever I go into St. Louis.  But that latter point is a small price to pay for a safe and quiet area and a clean room.

First off, the area.  This is a hotel that houses travelling contractors.  I see a bunch of supply pick-ups in the parking lot.  (See some cars filled with items in the backseat, too, which means a couple of these people are unhoused.  But that's another blog post.)  But, besides from tonight, where the lot is oddly empty for a weeknight, it has been jampacked.  And yet, there have been no problems -- no weird people asking me for money, no loud noises at night.  This is part of a footprint that includes a Taco Bell, a Cracker Barrel (went there for lunch last/Tuesday night for the first time ever -- yummy!), a BBQ joint and maybe a cantina.  (The footprint is small enough that these establishments share the parking lot space.)  But once the sun goes down, barely a peep.

Second off, the room.  I have this thing where I take pictures of my hotel room from every angle.  It's been a while since I've been in one.  But I miss these types of hotel rooms where there is a huge king-sized bed and I have ample room for anything.  This place has a desk, a table, a couch (with Murphy bed), ample floor space, and even an ironing board.  The sink is not in the bathroom; it is right next to the front door, to the left when you come in.  You know, that's where I would want my sink to be -- out of the bathroom, available to me as soon as I enter my space.  In fact, if I ever get into a situation where I have to live out my life in a hotel room, this would be the perfect floor plan -- huge bed, places to work, floor space to put all my crap, and a shower/bathtub and toilet that works.  I feel safe and happy here.

Finally, the customer service.  I love the fact that the front desk is staffed 24/7.  Moreover, I think they actually care about doing their job.  I believe that they are proactive in making sure everything in the hotel is in working order and that the outside is safe for their guests.  I want to say that most of the workers appear to be from the same family.  If so, that is ample reason why this hotel is so well run: This is their main source of income, maybe even their version of the American Dream, and they want to do well with it.

I am so impressed that, if I am vacationing back here again, I may very well make it a point to stay here.  Hopefully nothing will change when it comes to the area or the hotel room or the ownership.  But I think I truly found the last best cheap motel -- in the STL, if not the world.

(Guiltily) Striving For Something Other, Something Better

So I just started applying to two jobs just now.  I feel kind of guilty looking for other jobs while I have one.  It feels like I'm sneaking around, like I'm cheating on my current job.  But I have to keep remembering the times I now feel bad at work, and it's for those instances where I summoned up the courage to look for something other, something better.

Also, you know another sign you hate work (this may be a no-brainer to others, but this is a revelation to me)?  I dread going into work.  You know, as much as I initially hated The Fourth Department, I had grown to like and even love going there.  I have my own little space, I didn't have anybody I really needed to answer to, I didn't even really have a co-worker I had to chit-chat with.  I was my own fiefdom, and once I learned how to do most of the work, I felt like I ruled back there.  But then my boss started to really micro-manage me, and a place I once loved has changed, and I think irrevocably.  So I think it's time to move on.

A part of me is just fantasizing, like this is a platonic affair where I do nothing too serious but I wind up going back to my job.  And yet at the same time I would feel absolutely dejected that I might continue to get stuck in a place that, more and more often, I don't want to be in.  And so I apply for jobs, and I think I will continue to apply for jobs, till I find something other, something better.

2024 New Year's Resolutions

I made them a long, long time ago, but I hadn't since because it was depressing to see me fail to keep them so often.  But I have reflected a bit late in 2023 and thought of some resolutions I want to work on.

I resolve to not think about doing violence to people who have wrong me while I'm daydreaming.  It's a waste of time, I sabotage my day, and my heart rate goes up whenever I think it.  I need to stop that.

Also, and this might be contradictory, I resolve to speak my mind more.  I think I do that already, and that's a product of old age, specifically not caring about what people think of me and feeling as though my age gives me some standing in public.  But I still have opinions, and I shouldn't be afraid of voicing them.

And you know, I resolve to drive a lot calmer.  I hate doing that, but because of my recent brushes with car catastrophe, I think I need to go easier on my car, and that means accelerating easier and settling on a slower top speed.  I have to keep this one for a while.

I think those are enough resolutions.  I don't want to break any more than these.  And more difficult resolutions, such as eating better and watching my weight ... yeah, let's not get grandiose here.

10/14

Ran across a picture on Facebook from one of my stripper girlfriends.  She often republishes those "See Your Memories" photos and status updates, and not too long ago she republished one from a Christmas party being held at My Favorite Stripclub (Non-Cover Edition) in 2015 with her and many of her fellow stripper girlfriends posed for a photo (clothed, by the way).

And then I started to sort out which of the strippers in the picture have gotten down with me, either at house parties, at her house, or at my house.  After making sure I remember which stripper each of them is, I can tell you that of the 14 who in the pic, ten of them at least have seen my cock.  Of those, all but one of them have touched my pee-pee.  Of those, seven of them have jerked me off to completion.  (As for the other two, one I think really didn't want to grab my hose -- but I cajoled her -- and the other only brushes my genitals with her fingers as she's massaging me all over.)  Of those, two of them have sucked my dick.  And finally, I have fucked two of them.  The last two categories are not overlapping circles: One of them took me into her mouth only; one of them went straight to sex, no mouth play at all; and one of them followed up an HJ and a BJ with doing the deed.

You know, when I was in high school, I would dream about going to stripclubs and getting laid.  In my adolescent mind, of course that's the goal.  I grew up a bit after college and realized that doesn't usually happen unless you want to get thrown out of the club.  Thank Buddha, then, for My Favorite Stripclub (Non-Cover Division), for the strippers there were in fact going to make my wildest fantasies come true and participate in sexual activities with me.  However, it took this particular photo for me to understand how many of the strippers that worked there were ready to "party," let alone how often  I was able to fuck around with them.  Ten out of 14?  Not bad!  Not bad at all!!!

Plotting My Speakeasy Sojourns

I spend a lot of time daydreaming about things: How to get my revenge against people who did me wrong, fucking all my stripper girlfriends, and what to eat and on what days.  I know I spend a lot of time brainstorming the first two things, but only recently have I realized how much thought I expend on the third.  Turns out eating out is that important to me.

A subset of that obsession is going to speakeasys.  Man, I've gotten to be a fucking drinker as an adult.  Never drank in high school, didn't drink much in college beyond a glass of wine or two.  Once I grew up, though?  Man.  And I think that has accelerated since the pandemic ended ... and since I read an article about the early days of Volstead's, the new place with the clandestine directions to its front door.  I fell in love with the mystery of the speakeasy, and the thought that I know something other people do not.  It makes me feel cool, to be honest.

Since then, there have been a few others that have popped up -- Young Joni, Sooki and Mimi (now Bronto Bar), Cobble House, Flora Room, etc.  And I try to go to them as often as I can.  My initial excuse was that I needed a wind-me-down after a hellish day at The Fourth Department at work.  Since work in that position isn't so arduous -- and since I can't wind up my day at a speakeasy since most of them are not open Monday through Wednesday, the days where I now work The Fourth Department -- I don't have that excuse.  But I've come up with one for right now: The holiday season.  Because of that, I am trying to parcel out going to one of these bars once a week up to Christmas.  I might have to double up depending on other things I want to do.  But right now I am mentally trying to put the puzzle pieces together.  It's exhausting in an exciting way, if that makes any sense.

There is another wrinkle to all this: Just before I left work for the day yesterday/Thursday I checked my work calendar, and my boss has put me in The Fourth Department every day the week before Christmas.  Ah, just like old times, where I dreaded being stuck back there and leaving late every day, and thus my belief that I deserved to drink at a speakeasy was born!  Even though I only hit a speakeasy on a Friday of a week where I worked in The Fourth Department, I kind of wonder if I could hit more than one that week because, and I might lose you here, I am feeling kind of festive, and maybe I want to go out every night of the week before Christmas.  I'm still thinking about it -- whether I want to go speakeasy-hopping and, if so, which one on which day.  And the gears in my mind continue to turn!

So It Wasn't The Batteries???

My temper continues to get the better of me.  A couple or few weeks ago, I was fuming because the Wild were crushed by The Bastard North Stars.  Couldn't help but think and ruminate and just stew in my anger.  Once I allow this red mist to descend upon my mind, it's very hard to get myself out of this anger spiral.

I was lying in bed thinking about it.  My thoughts in this state often turn into revenge fantasies whereby I am at the X and see some Dallasshole rooting for The Team That Was Stolen From Us v.2.0. and he starts to fight me and I kill him.  Like it usually happens, I kind of snap to from this fugue state and realize I should get my mind off something else.  I think I was going to grab something from the fridge to drink because I was thirsty, so I flung the blanket open so I could hop out.  I did not remember, however, that I had recently turned off the TV set and placed the remote control beside me on top of the blanket and not at the corner of the dresser where it would have been safe.

Since it was not safe, that poor remote control went flying -- Whooooomp! across my bedroom onto the wood floor.  It was still intact, but I couldn't change the channel or turn the volume up or down.  I took apart the whole thing the next day hoping that I could put back something that got loose from the hit.  But nothing seemed out of place and I still couldn't use the remote.  This reminds me of the time way, way back when I was watching the Vikings play The Tampa Bay Buccaneers when the Bucs were permanently shitty.  Or was it The Detroit Lions?  Anyway, the team the Vikes were playing were bad, but the Vikings this Year (and really most Years) were underachieving, and so in this Game they were struggling to take the lead late.  A pass was thrown to, I believe, Wide Receiver Anthony Carter, but it went through his hands and into the hands of the defender behind him for an Interception.  And I got so fucking angry that I threw the remote I had in my hand across my room.  It hit the floor and shattered into a dozen pieces.

So based on experience, I was sure that, once again, because of my temper and because I didn't put the remote where I should have, I have ruined another remote control.  So I bought another one through eBay.  Got it, took it out, exchanged the batteries in the old remote into the new one ... and it still didn't work.  Man, did I get suckered into buying a lemon remote control?

But then I stopped and thought.  This new (well, actually used) remote has to work.  So ... is it the batteries?  I grabbed two new AAs and put them into the remote control I bought -- and it worked.  And so I put those same new batteries into the remote that I flung across my bedroom -- and it worked, too!  So the remote wasn't broken, but the batteries just didn't work?!  I was able to use that remote up to, oh, 30 minutes before it got catapulted by my blanket, and that is precisely when the batteries decided to run out of juice???

I don't believe it, and I still don't fuckin' believe it.  Now I got a back-up remote I don't need (no way am I returning that to the person who sent it; I have some sense of pride and I can afford to waste eight bucks) and two batteries I'm still puzzled as to how it suddenly died on me at the exact same time I should have broken my remote control.  But hey, I don't have to get up to change the television any more like I used to when I was a kid, so maybe this will be the last thing I say about it.

Didn't Know Foil Was A Deadly Weapon

So back on Thanksgiving I was trying to open a bottle of wine.  Covering the cork was this really tight and strong foil that probably had some metal in it.  Now I usually have some trouble cutting this part of a bottle open, and this appeared to be the same pain in the ass.  So I used a small knife attached to the corkscrew to try and cut enough of it to pull and tear off the rest.

But this was a bigger struggle than I thought.  I had only managed to pull up on side of the bottom of the foil to the point where it sort of balled up.  And as I was holding it to figure out an easier way to open the bottle, I inadvertently dragged the tip of my right index finger across this nub of foil -- and it made a cut, a fairly deep cut, on my finger.  I said to myself, "Wow, that kind of hurts!" and then I looked at the cut on my finger that was starting to seep blood.  It wasn't gushing or anything, but I don't remember ever seeing or feeling a cut that deep, nor seeing a cut on my finger like that before.  So I ran my finger under cold water before applying a Band-Aid.

That Band-Aid fell off when I took a shower on Friday, and while it no longer was bleeding, the cut hadn't fully sealed up yet.  There was dead skin surrounding the cut, and I pulled off some of the skin before thinking better of it and putting on another Band-Aid.  This second Band-Aid is still on my finger, and I really don't want to take it off until that cut is fully healed, no dead skin or anything like that.  So I'll wait.

But I couldn't think that foil, even tough foil like that, would be strong enough to cut you.  What the hell?!  I haven't been able to help myself from spacing out to, say, using a cut-open piece of foil like how I eventually was able to open up the bottle (with the help of pliers and, by the way, it is a screw cap and not a cork) as a self-defense weapon in case someone out on the street wants to try something.  I could just take out what seems like a piece of trash and slash the bastard across the arm or the torso, or worse.  Yeah, I've got to stop letting this red mist descend upon me and make me think violent thoughts.

Where Major League Baseball Teams Taken From Their Original Cities Will Play For The Final Series (Or Close To It) If I Were Scheduler

(I edited this around 1 a.m. October 1 because I had to re-do the schedule for The Baltimore Orioles because the previous schedule didn't work.)

So I have this ... uh, OCD thing where I want to see teams, regardless of sport, end their regular seasons in the cities where they're originally born.  I'm a Pisces and this idea is a full circle kind of thing.

Between 1981 and 2004, Major League Baseball's regular season was set up by, get this, a married couple, Henry and Holly Stephenson.  Ever since, it looks as though MLB hired a company called The Sports Scheduling Group that, I guess, makes money by generating schedules on computer.  But to think that just two people was able to determine the schedule for all the teams in America's Favorite Pastime.  It can't have become more complex since 2005, right?  Sure, there are more teams, but there is still 162 Games.  If a married couple can sit down and figure out a schedule of 2,430 Games over the course of six Months without screwing up, I can indulge in my relocation-hating fantasy of mapping out which teams play where for the final three-to-six Games of a fictional regular season.

So, with that in mind, if I had my way, a regular season would end with these particular series:

• Atlanta Braves at Milwaukee Brewers
• Atlanta Braves at Boston Red Sox (so this is a franchise that has been stolen away twice; the Braves originated in Boston, so Atlanta finishes its regular season playing in Milwaukee and then playing in Boston -- oh, and there is a huge to-do regarding the Milwaukee Brewers; see below)
• New York Yankees at Baltimore Orioles
• Baltimore Orioles at St. Louis Cardinals
• Baltimore Orioles at Milwaukee Brewers
• Milwaukee Brewers at Seattle Mariners (now this is getting really complicated; there is a team that has been stolen away twice, and the city the Baltimore Orioles were born in has both had a second team stolen from them and itself stolen a team.  What to do?  Christ almighty, I think I've got it; Baltimore plays in Milwaukee the third-to-last series of the regular season; plays in St. Louis in the second-to-last series of the regular season; and in the last series of the regular season, Baltimore hosts the Yankees.  Meanwhile, the final three series of the regular season for the Milwaukee Brewers will be home to Baltimore, home to Atlanta, then at Seattle.  Done!)
• Minnesota Twins at Washington Nationals
• Texas Rangers at Washington Nationals (this time Washington, D. C. would be hosting two teams that were stolen from the Federal District; since the original franchise became The Minnesota Twins, the Nationals host the Rangers in the next-to-last series and host the Twins in the last)
• Oakland Athletics at Kansas City Royals
• Oakland Athletics at Philadelphia Phillies (another two-time city-jumper in Oakland [who will soon be Las Vegas].  Because the Athletics originated in Philadelphia, Oakland will play in Kansas City before finishing up in Philadelphia)

Big caveats: I don't know what to do with the Los Angeles Dodgers and the San Francisco Giants.  They were both stolen from the good people of New York City.  But Major League Baseball is beautifully distinct because it's not really the city that the historic New York-based teams hails from but the borough.  The Dodgers, for example, were born The Brooklyn Dodgers.  The San Francisco Giants were taken from Manhattan.  Meanwhile, the Yankees play in The Bronx while the Mets play in Queens.  Yeah, you can take the Dodgers and Giants back to New York.  But there is no deciding factor as to which California baseball team should play which New York City baseball team (whether it be the Yankees or the Mets) and when.  So, I've decided that they don't "come home to where they were born" because, to be technical, there is no current MLB ballclub in the borough they were taken away from.

Baseball is such an old sport that I thought there would be a hell of a lot more relocations than the ones I listed above.  But I guess that's it.

Masking Nowadays

Went to the Queens Of The Stone Age concert last/Sunday night.  Quick review: Josh Homme (still don't know how to pronounce his last name) I think missed a couple notes and a couple lines (QOTSA did a gig in Chicago as part of Riot Fest down there the day or night before), but he was still his brusque, inscrutable self.  The important thing is he played all the songs I like of them the most, including one they don't play all that often, the one that got me hooked on QOTSA in the first place: "The Lost Art Of Keeping A Secret."  (I think Homme missed a couplet in that one.)  The show ended with the triangular light set-up on-stage shining so bright I had to shield my eyes.  The band left the stage at that point, presumably without saying goodbye.  Well, that's them, I guess.

Since Saturday, I thought about whether to attend the concert in a mask.  Since the pandemic is ... waning, I guess (and I will get the shot ... soon ... as soon as I have time), I have largely gone back to normal -- with one exception: I mask up.  Not as much as the thick of the pandemic, though.  And my mask-wearing has ebbed in many ways.  If I go indoors to eat, for example, it's about 50/50 that I even bring a mask, let alone wear one.  I am eating, and if a mask is there to protect you from the coronavirus but only if you put it over your nose and mouth, it won't help a lick if you're eating, so why bring it?  I have to admit, though, that peer pressure goes into my thinking a lot more than, uh, common sense.  I wouldn't care about wearing a mask to, say, Hooters if I didn't think I would get shit over it.  (And that's why I hope that the motherfucker who shouted at me "COVID's over!" at the State Fair, well, dies of COVID.  Fucking bully can go fuck himself.)

There are a couple of calculi I thought about for the concert.  It is a concert, and even though I got a cider to drink, you're there to watch music being played, not to eat.  It would make a lot more sense, then, to wear a mask that'll be in your face a lot more than it wouldn't be.  And if there was a, uh, gentler band I was going to see, I would have gone all out, N95 and everything.  But while I like Queens Of The Stone Age, and I think they have some, uh, progressive stylings to them, they're still a rock band, and I felt as though I would get shit for wearing an all-out mask to the concert.

I was going to wear my KN95, which appears to be the mask du jour for the (few) people who do wear masks while going out, but I don't know where it is.  I'm afraid I lost it, or threw it away.  I've had it for a while, so maybe I needed to get rid of it.  Anyway, without that in my car, I thought about double-masking -- a surgical mask underneath those cloth ones that have a pocket for a filter inside it.  (Remember those?  No one talks about them now.  I wonder if scientists have come to unanimous agreement that they don't work.)  But I have one cloth mask that is dotted with the logo of my alma mater, and I was afraid I was going to get ridiculed.  And then the other cloth mask I have in my glove compartment has a tear of blood.  I wanted to look bad-ass when I ordered it way back in the teeth of the pandemic, but 1) that blood tear isn't lined up right, and 2) I was really scared that someone would look at me and think I was trying to be bad-ass when, if you look at me, I'm not, and that guy was going to come up on me and challenge me.  Didn't want that if the crowd at the QOTSA was full of Republican tough guys.

So I wore just a surgical mask.  I'm not ready to declare them useless, but I think there is a long-standing consensus that they don't work all that well compared to N95s and even KN95s when it comes to preventing contraction of the virus.  And I was not razzed at all at The Armory.  But the few people I saw there were wearing the better KN95 masks, and seeing so many people breathing out in the enclosed rock hall, I conjured up paranoid visions of breathing in the virus.  So why in the hell didn't I just go all out and wear my N95?  I have many of them at home, and I haven't used any of them in weeks.  A concert would have been the perfect occasion to use them.  And so what if I get beat up for wearing one?  At least I wouldn't get COVID-19 too, right?

I am so disappointed in myself for caving into public perception at the cost of my health.  My main concern when thinking about wearing a mask is, "How would other people think about me wearing one of these things?" and not, "Would I be safer wearing a mask?"  And I've thought that way for too, too long.  I need to have the balls to wear a proper mask out in public, and fuck what strangers think.

OMG, I'm so excited!  My Moroccan whore girlfriend is finally back!!!  I was hoping that the occasional text would keep up communication with her, and out of the blue last night she said she's finally home!!  Now I can get my dick sucked and get my fuck on!!!  Oh, happy day!!!!

Goodbye, Minnesota State Fair. Goodbye, Summer.

Went for the third and final time to the Fair last night/Labor Day.  For the second time I met a friend and her friends there.  Did a lot of walking, to the point where I was dog tired, maybe more so than Thursday.  Maybe that was because I was doing a lot of walking around with my friend, but I figure that even if I was alone, I'd be doing as much walking, if not more.  My feet would hurt, but it probably is a product of old age.

So I said goodbye to the State Fair by hanging by the benches for Soul Asylum's free show at the Leinie Lodge, then realizing that there were many seats available at the dedicated benches for the stage if I just walked around to them.  I stuck around for a few songs I didn't know -- I was walking to the Lodge as they were playing "Somebody To Shove," my favorite tune of theirs, but I recognized "Misery" -- but I decided to leave before they got to "Black Gold" or "Runaway Train."  Wanted to beat the rush of final fairgoers, plus the authorities are moving up the close of the Fair because there have been in the past fights and other disturbances.  Mostly, though, while I wanted to honor and commemorate the end of the State Fair and summer, I didn't want to stay till the very, very end, because that would have been too sad for me.

Have to say, though -- the female talent out in force ... goddamn, man.  Lots of babes showing their bellies all three times I was out there.  Especially for Labor Day, where I think we set a record high.  If I could remember one or two, I would stroke out to them.

Trying To Be A Good Boy So I Can Get A Break On My Health Insurance

My screening is in the morning.  I am doing my damnedest to stay within my self as I fast, but either I'm so bored or so manic with hunger pains that my mind is racing in a hundred different directions as I write this.  Damn, I could use a croissant right now.  I'm just dreaming of Al's Breakfast and Hooters after I get my blood tapped.

This screening is for work.  The results of my blood will partially decide whether I get a break for my health insurance.  Things have changed when it comes to that, unfortunately.  Before, you only needed to clear two hurdles: Signing an attestation saying that you don't smoke, and having a BMI below a certain threshold.  I could clear both of those in my sleep (and heck, even if I were a smoker, couldn't I just lie and attest that I don't smoke?)  Starting now, there are three additional measurements they're looking at: Blood pressure, cholesterol, and A1C.  And to get that insurance discount, you now need to "win" three out of the five.

I've been above the universally-regarded normal BP of 120/80 for years now, so that's out.  I've been looking at my results from my visits to my doctor, and I can't find a test for A1C, so who knows if I'm under it or not?  And my cholesterol level was treading in the downward/right direction when I last got it checked, in November, but before I was perilously close to 200.  So, there's a possibility that I "fail" all three of these new metrics.  I could still get a discount at that point, but I'd have to sign up for some diversionary program offered by the health insurance company, and I know part of my paycheck is already paying for that, so that kind of feels like trying to make friends with your bully.  Besides, I don't want to let things get that far.

And so I am in the middle of doing things that I hope will bring down my blood pressure, A1C and cholesterol.  I took yesterday off to eat a healthy lunch (a salad with nuts and avocado and a nopales [that's a cactus] taco) at Centro (albeit with a gin and tonic -- but hey, no calories!), and then I exercised.  Will these concerted efforts help get my levels down?  Probably not.  I should have started this "cutting weight" a couple weeks ago, or better yet, maybe I could just start eating less and eating better as a lifestyle.  But hey, I'm doing it.

I also got a massage after exercising.  (Wanted to take a shower at home before going to the salon, but apparently my masseuse had so many cancellations the salon left me a message to see if I wanted to move up my evening appointment.  I feel as though they were strongly encouraging me to.  But I was starting my workout, and I need to be active for the next day's blood draw, so I compromised and went there straight from the community center.  Doesn't feel great to get a massage when you're all sweaty.)  I want to think that getting all the toxins out of my body will somehow lower my weight and cholesterol.  Doing this also meant I skipped the big dinner Mother inevitably would have otherwise made; I had water, yogurt and a banana instead, and that's a healthy meal, right?  

Finally, getting rubbed down really takes the edge off of you.  I wanted to glide on that good feeling as I went home and, best case scenario, just lay in bed, or fall asleep until I had to go the blood panel.  That was my strategy in hopefully getting my blood pressure below 120/80.  I figure that BP is the easiest of the three goals to manipulate 24 hours before the draw (and maybe the only one), so that if I do hit that mark, the A1C and the cholesterol level wouldn't matter.  That was working until the drive home, when I got stuck behind a slow car.  I looked at the lane next to me.  It was clear.  I went over, but just as I did, a truck did the same, and my damn heart jumped.  And then my temper flared up even more as I failed to make the light to turn left and eventually to home.

I still catch myself having these violent fantasies where I'm beating up bullies, and of all the times I can't have this red mist descend over me, this is the worst.  I need to be calm, relaxed, Zen.  That's the best way to get my blood pressure down and hopefully qualify for this discount.  But maybe I'm going to let myself down.  Hope not.

The Babes Are Out In Force!

I have to admit that sexually, I've lost a step.  I can't cum like I used to.  And I can't get hard like I used to.  It'll be quite, uh, hard for me to accept that.

Still, I appreciate the divine beauty of the female figure.  And with the weather finally turning in a hotter direction -- I think winter's behind us now -- and us heading into Memorial Weekend and The Official Start Of Summer, I am going to see some hot fucking women walking around.  I won't be able to sprout wood, but I sure as fuck will turn my head.

Happened last/Monday night after a long day at work.  Went to Bebe Zito for some fries before going next door to Caffetto for a cola (and then back to Bebe Zito where I stood in line for 15 minutes after the sun set for ice cream, but anyway. ...).  I went in and I saw these two gorgeous young women.  One of them had purple highlights in her hair.  She was wearing all black, but her top was cropped and her skirt was short.  She's fucking hot, but I gotta tell ya, I went all gaga for her friend, who was wearing nothing but a red bikini top and red Daisy Dukes shorts.  Her boobs were big for a girl her size, and I was fantasizing that she would adjust her top or her tits would fall out or something.

What I did next is something that will probably get me canceled if someone ever found me out.  While they were eating their ice cream across the parlor, I snapped a photo of her.  It's not great; she had her side to me.  But I was lucky that she turned her face toward me as I shot her.  Again, I don't have her full face, but at least I have something to attach to her body.  Moreover, I was sitting against the outside window.  If anyone through the window or walking into the store saw me, I'd be dead to rights.  (I also made sure the ice cream scooper didn't see me; I waited until she turned her back on me.)

I still might take a run and jerk off to this grainy picture.  It might take me some time before I spurt.  But while my physical, uh, admiration for hot young women might abate, I'm still glad I can appreciate a smokin' young thing whenever I see her.  I'm glad I'm alive!